Her lips pulled tight, and she looked away again.
As per usual, we were going through the same shit we'd fought over before and during the divorce. We'd do it again next time I called. The only differences now were that I was sober and neither of us had the energy to raise our voices anymore.
"Just tell me what I can do," I said. "I'm not asking for custody. All I want is to see my kids."
"I know," she whispered. "I want you to see them. I really do. But I'm not ready to let them come stay with you alone."
In the beginning, that confession would've had me frothing with anger, but now, I could only nod. "What will it take to work up to that?" It wasn't her decision, really, but I'd vowed not to drag her or the kids through a custody battle. I wouldn't petition for joint custody or even increased visitation until I knew she wouldn't fight me.
"I . . ." She released another long breath. "I don't know." She glanced offscreen. "But I need to get them ready for school. We'll . . . we'll talk about it. Okay?"
"Okay," I said. "I'll talk to you-"
The video shut off.
I swore into the silence and rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. This cold, bitter divide and the custody arrangement stung more and more as time went on. Just over three years ago, Mandy and I were somewhat happily married. In a rut after sixteen years together, maybe, but content.
Then there was that catastrophic incident involving my drone, and everything had gone to shit. Three years, a messy divorce, and a hard-won recovery later, I briefly saw my kids on Skype and during short, supervised visits. I was a stranger to them now, and I couldn't even be alone with them because her attorney had somehow convinced the judge that drinking myself into oblivion over a combat-related mishap meant I was a danger to myself and others. Never mind that I didn't drink anymore.
I'd self-destructed after the mishap, and no one would take it seriously because I'd been in an air-conditioned room in Nevada while the incident occurred in an undisclosed location in the Middle East. And I couldn't provide details because the mission-including every way it had gone awry-was classified. As far as the lawyer, judge, and my ex-wife were apparently concerned, I had as much of a leg to stand on as if I'd told them I'd been traumatized while playing a bootlegged video game that I didn't even have anymore, so I couldn't show them the part that had fucked me up.
I ran a trembling hand through my hair, and wondered when the hell my hair had gotten wet. Was I sweating? And was I really shaking that bad?
Shit. This wasn't good.
I got up and took a few deep breaths as I paced across the living room floor. I'd gotten the hang of talking myself down if an episode didn't come on too fast. This one had crept up on me, but I hadn't passed the point of no return yet, so I walked and breathed and concentrated on not letting my mini freak-out turn into something worse. If there was one thing I hadn't expected when I'd been diagnosed with PTSD, it was that any significant stress could trigger a flashback, even if it wasn't related to what had happened. Because that was something I really needed.
Slowly, my blood pressure came down. The shaking stilled. I went into the kitchen for some water-coffee was a bad idea at this point-and took a few gulps while I continued to talk myself down.
As I came back to earth and the panic stopped, I cautiously let my mind return to my conversation with Mandy. What would happen if I finally had to tell her I was dating a man? Maybe Travis, maybe whoever came along after him. She didn't know I was bisexual. She sure as hell didn't know about the dozen or so men or all the women I'd slept with in the wake of our divorce. She had no idea how much of that had been self-destruction versus long overdue exploration. Hell, I didn't know that part. I'd needed sex and distraction, and took it from anyone willing to give it.
But I'd settled into being single. I'd sobered up. I'd come to grips with the side of my sexuality that I'd repressed my whole life. These days, I was comfortable in my own skin, and it felt right to share my bed with a man.
And wasn't that the problem now? I'd shared my bed with men, women, and on occasion, both. These days, there was only one person I wanted like that, and if things progressed beyond sex, I'd have to be open about him-about us-to my ex-wife. Eventually, to my kids. As if they hadn't already been through enough. Where was the line between "I'm dropping yet another bomb on you" and "This is part of the newer, healthier, more honest me"? And what if it was like with Logan-I worked up the courage to say "Hey, y'all, I'm with him," only to realize we needed to split up?
I took another swallow of water.
I didn't have to figure it all out today. For now, I needed to get to work. I'd figure things out . . . eventually.
Even after I'd been working for a couple of hours, the jittery, semipanicked feeling remained. Tonight was going to be rough, no doubt about that, but hell, I wasn't even sure if I was going to make it through the day. My concentration was shot. All I could think about was how I couldn't tell my kids when I'd see them again, and how the hell I would eventually tell my family that I wasn't straight, and why the fuck did I have to have PTSD on top of all this shit?
I put down the training module I was supposed to be revising. Sooner or later, I had to figure out a way to deal with stress in general. I'd debated seeing a therapist on base, but it was pointless if I couldn't tell them the hard details about the core cause of my problems. Making vague allusions to "something bad" and "a mission gone wrong" didn't get me very far, so why fucking bother? Man, if that mission were ever declassified, my life would become a whole lot easier.
Until that time, though, I had to get my shit together. I had work to do. And maybe if I stared at it long enough, I'd either remember how to do it, or it would magically do itself.
One can hope . . .
A while later, Travis appeared in my office doorway and tapped his knuckle on the frame. "Hey. Busy?"
I should be, but I'm not getting anything done.
I pushed the training module away. "Not really. What's up?"
He cocked his head. "You want to go grab lunch?"
It was early yet. Not even eleven o'clock. But . . .
"Yeah." I pushed my chair back and got up. "That sounds like a good idea." Wasn't like I was getting anything done here.
Most days, I'd walk over to the Navy Exchange and pick up something unhealthy from the food court. The thought of all the noise, though-people talking, kids crying, wrappers crinkling, TVs blaring-made my skin crawl.
Instead, we went over to the O club, which was considerably quieter. Travis didn't object, thank God. I really didn't want him to see me getting agitated from everyday noise. Wouldn't that be fun-explaining to a former fighter pilot that I was so traumatized by my time as a remote aircraft pilot that I couldn't even handle the damn food court.
We sat down at a booth, and Travis didn't even open his menu. Instead, he folded his hands on top of it and looked right at me. "What's going on?"
I gulped, which probably didn't help. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you've been on edge all morning. You're either ready to jump out of your skin, or off in your own world."
That about summed it up, didn't it? "I haven't even seen you all day. How do you-"
"Clint." He inclined his head. "We talked at the coffeepot an hour ago."
I blinked a few times. Had we talked? Shit, I didn't even remember getting coffee.
"And," he went on, "I said hi to you in the hallway-twice-and you didn't respond." His brow creased. "Look, I know that thousand-yard stare. You don't have to give me details, but I want to make sure you're okay."
I ran my thumb back and forth along the edge of the menu, almost hoping for a papercut to distract me from that jitteriness that was rising again.
He leaned closer. "Just tell me if you're okay. I've seen guys with PTSD before, and . . ." He let his raised eyebrows finish the thought.
Oh fuck. Did that mean the rest of the office had caught on? That was just what I needed. A building full of ex-pilots figuring out the guy who used to fly drones allegedly had PTSD. It was well-documented on paper, but I hadn't met a lot of non-RAPs who took it seriously.
But if there was anyone in that office I could trust, he was sitting across from me.
"Okay." I scratched the back of my neck. "Yeah, I do have it. Stress triggers it, and I was Skyping with my ex-wife this morning, so . . ."
"So that triggered it."
"Yeah." Suddenly self-conscious, I squirmed under his scrutiny. "I know it probably sounds insane to a 'real' pilot, but RAPs get PTSD too."
Travis nodded. "That's what I've heard."
I studied him. "But do you believe it?"
"Yes." He didn't miss a beat. No hesitation whatsoever.
"Really?"
"Of course. Admittedly, I know nothing about what you guys do or how it affects you, but I mean . . . I know how fighter pilots can be affected by dropping bombs on targets. We're miles away before the impact, and we see everything from a distance, but it still gets to you."
I sat back. "Yeah. Yeah, that's true. I guess not many people think we're susceptible to it, you know?"