by L. A. Witt
We ate in silence for a little while, and as we did, I watched him. Ever since that distress call had come in the other night, I’d had this weird panicky feeling that just wouldn’t go away. It reminded me of that feeling when I was walking down some stairs and missed the last one. That jittery, heart-racing, that-could-have-been-so-bad feeling.
That usually wore off in a minute or two, though. It wouldn’t budge this time. And the panic-inducing moment didn’t seem to be over yet. Like another shoe still needed to drop. Like I still needed to do something so it wouldn’t be a disaster. The investigation? Was that what I was stressing about? Probably. Except that didn’t explain why every time I looked at him . . . I almost lost you. Forever.
And the familiar feeling would surge to the surface, and I’d be right back out on the water with him unconscious and me scared out of my mind.
If things had happened a little differently, you wouldn’t be here.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. It didn’t matter how many times I had that thought, it was a punch to the gut each and every time. My best friend. The man I’d been secretly wanting since day one. And he’d almost slipped away. What if the rescue had fallen apart? What if the boat had hit him harder? What if I’d fucked up and made things worse instead of helping raise his body temperature? What if—
It doesn’t matter. He made it. He’s fine.
So why was I still a breath away from panicking over something that had, given the circumstances, pretty much played out in the best way possible?
That goddamned dream hadn’t helped. Especially since I kept having it. Not every night—though there was always some kind of nightmare—but when it came, it didn’t stop. Over and over, several times a night, I saw him falling and sinking, and each time I couldn’t get to him.
Suddenly I had this almost uncontrollable need to tell him how I felt, but . . . good God, the man was still recovering from one hell of a traumatic night. He didn’t need this on top of that. What if it made things weird between us? What if he was pissed off that I’d never bothered to tell him I was gay? What if—
Fuck. Way too many what-ifs. Maybe I’d tell him eventually, but for the moment, it could wait.
But what if something else happens?
“Hey.” He nudged my foot with his. “You okay? You seem tense.”
I met his blue eyes across the table.
You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.
I cleared my throat.
What if you never know?
He watched me. Curious. Waiting.
What if I tell you and it fucks things up? What if telling you that means this is over?
That crackly, jittery panicked feeling skittered under my skin, and I quickly said, “I’m all right. Guess I’m still rattled from the other night.”
Dalton laughed so softly it was almost inaudible. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”
I managed to laugh too, and it might’ve even sounded like I felt it. Folding my hands to keep from reaching out and putting one on his arm, I said, “We should check in with Rhodes. See how she’s doing.”
Dalton instantly sobered. “Yeah. Good idea.” He took out his phone. “I’ll text her. Maybe she and her husband are up for grabbing something to eat.”
“Cool.”
While he texted Rhodes, I silently ordered myself to pull it together. Maybe I was a coward for not saying anything, but keeping quiet meant not making things weird between us. It meant I still had Dalton.
So I kept my thoughts to myself.
And I wondered if I’d have that dream again tonight.
The water was calm today, the tiny ripples sparkling in the afternoon sun. Beyond the harbor, the waves were stronger, but there wasn’t a whitecap in sight.
And just looking at it all, I thought I was going to be sick.
Standing beside the HPU building, watching the familiar harbor and open seas, I willed my stomach to stay put and my heart to stop pounding, but it wasn’t happening. Fact was, for the first time in my life, the thought of going out on the water terrified me.
Not that it would be an issue today. I was still on medical leave. Starting tomorrow, I’d be on light duty pending a psych eval and a final all clear from medical, so I was staying landside for the time being.
On one hand, that grated on me. I was restless and eager to get back to my normal job and my normal life. My brain didn’t seem to have quite as many screws loose, though it would be a while before I was completely back to myself. I’d started going on walks a few times a day, not just to combat cabin fever but to enjoy my mostly restored equilibrium. Never thought I’d ever find it a novelty to be able to walk in a straight line, but here I was.
The more I recovered, the more restless I became. This must’ve been how grounded pilots and benched athletes felt—chomping at the bit to get back in the game.
At the same time, as I gazed out at the water, I decided it was just as well. My confidence was trashed. I didn’t trust my balance on land, so I sure as shit didn’t trust my sea legs, and anyway, I was terrified of leaving shore.
I told myself the sting in my eyes was because of the sun reflecting off the water’s sleek surface, but that didn’t explain the lump in my throat.
Being afraid of the water was as foreign as marveling at my ability to walk. It felt a lot like being scared of the family dog who’d been perfectly behaved for years and then bit you. It didn’t feel right to shy away, but it seemed stupid not to.
So what the hell did I do now? Boats were what I was good at. First time at the helm, it had been like I’d found my calling. Working as an MA had always been a bit like trying to do someone else’s job in a pair of boots that didn’t quite fit. I’d always assumed that was just how it felt to work. It was a job. You did it, you went home, you got paid, and you did it again.
The second I’d stepped on that rickety-ass patrol boat back at Little Creek, though . . . it had been like slipping into my own skin for the first time. Perfect. Everything about it.
And now this. Now it scared me, and being scared of the water made about as much sense as not being able to count out money at McDonald’s.
Except I understood why. It was no different than when my oldest brother had struggled to get behind the wheel for months after a car crash had nearly killed him. Didn’t matter that he’d been confidently driving for years or that the odds of another wreck like that were slim—the wreck had left him scared to make the five-minute drive down a thirty-five-mile-an-hour road to the grocery store.
He’d recovered, though. He was driving again, full of all the confidence he’d had back when he’d taught me to drive. Maybe I needed to call him. We didn’t talk nearly as much as we should have anyway, but I could definitely use some advice. Or at least some reassurance. Even if I wasn’t sure I wanted to know how long it had really taken him to recover.
“MA2.” Chief Lasby’s cheerful voice came from behind me and sent a prickle of dread down my spine. “Just the man I was looking for.”
Oh shit.
I summoned as much military bearing as I could, schooled my expression, and turned around. Funny how the sight of my chief made me queasier than the sight of the ocean right then. “Yes, Chief?”
“We need to have a chat.”
Of course we do.
I nodded mutely.
He stopped beside me, looking out at the water for a moment while the uneasiness settled in. Then he turned to me. “When do you think you’ll be fit to be on a boat again?”
My throat tightened and that prickle turned to straight-up fear as it climbed my spine.
On a boat? On the water? Oh fuck.
The obvious answer was that it was up to medical, and that I should probably be behind a desk indefinitely like MA1 Anderson. But something about Lasby’s tone made me think we weren’t talking about when doctors and regulations said I could do my job again. “I’m not sure.”
He scowled. I avoided his gaze, watching a seagull tr
ying to yank a Doritos bag out of a trash can while I wondered what Lasby had up his sleeve.
The chief studied me for a long, uncomfortable moment. “Listen, MA2. On paper, I can’t send you back out on the water until you’ve had a full psych eval. But if you want to get back to it sooner, and you think you’re fit for that detail, I can’t stop you.”
Technically, he could. And by all rights, he should, at least until my psych eval, but there was no point. We both knew the outcome of the eval depended on me. On what I said. On how I answered the questions. If I wanted to go back on the water, I knew exactly what to say and how to say it so the evaluator would sign off and let me get back to work. In a command where qualified coxswains were in short supply, nobody was going to object to my miraculously speedy recovery and ability to return to the helm. It wasn’t like I had a broken bone or anything. A nice gash in my head, but nothing that would objectively disqualify me from duty regardless of my insistence that I was fine.
TBI and PTSD? Those couldn’t be measured. Not the same way, at least. Concussions and psychological traumas affected different people in different ways. If I said I was fit to work, and the evaluation reflected that, there was no reason to argue. That was how the military saw it, anyway. I was an expensively trained tool for a high-demand job. They didn’t want me on the bench a minute longer than I absolutely had to be, and nobody would protest if I said I was good to go.
I tried not to fidget. “What do you recommend?”
“That depends—how bad do you want to make MA1?”
My stomach flipped. “I need to. Either this cycle or the next.”
He nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. And it’s not going to look good on your eval if you’re tucked behind a desk somewhere instead of leading Sailors.”
I gritted my teeth. “So I’m going to be punished for—”
“No, you’re not being punished for anything. But other Sailors are going to be rewarded for what they’re doing.” He paused. “Here’s the deal, MA2. You can’t be penalized for recovering or convalescing.” He put up a finger. “But your shipmates who aren’t convalescing or recovering will have more bullet points on their evals. They’ll have more examples of leading Sailors and functioning as someone who should be an MA1. So even though you won’t have anything on your eval that can be used against you, you also won’t have anything that can be used in your favor.” He grimaced sympathetically. “I don’t want you out on the boat before you’re ready, but you need to keep this in mind. As competitive as it’s getting in the MA rate, you need all the edge you can get. Particularly with that missing Good Conduct medal on your brag sheet.”
I winced. Once again, the stupidity of my youth—that one trip to Captain’s Mast—was coming back to haunt me. I should have had three Good Conduct medals by now. I had two. People noticed. Fuck.
Still watching the seagull—it was now mutilating the Doritos bag—I spoke quietly. “So what you’re saying is I don’t have a choice.”
“You have a choice. As with any choice, whatever decision you make will have consequences of some sort.”
I swallowed, wondering when my mouth had gone dry. And why I swore I could taste saltwater in the back of my throat again. I fidgeted and shrugged away the panicky feeling that skittered around under my skin. More and more, I’d felt like my career was balanced on a knife’s edge, and that edge just seemed to be getting sharper and sharper.
And now, today, when I could still barely handle driving a car or counting out change, I had two options that could make or break my entire career—go back on the water or don’t.
I knew damn well it was ethically wrong for anyone to even suggest I go near the water right now. That proper protocol dictated I be behind a desk like MA1 Anderson—pending medical clearance rather than disciplinary action—until the investigation was over and my psych eval completed.
But just because it was wrong in black-and-white didn’t mean it was wrong in practice, and no matter how I sliced it, Chief was right. If I wanted to get promoted, I had to arm up and start working as a coxswain again. Sitting at a desk pushing paperwork would do me no favors, not even if it was the best thing for my physical and psychological recovery.
Yeah, whatever decision I made would have consequences, and whether I liked it or not, there was only one set of acceptable consequences. Right or wrong, an extended period of downtime for any reason would hurt my chances. The Sailors who’d done their jobs continuously for the entire eval cycle would get better scores than I would. Fact was, I wasn’t getting a coveted EP—Early Promote—eval unless I was doing my job, and without that EP . . .
I cleared my throat. I tried and failed to look Chief Lasby in the eye as I spoke:
“Okay. My psych eval is tomorrow. After that, put me back out on the boat.”
“You’re what?” Chris stared at me, his voice echoing off the HPU building next to us and probably audible all the way down onto the pier. He wasn’t angry, but I’d definitely caught him off guard.
Sighing, I slid my hands into the pockets of my camouflage pants. “I’m coming off light duty next week. And I’m . . .” I swallowed before quietly repeating what I’d just told him: “I’ll be going back on the water.”
“Already?” His jaw was hanging open. “Dalton . . . they can’t make you. That’s—”
“They’re not,” I said softly. “I, uh, volunteered.”
An eyebrow rose. “You volunteered like you volunteered, or like you were voluntold?”
I avoided his gaze.
“Dude.” Chris sighed. “You’re not ready to drive the boat. You can barely drive your car!”
“I don’t have to drive,” I said, sounding pathetic. “I was the gunner most of the time anyway.”
“And Lasby wants you out there as a coxswain. You’ll be driving.”
I shuddered.
“You really ready for that?”
I’m so scared I can’t even put it into words. “I have to be.”
“No, you don’t. This is bullshit, D.” He looked right in my eyes. “You’re not ready to go back out there.”
“And what choice do I have?”
“I don’t know. I don’t . . .” He huffed sharply. “You know what Chief’s doing, right?”
I lifted my eyebrows.
“If you’re capable of going back out on the water, that’ll prove that the incident didn’t do any long-term damage. You’re telling the investigators you’ve bounced back. It’ll still be a Bravo-class mishap, but it’ll seem like less, you know?”
I pursed my lips. “And what about my promotion?”
Chris deflated, and so did my tiny bit of hope that he’d have the answer. Something to counter Lasby’s plan. Instead, he quietly said, “Fuck. But still, the sooner you’re back on your feet and look like you’re functioning at a hundred percent, the less serious the whole incident will seem.”
“And the outcome will be less severe for Anderson.” The resignation in my own voice made me feel even worse.
“Exactly.”
“But in the long run, what matters to me is how this affects my career.” I shifted my weight, staring at the boats and the water because I couldn’t look at him. “What good does it do me for Anderson to get what’s coming to him if this hurts my eval enough to keep me from advancing? I’ll still be out of the Navy with no retirement.”
Chris swore under his breath. “Shit. I don’t know. It just isn’t right he’s gonna get off easy.”
“No kidding. But at this point, I have to protect myself.”
“So you’re going to throw yourself back into driving boats when you’re not physically or mentally ready.”
I glared at him, ready to demand to know how he knew if I was or wasn’t ready. But damn it, Chris wasn’t stupid. If anyone knew just how ready I wasn’t, it was him.
I dropped my gaze to the gravel beneath our feet. “I need to get back on the horse that threw me. It’s the only way I’ll ever be able to do my job again. The lon
ger I wait, the harder it’ll be.”
He didn’t reply. I supposed he didn’t need to. He was probably wondering who I was trying to convince, and truth be told, I wondered the same thing.
We were quiet for a little while, letting gentle waves and seagull snark fill the silence. I was about to suggest we go inside. He needed to get to work, and I figured I should go home and try studying for the advancement exam.
Before I could, though, the HPU building door opened, and MA3s Grey and Chambers appeared, cigarette packs in hand. They’d been in mid-conversation, but they cut off when they saw us. They both smirked.
“Oh hey.” Grey grinned like an idiot and gestured at us. “We interrupting? Just wanted a cigarette, but we can go someplace else if you want.”
What the fuck?
“Uh, no.” I shrugged. “Go ahead and smoke.”
Grey and Chambers both laughed as they lit up. I eyed Chris.
Am I missing something here?
He sighed, rolled his eyes, and motioned for me to follow. As we started walking away from the building, Chambers muttered, “Might have more privacy down by—”
“Shut up, MA3,” Chris snapped, and Chambers shut up.
Chris and I exchanged glances. He broke eye contact first, which didn’t do much to ease the tension coiling in my stomach. Then he nodded for me to follow him, and we started walking. We wandered past the HPU building, away from anyone who might eavesdrop, and continued down to the strip of sand south of the seawall. It was a small beach—maybe two hundred feet long—but it was secluded, and almost no one came out here.
On the sand, we halted. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his uniform and gazed out at the water. “Listen, um . . .” He pushed out a breath. “Look, I know you’ve got enough on your plate right now, but since you’re coming back to work tomorrow, I think you should hear this now. From me.”
I turned to him, alarm bells ringing in my head. “What?”
He stared out at the water. “The, uh . . . the rest of the section has been making some jokes. And it’s probably not going to let up when you come back.”