by L. A. Witt
“Sure.”
He hesitated, searching my eyes as if he could somehow find the answer before he’d even asked. “When we’re in bed, does it . . . I mean, is the pain always there?”
You better believe it.
This was the part I hated. When reality showed up and wouldn’t be ignored, and there was no avoiding the conversations.
“It comes and goes. Sometimes it just aches. Sometimes there’s spasms. That’s where I’m at today.” I paused. “I have to be really careful not to move too suddenly or contort myself too much.”
He held my gaze for a moment. “Does it hurt when you come?”
Every time, but it’s still worth it.
“Sometimes.” I took a drink. “It’s okay, though.” With a grin that was hopefully reassuring, I added, “Not enough to stop me from wanting to.”
Clint’s forehead creased.
I touched his arm. “If it was a problem, we’d have stopped by now.”
“Just . . .” He swallowed. “When we’re in the bedroom, tell me if you’re in too much pain. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Of course.” I bit back a comment that he would know before I had a chance to tell him. He’d been great about not handling me with kid gloves, and I didn’t want that to change. Sometimes the pain was worth it just to have someone touch me like they meant it.
“Well, I’ll always follow your lead. So if it’s too much, say so. I don’t mind backing off. And I don’t mind this, either.” He gestured at the array of food. “Kicking back with dinner and a movie is fine too.”
“Good to know.”
And I pretended my brain wasn’t prodding me with that ever-present question: This is fine . . . but for how long?
After dinner, clearing the table was as complicated as rinsing two plates and tossing everything else. I didn’t usually like meals that resulted in quite so much trash, but there was no way in hell I was loading the dishwasher tonight, so clearing away the remnants of takeout was fine by me.
Once we’d done what little cleaning was necessary, I pulled an ice pack from the freezer, and we moved into the living room.
On the couch, I leaned back against the ice pack. The cold was uncomfortable as fuck even through the towel and my shirt, but hopefully—please God—it would soothe some of the relentless tension in the muscles.
It took longer than I cared to think about to get myself situated on the couch. Motrin within arm’s reach. TENS unit and spare batteries in case the damn thing crapped out on me again.
Clint looked me over and chewed his lip. “If I sit next to you, it’s going to move the cushions you’re sitting on.”
“I can cope.” I smiled. “I don’t want to sit across the room from you.”
He hesitated, but then carefully sat beside me. “Is the ice helping?”
“Not yet, but it will be. Maybe. I hope.”
“That’s a start. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“How long does this usually last?” His eyes and his voice were filled with genuine concern, not impatience. “Are you going to be able to sleep tonight?”
“I’ll be fine. It . . .” I paused. Sooner or later, he was going to figure this all out, so maybe I should be straight with him. “Okay, remember how I said earlier that the old injury comes back to haunt me sometimes?”
Clint nodded.
“The truth is it never goes away. It always hurts. Sometimes it’s bearable. Like a low-grade ache. Sometimes I can’t move. But it always hurts.”
“Wow,” he said softly. “I can’t imagine.”
“I couldn’t either, but here I am. And . . . when you asked if it hurts when I come? I said sometimes.”
“It hurts every time, doesn’t it?”
I nodded.
“I know.” He squeezed my hand. “To be honest, I can tell.”
I winced, weirdly ashamed that I couldn’t hide it from him, not even during sex. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His thumb ran back and forth along mine. “I’d rather you tell me. I mean, I’m as careful as I can be not to hurt you, and I figure if you didn’t enjoy it, you wouldn’t do it at all. But if I do hurt you—”
“You don’t. You never have. And . . . I really appreciate it. That you’re careful. It can be kind of a mood killer sometimes, having to—”
“Not at all.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek. “I want you to feel good, so just tell me.”
“Okay. I will.” Easier said than done, but okay. “And really—thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” He laced his fingers between mine. “I’m surprised the Navy hasn’t medically retired you.”
“Not yet, thank God. Not as long as I can do my job and pass a PRT.”
His eyes widened. “How do you pass a PRT when you’re hurting all the time?”
“I take as much Motrin as my liver can handle, grit my teeth through the test, and spend the rest of the day wishing I was dead.” I paused to gingerly stretch out some tension, grimacing when something popped. Fortunately, no pain followed. “You know how a lot of guys finish the run and then puke? I do the same thing.”
“Except it’s from the pain, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“Haven’t you tried the elliptical? Or the swim?”
“Swimming is . . .” I shuddered. “The elliptical is like putting a big red sign on your forehead that even though you can kinda fake it, your physical readiness is unsat.” I sighed. “I know, I know—it’s allowed, and it’s valid. But let’s face it. When promotions are based on what boards decide, we all know they factor in things they technically shouldn’t.”
Twin creases deepened between his eyebrows. “But why do you stay in? Doing the PRT twice a year has to be hell.”
“The PRT is awful. Honestly, though?” I released a long breath. “I’m scared to get out.”
“Why?”
I hated this topic. Hated it. “Because as long as I’m in, I’ve got a paycheck and access to medical. What happens when I’m retired and I have to rely on the VA for medical?” I shifted, and couldn’t help wincing. “And let’s face it—on paper, I’m set for any post-Navy career I want. My résumé can get me in the door for all kinds of DOD contracts, upper management, you name it. Right up until I walk into a job interview and they see that I can barely walk.”
Clint shifted uncomfortably. “They can’t reject you for a disability, though.”
I flinched at the word. My pilot ego would take a lifetime to accept that label. “Again, on paper. A buddy of mine had a Skype interview that went really well, but when he went for the in-person, they took one look at his cane and the tremor in his arm, and suddenly didn’t have any enthusiasm.” I laughed bitterly. “It’s only illegal if they say they’re not hiring you because of a disability. Doesn’t stop them from doing it.”
“But aren’t there places that make a point of hiring disabled veterans?”
“I think so. I mean, my RIO is paraplegic and works for one of the shipyards down in San Diego. Obviously it’s not universal.” I struggled to hold his gaze. “But from what I’ve heard from vets trying to make it in the civilian world, for every one employer hiring disabled vets, there’s ten more who are decidedly not, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face that yet.”
“Jesus. So what’s your plan?”
“I’m trying to make captain and stick it out until thirty years. At least then I’ll retire at three-quarter pay instead of half.”
“And at thirty, you’ll be making more anyway, so it’ll be three-quarters of more money.”
“Exactly.” I forced a smile. “So, fingers crossed I hold out that long.”
“Fingers crossed.” His smile seemed equally genuine.
I cleared my throat and gestured at the TV. “So, movie?”
“Movie sounds good.”
We pulled up some Oscar bait movie I hadn’t heard of, but as it started playing, neither of us could quite get comfortable. I was about to sugges
t pushing apart, but Clint shifted around and lay across the couch with his head on my lap.
And it was perfect. With his weight distributed, the cushions didn’t bend in weird ways. Since he wasn’t next to my arm or shoulder, there was little chance of jarring my back.
For the first time since we sat down, I relaxed. The movie continued, and I barely paid attention to it. Aside from the relentless spasm in my back, it was hard to think about anything besides Clint and . . . this. Everything about this evening was a first. I was still hurting and would be until at least tomorrow, but I was as comfortable as I could expect to be, and Clint had found a way to still be close to me without putting extra strain on my back. Even when he needed to shift or fidget, he was extra careful, and somehow managed to adjust his position without jostling me.
What sorcery was this? Someone who was willing to accommodate me without acting like I’d asked him to move mountains. He was the most attractive man I’d encountered in a long time, but he was also exactly the kind of person I’d been needing for ages. He was well aware of the pain that ruled my life, and so far he’d treated it as something to be taken in stride, not an annoyance or inconvenience. Even when I’d admitted how much it ruled my life, and how often it interfered, he’d nodded and said he’d picked up on it since the start. And yet . . . he was still here. And going out of his way to make sure I was comfortable.
Again and again I reminded myself that most people could sustain this for a while. I’d been guilty of that temporary consideration myself. When my ex-wife had needed surgery on her ankle, I’d bent over backwards to make sure her crutches were always within reach and she had her foot elevated properly and on enough cushions to keep her comfortable. If she’d needed anything—food, ice, the remote, pain pills—I’d never hesitated to jump up and get it.
For about three weeks.
Looking back, I hated myself for every time I’d muttered “Jesus Christ” on my way to get her another goddamned ice pack—out of earshot, of course—or when I’d been quietly annoyed after her doctor had said she needed to stay off her foot for another week. Really? Seven more days of our entire world revolving around her damn foot? Such bullshit.
Now that I knew what it was like to be limited when it came to movement and basic daily tasks, I felt like the world’s biggest jerk for being impatient and irritated, even if I’d—hopefully—kept it out of her sight.
Clint had been a saint so far, but he hadn’t been a part of the chronic-back-pain shit show for very long. It was still easy for him because it hadn’t worn him down yet.
And because he only knew about the physical limitations right now. He didn’t know about Dion. Not many people did. They also didn’t know how much losing him had hurt my ability to love even more than the crash had hurt my ability to fly.
I watched my fingers running through Clint’s graying blond hair. I was probably putting the cart before the horse. We were friends, and we fucked, but that didn’t mean it had to, well, mean something. It probably wouldn’t last. It never did. But, damn, it was hard not to feel like we would’ve had a chance if my body hadn’t been quite so jacked up.
The movie wound down, and before I knew it, the credits were rolling.
Clint shifted onto his back and looked up at me. “Still comfortable?”
I smoothed his hair. “Yeah. You?”
He smiled. “Very.”
I smiled down at him, still running my fingers through his hair and ignoring the sharp pain across the middle of my back. What I wouldn’t have given for the flexibility to lean down—even meet him halfway—for a kiss. But that smile alone was enough to make my whole body tingle.
He gestured at the TV. “Game for another one?”
“If you are.”
“Definitely.”
Good. I want you to stay awhile. “I could probably use another ice pack, though.”
He sat up, and I started to stand, but he stopped me. “Don’t. I know where the freezer is. You want me to put that one in while I’m up?”
As much as I hated someone waiting on me, I nodded and handed him the ice pack. He returned with a fresh one, and oh God yes, I needed that. The cold felt great against my still-annoyed muscles.
While I got situated again, we went through the movies available for streaming until we settled on a comic book adaptation we’d both practically memorized.
Clint took his place on the couch again, lying across it with his head in my lap. The movie started playing. And considering how much trouble my back had been giving me all day, I felt pretty damn good.
This is fine, my brain reminded me for the thousandth time tonight, but for how long?
Before I left for work one morning, I logged on to my laptop, turned on Skype, and waited. My stomach was so knotted up, I couldn’t even drink any coffee yet. Not like I needed it—despite the lack of sleep last night, I was wide-awake. Funny how that always happened the night before my scheduled Skype chats.
My ex-wife’s avatar popped up—a little daisy with Mandy underneath—and the call request came through.
With my heart in my throat, I accepted.
At the camera was my seven-year-old, Crystal, and I smiled.
“Hey, kiddo. How are you?”
“Good.” She grinned, revealing a gap where her front teeth used to be. Damn, they were growing up without me.
“How’s school?”
She was the chattiest of my three kids, and told me all about her current teacher, the new girl in her class who had a pet iguana named Ringo, and a field trip they were taking next week to an old mine. I would’ve been thrilled to chaperone that one—the old mines and ghost towns were some of my favorite parts of living in Nevada.
After she’d finished, she glanced at her mom, who was always just off camera when we chatted. She looked at me again. “When are you going to come see us, Dad?”
Her question made my chest hurt. “I’m—”
“We’re working on that, sweetie,” Mandy said. “Now hurry up so your brothers can talk to him.”
I clenched my teeth. They had to get to school and I had to get to work, but it still grated on me when she rushed them.
“But we’ll see you soon, right?” my daughter asked.
“I sure hope so.” I prayed to God she couldn’t see how much this hurt. “I miss you guys.”
“We miss you too.” She glanced offscreen. “Okay. I have to go. Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too, kiddo.”
She moved out of the chair, and my twelve-year-old, Danny, took her place.
Not surprisingly, he didn’t look nearly as thrilled to see me. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey. Um, how’s school going?”
He shrugged. “Fine.”
“What about football? How’s that going?”
Another shrug. “Fine.”
I forced myself not to let any impatience slip into my voice or my posture. These kids had every right to keep their distance from me. I was lucky he was talking to me at all—that had been a hard-won victory.
“You going out for wrestling in January?” I asked.
“Maybe.” That seemed like all I was going to get, but then he added, “I don’t know if I want to play this year. Everyone’s so serious about it now, and it’s not really fun anymore.”
“Well, if you don’t want to, you definitely don’t have to.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t want you playing it to the point you hate it. And you can always play again next year if you decide to.”
“Oh.” He relaxed slightly. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”
“All right. Whatever you want to do.”
“Cool. Thanks, Dad.” He even gave me a hint of a smile. It was a start.
After he and I talked for a few more minutes, and I’d chatted with my eight-year-old, Allen, their mother sent them off to get ready for school. Then she took their place in front of the camera.
“So, how are things?” she asked.
�
��Good. Good.”
She squinted, leaning in. “Your eyes look red. You okay?”
“Yeah.” I waved a hand. “Just didn’t sleep very well last night.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Same as last time we talked?”
Why do you think I didn’t sleep?
I knew what she was looking for, though, and sighed. “Mandy, I’m serious. It’s lack of sleep. I haven’t had a drink in ages.”
She avoided my gaze. “Are you getting help? For everything else?”
“I can’t. What good is a therapist if I can’t talk to them about what happened?”
“Then you should’ve talked to someone at Nellis,” she snapped.
“They couldn’t discuss it either. I couldn’t even go to the damn chaplain.” I exhaled sharply. “I’ve said it a million times—I would gladly talk to someone if—”
“Jesus Christ.” Scowling, she rolled her eyes. “I’m not buying it, Clint. I’ve asked around. The military has got to have someone you can talk to about—”
“We’ve been through this. I’d show you the nondisclosures I had to sign if those weren’t classified too. My hands are tied, but I’m doing the best I can.”
There were people with the proper clearance to help counsel traumatized troops who’d been involved in classified and secret incidents, and in theory, I should’ve been able to talk to one. But I’d been warned time and again to keep my mouth shut. To this day I didn’t even know if it was an official thing, or even a legal one, but I couldn’t ask for the same reasons I couldn’t get help.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “If I could . . .” Why did I bother? This conversation wouldn’t end any differently than it had the previous five hundred times.
Mandy didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “They’re having a hard time, you know.”
Eyes down, I nodded. “I can’t imagine they wouldn’t be. Are they . . .” I hesitated, then looked at the screen. “Have they gotten any better?”
She let out a long breath, shoulders sinking as she did. “Sometimes I think they are. Sometimes I don’t know.”
I forced back the lump that always rose when we got on this subject.