Afraid to Fly (Anchor Point #2)(18)

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 suggest 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."