Afraid to Fly (Anchor Point #2)(31)

"So she doesn't amp herself up with all the worst-case scenarios?"

"Exactly."

"Does she see a therapist?"

Travis shook his head. "She did for a while, but hasn't really felt the need since we moved to Anchor Point. It doesn't really impede her ability to function from day to day. If she changes her mind, she knows how to reach Fleet and Family, or she can see a civilian doc in town. It's up to her."

"Makes sense. What about you?"

He waved a hand. "Nah. I did for a while, but I don't anymore. It's mostly nightmares and the occasional bad night if something sets me off. Which . . . it's weird what can trigger it, you know? I mean, I don't even remember anything after my plane hit the flight deck. I sure as fuck don't remember being in the water. And even if I did, it was saltwater, for God's sake. But five minutes into a SAR demonstration in a goddamned pool, and . . ." he tapped his forehead, "something goes haywire."

"Oh man, I know exactly what you mean," I said. "It's the weirdest thing. I had a buddy who was hurt in a mortar attack in Afghanistan. After he came home, he could handle fireworks shows, the gun range, violent movies-you name it." I exhaled. "Then we were at a restaurant one day, and a certain song started playing in the background. He just . . . he lost it. Full-on flashback."

Travis's eyes widened. "From a song?"

I nodded. "Turned out that song was playing when the mortar came in."



       
         
       
        

"Jesus." Travis whistled. "Amazing what can set that shit off."

"No kidding. Fortunately, he was with a group of guys who knew a flashback when they saw one. I can only imagine what would've happened if he'd been out with his family. Or driving!"

Travis grimaced. "Shit. Yeah."

"So he absolutely could not have the radio on when he was driving after that."

"Oh wow. I hadn't even thought of that. Amazing how this stuff permeates every part of your life."

"It is. And people wonder why I drank myself stupid the first year."

"I feel that. I did my fair share of self-medicating, believe me."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. But things are better now. I mean, aside from nights like last night."

I wasn't sure what to say. If he still had nights like that eight years on from his crash, how long would it be before mine were less of a problem? Fuck. One of those mind erasers would've been really, really nice.

"You know . . ." Travis put his arms around my waist. "In a weird way, I feel better after last night. Like, it's out of the way now." He laughed. "No surprises."

I chuckled and kissed him softly. "It's kind of a relief for me too. I guess having it out in the open like that, whether it happened to you or me, does make it easier."

"It really does."

"So, um. Now that that's out of the way . . ." I hesitated. "Do you want to come by my place tonight?"

Travis held my gaze, and I had two seconds to be preemptively disappointed before he smiled and pulled me a little closer. "I'd love to." He started to say something further, but of course the phone on his desk picked that exact moment to ring. "Damn it."

"Figures."

He gave me a quick kiss, and leaned across to pick up the phone, not quite hiding the wince as he moved. With his hand resting on the receiver, he said, "It's the CO. Come by when you're heading to lunch?"

"Will do."

I stepped out of his office, leaving him to his call, and released a long breath. So that was out of the way. We'd been through a PTSD-induced shitty night. Neither of us had had a lot of sleep, but we were a step closer to really knowing what it was like to function together with the not-so-great cards we'd each been dealt.

On my way down the hall to my own office, I couldn't help smiling. It had been a rough night, and it wouldn't be the last one like that, but now I wasn't quite so worried about what could happen when one of us slept over. It was progress in its own fucked-up way. 

Tonight, we'd see what happened.

And for right now, I needed another goddamned Red Bull.





The night I'd woken us both up with a nightmare quickly became a distant memory. Now that I'd broken the ice in a way, we relaxed with each other. We could both sleep as much as our fragged brains would let us. There was no more fear of the other seeing us in that vulnerable, disoriented state.

It wasn't all smooth sailing. Clint's trauma was much more recent than mine, and the psychological wounds were much more raw. I hadn't even realized how little he'd been sleeping when he was beside me until after my bad night. Now that he wasn't afraid of me seeing him like that, he slept. Which meant he dreamed. Which meant there were some rough nights. We both had to drag ourselves to the coffeepot in the morning, and there were occasional mysterious bruises thanks to one or the other of us thrashing in our sleep.

I didn't mind, and he didn't seem to mind my back interfering with our sex life at every turn. Not that I had any illusions of that lasting forever, but hey, I'd enjoy it for the moment.

Today, the pain had been a constant irritating ache. Not a spasm yet, so I was doing everything I could to keep it that way. Motrin, ice, TENS, Motrin, ice, TENS.

Clint, being the saint that he was, hadn't just caught on that I was barely moving today, he hadn't missed a beat in coming up with something else to do for the evening.

"Why don't I cook something?" he'd asked. "In fact, if Kimber's not working, she's welcome to join us. Then we can all watch a movie or whatever."

Fine by me, so at six thirty, he came into my kitchen and set a handful of plastic commissary bags on the counter. "So, I need a couple of pots and a casserole dish."

"Um." I looked around. "They're . . ."

Kimber pointed at the drawer below the oven and the cabinet next to it.

"Got it," Clint said.

"Good thing someone knows their way around in here," I said.

"Mm-hmm." Kimber shot me an earnest look, forehead creased as she put a hand to her lips. "Has that stove even been used since we moved in? Do you think it'll work?"

"Really?" I rolled my eyes. "We've used it."

"Like twice. Maybe."

Clint snickered. "Not the culinary type, are we?"

Before I could respond, she burst out laughing.

"Oh my God-he is so not."

"Hey." I wagged a finger at her. "You're not helping."

She shrugged. "Wasn't trying to."

"Like father, like daughter." He snickered as he took out the pots and casserole dish. "Tell me you at least have a decent set of knives."

"Right behind you."

He turned around and looked over the knife block. I barely used it, but at least it wasn't a cheap, dull set.

"You need help with anything?" I asked.

"Nope." He took three knives out and laid them next to the cutting board. "I've got this."

"I feel like we should have a camera out," Kimber said in a stage whisper. "To prove that actual cooking has happened in here."

I glared at her, but as Clint started making dinner, I wondered if she was right. He definitely put my cooking skills to shame. I thought I was doing all right when I managed to follow the directions on a box and didn't set off the smoke detector in the process. This guy . . . holy shit. He chopped and sliced without seeming concerned that the blade might land on a finger. And weren't you supposed to measure things before tossing them in?




       
         
       
        
I was almost afraid to talk to him while he worked. He was spinning so many plates, I didn't want to distract him and cause the whole thing to fall apart.

He looked up from dicing some green peppers and said to Kimber, "So your dad says you work in tech support?"

"Yep. In between going to school."

"What are you studying?"

"I'm finishing a bachelor's in computer science. I took a year off to-" She tensed, eyes flicking toward me. Then she cleared her throat. "Anyway. I'll graduate in June, and then I'll start working on a master's."

"Wow." He glanced up again. "All that while you're working as many hours as you do?"

"Eh. I can do computers in my sleep." She snatched a piece of bell pepper off the cutting board and tossed it in her mouth. "I just hope graduating means I can get a decent job someplace else, or move up to supervising my department instead of doing what I do now. Seems like most of my friends graduate, only to turn around and rack up more hours at the job they've had all along."

Clint scowled. "Yeah, that's the market these days." He paused to drop a few crushed garlic cloves into one of the pots. "My ex-wife has an MBA, and she had such a hard time getting a job, she finally threw up her hands and became a blackjack dealer."

"Really?" Kimber's eyes widened. "Does that pay decently?"

"Better than unemployment."

She turned to me. "Maybe I should learn to deal cards."

I shrugged. "You already know how to count 'em."