"I've heard. Believe me."
"And I guess I get it." I blew out a breath. "It's not the same as being at the front lines. We're not in any physical danger. No one's shooting at us. We don't jump when doors slam or cars backfire. Not like the guys who've been boots on the ground." I thumbed the edge of the table, watching that instead of looking at him. "And we can't talk about it. It's like this shit happens, and there's nowhere for it to go. Even if we could talk about it, people don't take us seriously. I mean, yeah, we're in a cushy-ass room on the other side of the world from the actual war zone we fight in. But we're . . . I mean, we're . . ."
"You're still in a war." Travis's voice was smooth and calming. "You still have to kill people, just like the rest of us."
I couldn't hide the full-body shudder. "Yeah." I lifted my gaze. "We do."
He nodded slowly, and folded his arms tightly on the edge of the table. I wondered if he was tempted to put a hand on mine. Damn shame we were in public, because I could have used that contact right then.
"Look," he said after a moment. "War is hell for everyone involved. I was dropping bombs on targets I couldn't see, going so fast I was out of there before anyone knew what hit them. No one can tell you you're right or wrong for being affected by the part you played in the ops."
"I wish I could tell you that was enough to stop them."
"I know." Travis paused. "You want to know what fucked me up and keeps me awake at night? And why I can't fly anymore?"
I nodded, even though I wasn't so sure I did want to know. "You said something about landing in stormy seas, right?"
"Yeah. Thing is, I flew missions on three separate combat tours." Travis swallowed. "And I lost my wings and my ability to sleep because of a training exercise."
"A training-" I blinked. "Really?"
"Mm-hmm. The carrier landing that fucked up my back? It wasn't during combat ops. I wasn't even carrying ordnance."
"Wow. So . . . what happened?"
He shifted uncomfortably. "A wave hit the ship when I was coming in to land in the dark during a bad storm. Flight deck jumped, and I almost hit the stern, but pulled up just enough. I mean, we still hit it, but not dead-on, thank God. I lost control, slid across the flight deck, and we ejected right before the bird went in the drink." It was his turn to shudder, which made his breath catch. He grimaced, shifted again, and slowly exhaled. "I don't remember anything after that, but my RIO and I both barely pulled through. He's in a wheelchair now. Paraplegic. One of the SAR swimmers got fucked up too." He exhaled slowly and met my gaze. "It's been eight years, and I still get flashbacks from the parts I remember and even the parts I don't."
"Jesus," I breathed.
"Yeah." He moistened his lips. "I have chronic pain from it. Nightmares. I'd rather cut my wrists than watch that scene in Top Gun."
I didn't have to ask which one.
"My best friend was in a similar crash. They didn't eject or go off the deck, and he more or less walked away from it, but you won't hear me tell him he shouldn't be traumatized from his crash just because mine was"-he made air quotes-"'worse.'"
"I hadn't thought of that."
"Most people don't," he went on. "Thing is, a lot of people are traumatized by different things. It's not like front line combat vets have the monopoly on PTSD. Hell, my daughter's got it."
I sat up. "What? Kimber has PTSD?"
"It's . . . well, it's a long story. Something that happened when she was a teenager, and something else from a party she went to a couple of years ago that rattled her pretty hard." He paused. "In fact, it's one of the reasons she still lives with me. She's got a good job and could go out on her own, but she stays with me because we both get each other's PTSD. Her mom has a hard time handling it, and they stress each other out. But me and Kimber, we get it. We're both messed up from completely different things, but we still get it." He met my gaze. "So I'm not going to judge yours."
"Wow," I said. "I can't imagine what it's like when your kid has it."
His lips tightened and he nodded. "Seeing it in her is worse than having it myself. Especially since I can trigger it."
"You . . . how?"
He avoided my eyes for a second. "Mostly if she can't reach me. If I say I'll be home at a certain time, or that I'll call or text, but I don't? She panics. Even when she knows I probably got tied up in a meeting or something, she can get into a downward spiral pretty fast."
I hesitated, then asked, "What caused that?"
Travis took a deep breath. "When she was fifteen, I went on deployment. We had a designated day and time every week when I'd call her. And one night I didn't call. Her mom told her that sometimes the phones on the ships don't work, or I might have been working, and she was fine with that . . . right up until her mom shook her out of bed the next morning to get on a plane to Germany because no one knew if I was going to make it."
"Wow. Poor kid."
He nodded. "So if there's one thing I regret about my career, it's how much it's affected my kid. But the point is, I know PTSD is very, very real. And you don't have to be at ground zero of a war zone to be affected by the war. So you'd better believe I'm the last person who will question if yours is real, or if you've got a good reason for it."
He couldn't have known what a relief that was to hear. Or, hell, maybe he did. Just talking to him brought my blood pressure down a few notches. As much as I wouldn't wish PTSD on my worst enemy, there was something to be said for being in the company of someone who had it. If he had it, he understood it, and that had an almost paradoxical effect.
You get it, so if I freak out, you'll understand. So now I'm not going to freak out.
And after keeping my cards close to my vest because I didn't imagine any pilots would understand, it was liberating and validating to hear him say he did. At least someone did, and the fact that it was someone I was this intimate with . . . well, I'd count that as one hell of a blessing.
Clearing my throat, I looked at the time. "I guess we should eat something and get back before they send a search party after us."
Travis didn't pick up his menu. "You're good, though?"
"I think so, yeah."
"Okay. When we go back, if you're still having a hard time and need to escape, you know where my office is." Our eyes locked. Any other day, there would've been some suggestive subtext there, but not this time. He was offering refuge, not a clandestine quickie.
"Thanks." I paused. "And thanks again for the talk. I . . . really needed that."
"Don't mention it." Finally, he opened his menu. "Now let's see what we can scare up to eat."
Now that my good friend Paul was retired, it was a hell of a lot easier for us to meet up. Of course, he was busy with volunteer work and a fiancé, and I was spending most of my non-working hours with Clint these days, but we still managed to carve out time for leisurely Saturday lunches on a somewhat regular basis.
This weekend, while Clint was running errands, I met Paul at the officers' club. He'd been golfing today-my God, when wasn't the man golfing?-so he beat me there and got us a table.
He stood as I came in, and I gave him a half handshake, half hug.
"Hey, how are you?" I asked.
"Not bad." As we took our seats, he added, "I could do without some of this wedding-planning shit, but otherwise . . ." He shrugged.
"Wedding planning? I thought you guys were keeping it simple. Doing the whole beach thing or whatever."
"We were." Paul sighed dramatically as he flipped open his menu. "But the future mother-in-law thinks her only son should have a big wedding with everyone they've ever met."
I grimaced. "Who's winning that argument?"
"Don't know. I'm staying out of it." He scowled. "I swear, the first year we were together, he talked to her maybe twice a month. The minute we set a date, she's on the phone with him every other day and constantly bombarding him with emails. Much more of this, he'll be grayer than I am."
"Would he even notice?"
"Well, if he ever lets his natural hair color come back, yeah."
"Is he planning to do that for the wedding?"
Paul grimaced. "With as much as his mom is haranguing him about it, I'm not even going to ask."
"Ouch." I laughed. "So knowing him, he'll show up to the wedding in an electric blue Mohawk."
"At this point, I wouldn't put it past him." Shaking his head, he chuckled. "He's not the spiteful type, but my God, I think he's reached his limit."
"I can only imagine. Smart move on your part to stay out of it."
"Hey, I've been married before. I know better than to argue with a future mother-in-law about anything, especially a wedding."