by L. A. Witt
My mouth went dry.
“You and Charlie are still alive. Some of that came down to luck, and some of it came down to you reacting the way you did. No one can blame you for misjudging how much you needed to correct when you were coming in to land on a moving target. I’ve been there, Travis. I’ve done the same damn thing. The only difference between what happened to you and what happened to me is how much the flight deck moved. So you know you can take it to the bank when I tell you that you did exactly what any pilot would have, and you did enough to save yourself and Charlie.”
I kept my eyes down. Deep inside, I knew he was right, and he definitely knew what he was talking about. That wouldn’t stop me from wondering for the rest of my life how different things would’ve been if I’d pulled up a little bit more.
“And Dion . . .” Paul sighed. “It was a tragedy, and no one will deny that. But it wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have stayed back from him. Not let him see how much I wanted to be with him. We both know that’s what drove him over the edge.”
“No,” Paul said sharply. “You didn’t put him over the edge. Being in a military that refused to let him openly acknowledge the man he loved—”
“That man was me, remember?” I struggled to keep my voice even. “He was in love with me and I was in love with him. And that fucking destroyed him.”
“And if DADT hadn’t been in place, it wouldn’t have happened that way, would it? You didn’t drive him to suicide, Travis. His depression did. And so did the bigoted bullshit regulations that made him choose between you and a career.”
I said nothing.
“Look at me, Travis.”
I hesitated, but met his eyes.
He looked right back into mine, almost like he was looking right into me. “Have you ever thought that maybe you’re the reason Dion lasted as long as he did?”
My lips parted. I couldn’t breathe, but managed to croak, “What?”
His hand tightened. “He had a lot of demons. You knew that even before he died. Who’s to say he didn’t hang on for a few more years because of you?”
My lungs turned to lead. A million memories flashed through my mind, mostly of those stolen interludes I’d had with Dion before we’d finally agreed it couldn’t continue. His smile. How happy he’d always seemed when we were together.
And Paul, the bastard, wasn’t finished. “You are not the reason Dion is dead. And I guaran-goddamn-tee that if he were here now, he would tell you the same thing I am, which is that you’re making the biggest mistake of your life by letting Clint go.”
I let my face fall into my hands, and focused on breathing and not throwing up. He didn’t push now. He just kept his hand on me, rubbing gently as if to remind me he was there.
Was he right?
God. Maybe he was.
There was no way we’d ever know for sure. Dion hadn’t left a note because, we all guessed, he hadn’t wanted anyone to figure out he’d committed suicide. What had gone through his mind at the end—none of us he’d left behind would ever know. But what if Paul was right?
I straightened slowly, and that motion aggravated some muscles in the middle of my back. Because of course it did. As the twinge set in and chewed at my spine, my heart sank again. “It’s not just my past with Dion that’s keeping me away from Clint, though.”
Paul raised his eyebrows.
I shifted a bit to try to stretch out the tightness. “Even if nothing happens to him, how long is he going to put up with a guy whose entire life revolves around how much his fucking back hurts on that particular day? Because I promise you, that novelty wears off quick.”
“I understand.” Paul nodded. “For God’s sake, I might not be as banged up as you are, but I’ve got my share of old injuries, and I’m marrying a man in his twenties. You don’t think I’ve been worried a time or two that he might get tired of my aches and pains getting in the way?”
“Do you still worry about it?”
“Every day.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Every fucking day.”
“But you guys have been together for . . . shit, you’re engaged.”
“Yeah. And let me tell you, after he’s been arguing with his mother for an afternoon about the seating arrangements for our wedding, there’s a part of me that still wonders if he’ll suddenly decide it’s not worth it.”
“Jesus, Paul. That guy worships you.”
“And I’ve seen the way Clint looks at you.” He let go of my shoulder. “You said yourself the guy is terrified of flying, but got on a plane with you—twice—because you couldn’t drive all the way to San Diego.”
“Exactly. How many more times is he going to put up with that?”
“Long enough to fall for you.”
The words were a punch to the gut, and I couldn’t make eye contact with Paul.
“You asked me for advice,” he said, striking an odd balance between his captain’s voice and something more soothing and gentle. “So I’m giving it to you. If you wanted to walk away before you felt something for Clint, you missed your chance by a long shot. You’ve been swooning over him ever since the Navy Ball. You’re setting yourself up to regret losing him just like you lost Dion. Except this time, you don’t have a custody battle or DADT standing in the way. The only thing standing in the way of you being with Clint is . . . you.”
My heart fell into my feet.
“You have to make a choice, Travis,” he said. “Are you going to get out of your own way? Or are you going to realize a few months or years down the line that you let fear and pain push away the best thing you’ve ever had?”
I didn’t have an answer for him.
The first day back at the office was going to be pure hell. Thank God our department was still on holiday stand-down until after the New Year. Travis and I wouldn’t have to face each other again until January, but that was coming up faster than I was comfortable with. I didn’t think I could get my head around not being with Travis before I had to be in the office with him.
For now, though, it was just me in this empty apartment.
The first night had already been awful. It wasn’t like we’d spent every single night together, and I’d been all right—well, as all right as I ever was—on my own when he hadn’t stayed over. But now that he was gone, I slept sporadically and restlessly. I didn’t see that changing anytime soon.
On the other hand, I hadn’t seen him dumping me anytime soon either, so what the fuck did I know?
I paced across my apartment, wringing my sweaty hands. I needed to do something besides moping around the house, but hell if I could figure out what.
One solution kept surfacing. There was a liquor store painfully close by, and they’d be open for a couple more hours yet. Wasn’t Everclear legal in Oregon? Wouldn’t take much to find out. A short drive, a swipe of the debit card, and I could get epically shitfaced enough to forget Travis ever existed.
I tamped that temptation down, though. This was a cycle I knew very, very well. Stress triggered my PTSD. Alcohol soothed the stress. I was tempted as hell to haul ass to that liquor store, but if my ex-wife even suspected I’d done that—if she called while I was drunk, or if I drunk-texted her again—my attempts to gain some custody of my kids would be done.
I took a deep breath and let it out, and kept right on pacing. I wanted to hate Travis for putting me in this position. For pitting me against the bottle, giving me a reason to dive into something a hundred ninety proof when I had every reason to stay as far away from the booze as I could. I wouldn’t give in, but damn him for making it more tempting than it had been in a long time. That he’d hurt me enough to make me want to drink myself numb—one time and one time only, right?—and quite possibly set back my efforts to see my kids.
And I wanted to hate him for leaving too, but every time I worked myself up to cursing his name, the sting of tears would take the wind out of my sails. I wanted to hate him, but goddamn it, all I could do was want him back.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to drink. I wanted to put a fist through the wall. Fuck my damage deposit. Fuck my career. Fuck my sobriety. Fuck—
No. Fuck my chances at joint custody? No man was worth losing them.
Well, one thing was obvious—I needed more time before I dipped my toes into relationships again. I hadn’t been on my own for very long, and I was still dealing with all the mental bullshit that had led to the drinking that had led to the divorce. I’d fucked everyone I could get my hands on until I’d felt closer to sane, and I still wasn’t sure if I was bi or gay or if it even mattered, and my two attempts at actually dating—first Logan, then Travis—had ended in disaster.
I stopped pacing and stared out the living room window at the park across the street. Comparing Logan and Travis in my brain was bizarre. They weren’t anywhere near the same league. Logan had been cute and fun when he was sober, and the sex had been good. Sometimes he’d even seemed like an actual friend with benefits.
Travis, though. That man was something else. He’d been breathtaking back when I’d only stolen glances at him at work and fantasized about him on my own. And as we’d gotten closer and closer, tipping hands and showing cards that weren’t for just anyone’s eyes, he’d given me some hope that despite things I’d done and how badly I’d destroyed my marriage, someone might love me again. He’d made me believe the damage I’d done to my life was not irreparable.
And now . . .
Now this.
My chest tightened.
So much for not being able to feel angry. The hurt was still there, but now the fury was pushing it out of the way. The more I thought about what he’d said, and how he’d suddenly dropped that bomb not two days after I’d told him things I couldn’t even tell a goddamned chaplain or therapist, the angrier I got. I paced on shaky legs, balling my fists and forcing curses through gritted teeth. My blood boiled as I played and replayed that conversation. Sour acid churned in my gut and climbed the back of my throat as I realized tomorrow was my regular Skype call with my kids, and I couldn’t imagine I’d be in any state of mind to face them or my ex or anything, and all because of . . .
Because of Travis.
Because he’d been perfect, and then he’d been gone with no explanation that made any kind of sense. It was good right up until it wasn’t, and now it was over, and I had no fucking idea why.
I stopped pacing. I clenched my jaw so hard it ached, and tightened my fists until my nails bit into my palms.
Fuck it. Fuck this. Fuck him.
Fuck letting this go and pretending I could move on like it was nothing.
I grabbed my wallet and keys.
Slammed the door behind me.
And headed out to my car.
Kimber stared across the kitchen at me, her jaw slack. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” I looked into my untouched cup of coffee. “I’m serious.”
“But . . .” She exhaled sharply. “Dad, it doesn’t make sense to leave someone because you’re afraid they’re going to leave you first.”
I sighed. She was right. Paul was right. No, it didn’t make sense. But neither did sticking around and waiting for the inevitable. Though I’d never breathe a word of it to her, there were times I wondered why she stuck around. She was an adult. She could afford to live on her own if she wanted to, and God knew she had better things to do with her life than make sure her dad didn’t throw his back out unloading groceries. Especially when she’d been dealt some shitty cards of her own. How much less stress would she have if she only had her own PTSD to cope with instead of mine, not to mention the fact that it was my crash that had first traumatized her? Plus there were my pain issues and—
“Dad?” She touched my arm.
I jumped, wincing as that sudden movement jolted my spine. I hadn’t even noticed she’d crossed the floor, but she was right in front of me now.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I didn’t know if she meant because of Clint or because I’d jarred my back just then, but the answer was still the same. And I lied anyway: “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Kimber said nothing. I doubted there was much to say at that point that Paul hadn’t already hammered into my head.
She was disappointed, of course. She and Clint had really gotten along, and she’d probably been hoping this would work out. Before she’d come home today—she’d flown into Portland last night and driven home this morning—I’d considered keeping it from her for a while. At least let her settle back in.
But no, her suitcase was still by the front door, and she was probably still jet-lagged out of her mind, and the first thing she’d said when she walked in had been, “Oh God. What happened?”
And now she knew.
I took a breath and was about to suggest we spend the afternoon at the pier, but right then, the doorbell rang. I jumped again—who the fuck was here?—and immediately regretted it. With as sore as my back was today, I really needed to fucking relax.
Yeah, right.
“I’ll get it.” Kimber left the kitchen.
I slumped against the counter, rubbing my eyes. The air pressure changed, and I was vaguely aware of Kimber saying something, but then another voice made my neck prickle.
“If he’s here, I’d like to talk to him.”
Oh shit.
Footsteps. Two sets of them.
“He’s in here.” She appeared first and gestured over her shoulder. “It’s for you, Dad.”
And right on cue, Clint walked in behind her.
My heart fell into my stomach. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He rocked back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet. “Can we talk?”
Kimber glanced at each of us. Then, without a word, she took her purse and car keys off the hook, disappeared down the hall, and left the house. A moment later, her car turned on.
I cringed. She shouldn’t have had to hightail it out of her own house because of her idiot father’s post-breakup awkward confrontations. I owed her bigtime for putting up with this.
For the moment, though . . .
I met Clint’s eyes. We were alone now. Nowhere to run. “Okay. Um. Let’s talk.”
“Yeah.” He stared me down and folded his arms across his chest. “I need to know why.”
Fuck. Of course he did. And after explaining it to Paul yesterday and Kimber today, I was drained. No fight left in me at all. Hell, I felt like I’d never had any fight in me to begin with.
But he deserved an explanation. If I couldn’t pull myself together enough to be a halfway decent boyfriend, then I at least owed him that much.
I motioned for him to follow me into the living room. We sat on the couch, a cushion between us, and he watched me silently as I tried to summon up an explanation and the courage to say it.
Finally, I pulled in a deep breath and let the words come. “You know how when we went to California, you said it was odd that I’m not afraid to fly after my crash?”
Clint nodded.
“The thing is, I am. If I had to get into the cockpit of a Super Hornet again, I’d be scared shitless. I can one hundred percent promise you that I could never put a bird down on a carrier again because I know firsthand how badly it can go wrong.”
“But you can get on a commercial jetliner.”
“Yeah.” I stared down at my hands as I folded and refolded them. “Because I’m not the one flying it.”
“Oh.”
“And with relationships, it’s kind of the same.” I turned to him. “I know how badly they can crash and burn. When I’ve been involved in them, people have been hurt—I’ve been hurt—so much, I can’t—”
“So you avoid them now?”
I pursed my lips. “How many times does a guy have to get hurt before he can decide how to protect himself?”
Clint sighed. “We all want to protect ourselves. But there comes a point when you’re protecting yourself to the point you stop living at all.” His eyes lost focus for a moment, as if he were
trying to figure out what to say next, so I let the silence linger. And sure enough, he wasn’t done. “When we went to California, I was nervous as hell about getting on that plane. Probably even more than you realized.” He paused, holding my gaze. “But do you know why I got on it anyway?”
I shook my head.
“Because no matter how scared I am of what can happen, the only thing that scares me more is what I might miss at the other end if I don’t work up the courage to take the chance.”
I focused on the coffee table. I wanted to know what was possible between us too, but couldn’t shake the fear of what else could happen.
“I know it’s a big risk,” he said. “But I want to see where this could go. I’ve . . . Usually, if someone kicks me to the curb, I’m done. I’m gone. But with you . . .” He was quiet for a long moment. “You were the first person I ever told about what happened with the drone. You’re the only person I’ve told. Shouldn’t that tell you what you mean to me?”
“Yes.” I made myself look him in the eye. “That’s the part that scares me. I’m fucking terrified because whenever I get close to someone, it blows up in my face, and it’s because of me.”
“Which I completely get.” He paused. Then he put a hand on my leg, and for several long seconds, we were both still, as if he were reeling as much as I was from that contact. “Remember, I torpedoed my own marriage with a bottle. Don’t you think I know what it’s like to be scared to death a relationship is going to fall apart because of me?” He shifted a little, like he couldn’t get comfortable. I knew that feeling. “That incident that killed my career as an RAP? Even if that wasn’t classified, I was still ashamed of it and hated the idea of telling anyone what happened. Either they’d think I was a horrible monster who’d murdered a bunch of people, or they’d roll their eyes at me for saying I’m traumatized when I was thousands of miles away from the combat zone.” He rolled his shoulders like his skin was crawling from the thought of what had happened. “You weren’t just the first person I could tell because of your clearance or because I knew you’d keep it to yourself. You were the only one I’d ever felt like I could tell and you’d understand.”