Afraid to Fly

by L. A. Witt

  The first three crossed the line.

  Then the other two.

  Then the last two.

  And finally . . .

  I crossed the line.

  It was over. I’d made it.

  Vision darkening and head spinning, I slowed down.

  Staggered to the sidelines.

  Took a knee.

  And heaved.

  I couldn’t believe Travis had made it through the run. He’d obviously been in pain, especially toward the end, but I had to give him credit—the son of a bitch made it.

  He spat in the grass one more time and took a few breaths, as if making sure that was really it. Then, slowly, he stood, and even more slowly, straightened. When he was just shy of his full height, his breath caught and his eyes flew open. For a second, I thought he was going to get sick again. Somehow, though, he didn’t. He exhaled, stood all the way up, and gingerly rubbed his back. Then he took the electronic box out of his pocket, made an adjustment, and put it away again.

  My muscles hurt just watching him. His back must’ve been in agony right then, especially after he’d thrown up.

  “Hey,” I said. “You doing all right?”

  He turned to me and offered a tight smile. “It’s over. Can’t ask for much more than that.”

  “Yeah, but are you hanging in there now?”

  Travis nodded. “I might bust out of the office early today, but once I’ve had some ice and some sleep, I’ll be fine.” He gestured at the steps. “We should get back to the locker room.”

  I didn’t argue. I fell into step beside him, and as we walked, couldn’t help but notice that his limp was slightly more pronounced. I’d expected it to be significantly worse, but it wasn’t. His gait was tight and deliberate, though, like every motion hurt like hell. Maybe that was why he wasn’t limping as badly—that kind of faintly jerky movement probably hurt more than a normal, if cautious, step.

  I shuddered. I could only imagine navigating through that kind of pain on a daily basis, never mind after something like the PRT.

  We followed the rest of the group toward the stairs. As they started up toward the locker rooms, I smothered a laugh. It was easy to tell the guys who worked out on a regular basis from those who pulled it together enough to pass the PRT by the skin of their teeth. For the latter, the long staircase was a killer. While the regular runners headed up like it was nothing, the others took those steps like they were on the last leg of a Mount Everest ascent.

  I chuckled to myself. I wanted to rib some of them and ask if they’d learned anything, but that was a no-brainer. They’d all been in long enough, if they were going to learn, they would have before today.

  At the bottom of the steps, Travis stopped. He took a deep breath, pushed his shoulders back, and started up. As he walked, he gripped the railing so tight the muscles stood out on his forearm.

  His struggle with the ascent wasn’t amusing in the slightest. He’d already been sweating from the run, and by the time we reached the top, his hair was dripping.

  I fought the urge to put a hand on his elbow as the ground leveled out. “How’s your back?”

  “It’ll be better once I have my date with Lady Percocet tonight.” He turned to me and grimaced. “I probably won’t be much fun to hang out with.”

  “It’s all right. Just, you know, text me if you need anything.”

  Travis smiled. “Thanks. Kimber will be home, but I appreciate the offer.” His smile faltered a bit. “You, uh, don’t mind, do you? If I call it a night tonight?”

  “Do I mind? Are you kidding? Go take care of yourself. I’ll be okay on my own for an evening.” I winked. “Promise.”

  He studied me uncertainly. “Okay. I guess I, uh . . . I’m sorry. This drives me insane, so it’s probably annoying as hell for you.”

  “Annoying?” My jaw dropped. “Are you kidding? You’re the one in pain. What do I have to be annoyed about?”

  “Give it time,” he said through his teeth as we continued up the path. “You’ll figure it out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He sighed, avoiding my eyes. “My back pain kind of runs my life. I get nervous when it starts interfering with other people’s lives, because they don’t tend to stick around at that point. And I can’t say I blame them.”

  “Travis.” I stopped, and he did too. “You’re talking to someone whose life is ruled by something that happened three years ago and won’t leave here.” I tapped my temple. “I’ve been told to ignore it, or get over it, or that I’m faking it, because it’s literally all in my head.” I paused. “Do you really think I’d give up someone who takes me seriously because you’ve got something from the past fucking with you too?”

  His lips parted, and he slowly released a breath. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  I smiled. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. You’ll have to do a lot worse than have a bad back to get rid of me.”

  At that, he actually laughed, lowering his gaze.

  “Take care of yourself tonight,” I said. “See how you feel tomorrow, and then maybe we can do something easy this weekend. I’ve been meaning to check out the pier in town, so if you want to, we could go walk down there. I mean, if you can move.”

  “That sounds like fun.” Travis paused. “Actually, I have a friend who’d like to meet up with us for dinner if you’re interested.”

  “Sure, I’m in. Let me know when and where.”

  The smile broadened a little. “Okay. Let me recuperate a bit, and I’ll let you know.”

  “Great. Looking forward to it.”

  It was a little over a week before Travis had fully recovered and his friends were available. They all knew the town better than I did, so I deferred to them to pick a place. They settled on a bistro a few blocks from the waterfront. I hadn’t even heard of it, but apparently Sean and Paul swore by it, and Travis had been impressed the few times he’d been here. That was a good enough endorsement for me.

  So, on Saturday afternoon, we sat down at a table by the window.

  While we waited for Sean and Paul, I opened the menu and was greeted with all manner of entrées involving sauces and cheeses I’d never even heard of. Everything looked utterly decadent. “Wow. This all sounds amazing.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “Yep. Thank God PRT is over.”

  Travis laughed. “This is the best part about post-PRT.” He flashed a toothy but somehow uneasy grin. “Eating.”

  “Damn right.” I touched his leg. “You okay today? You seem kind of nervous.”

  “What? No.” He held my gaze, but the tightness of his lips gave him away.

  “What’s going on? I’m the one who’s supposed to be nervous, remember?”

  He laughed softly, shifting his eyes toward the menu. “I . . .”

  “Talk to me. Is there something I should know before I meet them?”

  “Actually . . .” He gnawed his lip.

  My stomach clenched. “Travis?”

  He inhaled deeply and turned to me. “Okay, it’s probably not even a little bit relevant, but I’d feel kind of weird going into this if I didn’t tell you.”

  “All right . . .”

  “Paul and I have known each other a long time. Most of my career. When we were younger, we . . . uh . . .”

  “He’s an ex?”

  “Well, not exactly.” Some color rose in Travis’s cheeks, and he laughed shyly as he lowered his gaze. “I wouldn’t say we had a relationship.”

  “But you slept together.”

  He nodded. After a second, he looked at me, brow pinched with what seemed like uncertainty. “So I guess I just wanted it out in the open. So there’s no—”

  “Relax.” I patted his leg. “It’s not a big deal to me.” I paused and faced him again. “Uh, one question.”

  Travis tensed. “Hmm?”

  “Am I allowed to ask him for pointers, or is that—”

  He burst out laughing. “Shut up.”

>   “What? It’s a valid question, don’t you think?”

  “If you do, I swear I will—” He glanced at the door and did a double take. “There they are.” He turned to me. “Don’t you dare.”

  I smothered a laugh. We both stood as a couple approached, and Travis introduced us.

  “This is Paul and his fiancé, Sean,” he said. “And this is Clint.”

  “We’ve been hearing a lot about you.” Paul extended his hand. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

  “Likewise,” I said.

  We shook hands all around, and they took their seats opposite us. As we all perused the menus, I stole a few looks at them.

  They were not a couple I would have expected to see together. At the same time, they were perfect together. There was at least twenty years between them. Even if Sean’s hair hadn’t been dyed—mostly black with some blue highlights—I was pretty sure he wasn’t hiding as much gray as his fiancé had.

  And as they discussed dishes and appetizers, all it took was one glance and a quick smile between them, and it was obvious they were madly in love. They were affectionate too. Subtly, but considering they were a same-sex couple out in the open, any little touch could attract unwanted attention. Maybe they felt safe enough here and with us, or maybe they were like this all the time, but I admired how casually and comfortably they touched each other. Sean had his arm slung across the back of Paul’s chair for a few minutes. Whenever Paul wasn’t flipping through the menu or buttering a piece of bread, he had his hand resting on Sean’s leg beneath the table. Once in a while, one would playfully nudge the other, and get an elbow back. They’d go back and forth a few times before erupting into laughter like a couple of kids.

  After we’d ordered, gone through a shared plate of brie quesadillas, and were waiting for our entrées, Travis asked, “So how goes the wedding planning?”

  Groaning, Sean buried his face in his hands.

  Paul laughed, patting Sean’s shoulder. “That answer your question?”

  “Wedding planning is a nightmare,” I said. “I don’t envy either of you.”

  “Ugh.” Sean dropped his hands and leaned against Paul. “I really should’ve put my foot down about keeping it small and simple. My mom wants to invite everyone she’s ever known, and . . .” He rolled his eyes. “Every time we talk, the whole thing gets bigger.”

  “We could always elope,” Paul said.

  Sean grumbled something I didn’t understand. More clearly, “You think she won’t leave me alone now?”

  “Fair point,” Paul said into his drink.

  Travis and I exchanged glances, and chuckled.

  “Anyway.” Sean sat up, shaking himself. “Enough about that bullshit.” He reached for his drink, and as he did, looked at me. “So you just moved here?”

  “Yeah. End of the summer.”

  “What do you do?” he asked.

  “Well, I work in training now, but before I came here, I was a . . .” I hesitated, glancing at Travis. He gave me a slight nod, and I hoped he understood I’d been looking for encouragement before admitting my job to an ex-pilot. “I was an RAP.”

  “A what?” Sean asked.

  “Remote aircraft pilot,” Paul said before I could. “He flew drones.”

  Sean’s eyes lit up. “Really? That sounds like a really cool job.”

  I laughed uncomfortably. “The novelty wears off pretty fast, believe me.”

  He scowled. “Happens with any kind of work, doesn’t it?”

  “Well . . .” Travis looked at Paul, and they both grinned.

  “Hey, that’s not fair.” I elbowed Travis. “I wouldn’t call screaming around the sky at Mach 1 ‘work.’”

  Paul shrugged. “I got paid for it.”

  “I had to get out of bed at ass thirty to do it,” Travis said.

  “There was paperwork involved,” Paul said.

  “Ah.” Travis pointed at him and looked at me. “Paperwork. That makes it work.”

  Laughing, I put up my hands. “All right, all right. You guys win.”

  Sean chuckled and patted Paul’s shoulder. “No wonder you’re bored with retirement.”

  “Of course I am.” Paul sighed dramatically. “What is a guy supposed to do with himself when he doesn’t have to be out of bed until whenever-he-wants o’clock?”

  “Oh, shut up,” Travis muttered. “And besides, what about that volunteer gig you had? At the animal shelter?”

  Paul sobered and shook his head. “I had to quit. Too depressing. We’re still going to send them donations when we can, but I just . . . I couldn’t keep doing it.”

  Sean turned to him and raised an eyebrow. “And the other reason?”

  Paul laughed sheepishly, resting a hand on Sean’s leg. “Because I kept coming home and asking you if we could adopt one more critter?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I laughed. “So how many did you collect before you quit?”

  Sean released an exasperated sigh and held up seven fingers. “Four dogs. Three cats. And we fostered a parrot for two very, very long months.”

  “How did that go?”

  Sean facepalmed. Paul groaned.

  “That good, eh?” Travis chuckled. “I thought you liked birds.”

  “I did,” Paul said. “Right up until I had to keep chasing one around the house and pulling him down from the crown molding, which he was trying to chew. And I had to use a damn oven mitt so he didn’t take my hand off.”

  “We tried to have his wings clipped,” Sean said. “But neither of us could do it, everyone at the shelter was afraid of him, and then a lady came along who knows how to handle parrots. So he’s her problem now.”

  “And he’s probably still talking trash about us,” Paul grumbled.

  “Well.” Travis shrugged. “Can you blame him?”

  “Fuck you, Travis.”

  Sean and I both snickered. To me, he said, “See why these two get along?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I glanced at Travis. “Two batshit peas in the same batshit pod.”

  “Hey!” Travis wagged a finger at me. “Show some respect.”

  “Respect my elders?” I shot back.

  Sean and Paul both laughed.

  “He’s got you there, Travis,” Paul said.

  “And you’ll always be older than me,” Travis said. “So bite me, Gramps.”

  Yeah, I thought as the banter went on, I could definitely get along with this group.

  A few hours, an amazing meal, and a lot of shit-talking later, we said goodbye to Paul and Sean, and walked back toward Travis’s car.

  “So,” he said as he took his keys out of his pocket. “What’d you think?”

  “They’re a lot of fun.” I paused. “What do you think they thought of me?”

  Travis shrugged. “Well, I can usually tell if Paul’s giving my date the side-eye, and I didn’t see him do it once today. So . . . I’d say he likes you.”

  “Phew.” I made a theatrical gesture of wiping my brow. “Then we can keep fucking.”

  He laughed, elbowing me gently. “It would take a lot more than Paul’s disapproval to chase me out of your bed.”

  “Really?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He stopped, and when I faced him, he grinned. “In fact, you could probably chase me into it right about now.”

  “Is that right?” Never in my life had I wished more for the confidence to touch a man in public.

  “Yep.” He nodded toward the car. “What do you say we get the hell out of here?”

  “I say, ‘Why are we still standing here?’”

  “Good point.”

  We hurried to the car, got in, and headed back to my place.

  And even if I couldn’t touch him in public, I had no reservations whatsoever about touching him in the privacy of my apartment.

  Faster, Travis, faster . . .

  Since Clint hadn’t been to Anchor Point’s infamous pier, I took him down there on Sunday afternoon. Of course, being November, it wasn’t exa
ctly packed with people or vendors like it would be in the summer. I preferred it this way anyway.

  So I parked in the mostly empty lot, and we strolled out onto the wooden pier.

  There was a sparse crowd today. I suspected the whole place would’ve been empty if the weather hadn’t been unusually nice for this time of year. The Oregon coast could be sunny and gorgeous, or shitty and gray, and the last few days had been beautiful. This morning had been chilly—almost enough to turn the dew on my lawn into frost—but the afternoon was just cool enough to require a light jacket to fend off the wind coming in from the ocean.

  During the summer, the smell of funnel cakes and popcorn would overpower the diesel fumes from the booths’ generators, not to mention the saltwater. Today, though, the only places selling food aside from the restaurants along the waterfront were a permanent ice cream shop that apparently never closed, and a row of vending machines next to the restrooms.

  Along the south edge of the pier, a few of the game booths were up and running. Most of them were deserted. A young dad was coaching his kids—they couldn’t have been more than four or five—on how to pop balloons with darts, and some teenagers were earnestly debating whether to cough up another five dollars to try knocking over milk bottles with a softball. Otherwise, the operators alternated between checking their phones and trying not to look too bored.

  “Man, my kids love these games.” Clint’s smile was equally sad and nostalgic as we slowed down. “My older son is like a wizard at some of them.”

  “Yeah? I thought they were all rigged.”

  “They are. But I think he googled how to beat them or something.” He stopped in front of the milk-bottle game, gaze fixed on the pyramid of bottles. “We practically needed a garbage bag to get all of his prizes out of Circus Circus.”

  I laughed. “That’s impressive. How old is he?”

  “He just turned twelve.” He picked up one of the softballs, tossed it up in the air, and caught it. “He was eight when he relieved Circus Circus of most of their stuffed animals.”

  “Wow.” I whistled. “Smart kid.”

  His smile broadened, and he nodded. Motioning toward the milk bottles, he said, “This is the only game I’ve ever been good at. Once you figure out how the bottles are weighted, it’s not that hard.”