"That must've been a kick in the teeth," she'd said when we'd been alone after hearing the news.
"Clint?"
I shook myself, and wondered how long I'd fallen quiet. "Sorry. Sorry. I . . ." I blew out a breath. "Sorry."
She tilted her head. "You're not-"
"I'm sober. I promise."
She studied me, and I didn't have to ask if she believed me. The fact that I could calmly string together a coherent sentence was a huge point in my favor. My eyes probably weren't as red as they'd been during my drinking days either.
She sat back and glanced off-camera. "I should go make sure they aren't destroying the tree."
I forced a quiet laugh. "Okay. Send me some pictures, will you?"
"Sure." She nodded. "Take it easy, Clint. Maybe next year, we can . . ." She dropped her gaze.
"We'll cross that bridge when we get there. This year's an improvement. I'll take it."
"Me too. Anyway. Um. Good night. Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas."
We hung up, and I closed my laptop. For a good hour or so, I sat there. Sometimes staring at the photo they'd sent. Sometimes staring into space. The whole time, replaying the conversation. Things were getting better. It was a slow process, but we were getting there. The kids were talking to me. I had a new picture of them for my desk at work.
And maybe next year . . .
We'll cross that bridge when we get there.
I sighed, not sure if I was drained, relieved, or both.
A knock at the door pulled my attention from the picture. "It's open."
Travis stepped in. "Hey. I didn't want to interrupt, but . . ."
"No, no." I set the frame on top of my bag. "We hung up a few minutes ago."
He sat on the bed beside me and squeezed my shoulder. "So how'd it go?"
"It went all right. I'm fucking exhausted now, though."
"I don't doubt that at all."
I chewed my lip. Then I reached for the photo. "They sent me this."
He took the picture from me and smiled. "Wow. They look just like you."
"Trust me-the boys look a lot more like their mom."
He glanced at me, then at the photo, and shrugged. "Well, I've never seen her, but I can sure see the resemblance to you."
Setting the frame aside again, I couldn't help but smile. "Let's hope for their mother's sake that they haven't inherited all of my traits."
Travis patted my leg. "You don't give yourself enough credit." He kissed my cheek. "But I can imagine you were a handful as a kid, so yeah, let's hope."
"Ass." I elbowed him, and we both laughed. Then I sighed. "Man. I'm beat."
"Me too. I might be about ready to call it a night." He waved toward the door. "Charlie and Maxine have already gone to bed."
"This early?"
"They're not night owls like us."
"And yet we're the ones who have to be up at ridiculous hours to go to work."
"The gods favor no one, apparently." He stood and toed off his shoes, but otherwise, left everything on as he lay back on the bed. "Ahh. That feels nice."
I joined him on the bed, propping myself up on my elbow and resting a hand on his chest. "How's your back?"
"Still attached." He slid his hand around the back of my neck and drew me down. He kissed me lightly, then met my gaze. A devilish little grin formed on his lips. "Actually, before we hit the hay, I have one more present for you."
My stomach curled inward with dread. If this was a holiday-themed come-on, it was going to take a hell of a lot of effort to pretend I was into it right now.
I smiled, though. "You already gave me too much. You didn't have to get me anything."
"I know. But . . ." He got up, dug through his bag, and then handed me a wrapped package slightly larger than a shoebox. "I thought you'd like this."
It had some heft to it, and it was soft. I was definitely curious, and prayed like hell it wasn't some sort of sex toy he expected to use tonight.
Please, not tonight.
As he lay back on the bed again, I tore off the paper, and no, it was not a sex toy. No, it was the brightest, most hideous blanket I'd ever seen. Soft as hell, yes, but the pattern was a bunch of frosted, sprinkle-covered pastries.
I arched an eyebrow at Travis.
He didn't even try to hide his smirk. "I thought it would go with your throw pillow."
I burst out laughing. "You dork."
"What?" He snickered. "It seemed like your style."
"Of course it is." I leaned over him and kissed him. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"And, um . . ." I touched his face. "Thank you for bringing me here with you. This beat the hell out of spending Christmas alone."
"Even if you had to get on a plane?"
I suppressed a shudder and smiled. "Yeah. It was worth it."
"Glad to hear it." He slid a hand around the back of my neck and pressed a light kiss to my lips. When we parted again, his brow furrowed. "You okay? You've been kind of distant all evening. Stressed about talking to the kids?"
"Just a bit. And I should feel better now that it's over, but I . . ." I lay back on the pillows. "I'm exhausted."
"I believe it." He took my hand and squeezed gently.
I stared at the ceiling. "Looking back, I don't think the divorce could have been avoided. She was right-I'm a different person now. And I have no idea if she could have coped with my PTSD or not. I still don't know sometimes if I can." I closed my eyes. "But of all the ways things could have gone down, I could have handled things so much better. Without hurting her and the kids like that."
"You were traumatized and you couldn't talk about it," he said. "In hindsight, I can't imagine many people would blame you for not choosing the healthiest means of coping."
"Maybe not. But I sure as fuck do. You're right about one thing though-I'd have been so much better off if I could have talked about it."
He said nothing. Just squeezed my hand.
"This must sound crazy to you." I avoided his eyes. "An RAP being so fucked up by something that happened in a safe, comfortable office."
"We've talked about this," he said. "It's not a competition. And even if you're not in the line of fire, you're still part of the war. You're going to be affected by it."
"Yeah. That's for damn sure." I raked a hand through my hair, then turned to him. "That job killed my marriage, and it almost drowned me in a bottle. And I . . ." My face burned. "Listen, I'm not proud of this. Any of it. But I . . . The thing is, I couldn't cope with my job. With what happened three years ago. So I dove into a bottle, and . . ." Shame twisted in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't keep holding his gaze as I whispered, "When I get drunk, I get crazy."
"Crazy, how?"
I forced back the bile in my throat. "Crazy violent."
Travis stiffened.
I quickly added, "I never laid a hand on my wife or kids. I swear. Never did. But I, uh, I had to patch a few walls in the house. I never touched them, but I scared the shit out of them, and I will never forgive myself for that."
I fully expected Travis to recoil away from me and give me the same horrified expression the judge and my in-laws and the cops had. The last thing I expected was a gentle hand over the top of mine, or a reassuring squeeze.
Without looking at him, I took a deep breath and went on. "The thing is, everything RAPs do is classified. The missions. The recon. The outcomes. No matter what happened, I couldn't go home and tell my wife about my day. Which was stressful enough. But then when . . ." My skin crawled. "When things got really bad, I couldn't tell anyone." Stomach somersaulting and heart pounding, I turned to him and whispered, "All I could do was drink."
The understanding in Travis's eyes almost broke me. No judgment, no disgust-he just nodded, his expression full of genuine empathy. "This job fucks people up. No two ways about it."
A lump rose in my throat, and I nodded. "Yeah. But Jesus-they didn't deserve that."
"Neither did you."
My shoulders dropped. "You don't even know what happened."
"No, but I know you." He squeezed my hand again. "War is brutal."
"Yeah. I just . . . I wish I could talk about it. But the details are . . ."
"Classified?"
"Very." I paused. "And . . ." I released a long, heavy breath and sat up. "You know what? Fuck this. I shouldn't . . . but, I mean, you have secret clearance, right?"
He straightened. "Of course I do, but this shit's on a need-to-know basis."
Heart thumping, I laced our fingers together. "I think this qualifies, to be honest."
His eyebrows jumped. "Why's that?"
"Because one of the reasons I drank myself stupid and fucked up my marriage was that I couldn't tell anyone what happened. I . . ." I gulped. "I'm completely fucked up, Travis. And if we're going to do this-or hell, if I'm going to stay fucking sane-I need you to know what happened."