For the moment, though . . .
I met Clint's eyes. We were alone now. Nowhere to run. "Okay. Um. Let's talk."
"Yeah." He stared me down and folded his arms across his chest. "I need to know why."
Fuck. Of course he did. And after explaining it to Paul yesterday and Kimber today, I was drained. No fight left in me at all. Hell, I felt like I'd never had any fight in me to begin with.
But he deserved an explanation. If I couldn't pull myself together enough to be a halfway decent boyfriend, then I at least owed him that much.
I motioned for him to follow me into the living room. We sat on the couch, a cushion between us, and he watched me silently as I tried to summon up an explanation and the courage to say it.
Finally, I pulled in a deep breath and let the words come. "You know how when we went to California, you said it was odd that I'm not afraid to fly after my crash?"
Clint nodded.
"The thing is, I am. If I had to get into the cockpit of a Super Hornet again, I'd be scared shitless. I can one hundred percent promise you that I could never put a bird down on a carrier again because I know firsthand how badly it can go wrong."
"But you can get on a commercial jetliner."
"Yeah." I stared down at my hands as I folded and refolded them. "Because I'm not the one flying it."
"Oh."
"And with relationships, it's kind of the same." I turned to him. "I know how badly they can crash and burn. When I've been involved in them, people have been hurt-I've been hurt-so much, I can't-"
"So you avoid them now?"
I pursed my lips. "How many times does a guy have to get hurt before he can decide how to protect himself?"
Clint sighed. "We all want to protect ourselves. But there comes a point when you're protecting yourself to the point you stop living at all." His eyes lost focus for a moment, as if he were trying to figure out what to say next, so I let the silence linger. And sure enough, he wasn't done. "When we went to California, I was nervous as hell about getting on that plane. Probably even more than you realized." He paused, holding my gaze. "But do you know why I got on it anyway?"
I shook my head.
"Because no matter how scared I am of what can happen, the only thing that scares me more is what I might miss at the other end if I don't work up the courage to take the chance."
I focused on the coffee table. I wanted to know what was possible between us too, but couldn't shake the fear of what else could happen.
"I know it's a big risk," he said. "But I want to see where this could go. I've . . . Usually, if someone kicks me to the curb, I'm done. I'm gone. But with you . . ." He was quiet for a long moment. "You were the first person I ever told about what happened with the drone. You're the only person I've told. Shouldn't that tell you what you mean to me?"
"Yes." I made myself look him in the eye. "That's the part that scares me. I'm fucking terrified because whenever I get close to someone, it blows up in my face, and it's because of me."
"Which I completely get." He paused. Then he put a hand on my leg, and for several long seconds, we were both still, as if he were reeling as much as I was from that contact. "Remember, I torpedoed my own marriage with a bottle. Don't you think I know what it's like to be scared to death a relationship is going to fall apart because of me?" He shifted a little, like he couldn't get comfortable. I knew that feeling. "That incident that killed my career as an RAP? Even if that wasn't classified, I was still ashamed of it and hated the idea of telling anyone what happened. Either they'd think I was a horrible monster who'd murdered a bunch of people, or they'd roll their eyes at me for saying I'm traumatized when I was thousands of miles away from the combat zone." He rolled his shoulders like his skin was crawling from the thought of what had happened. "You weren't just the first person I could tell because of your clearance or because I knew you'd keep it to yourself. You were the only one I'd ever felt like I could tell and you'd understand."
I wasn't sure what to say.
"There are nights when I wake up in a cold sweat and have a fucking panic attack," he continued. "Normally, it's embarrassing to have someone else in my bed when that happens. With you . . ."
"What?"
"With you, it's a relief. Because I'm not alone."
I avoided his eyes. "It's . . . Yeah, it's nice to not be alone."
"And being with someone who gets it is even better." He paused. "Look at us, Travis. We're both fucked up. When I go to sleep at night, I never know if I'm going to make it through the night without coming apart. And that's probably never going to change." He touched my forearm. "But when I go to sleep next to you, at least I know I'm with someone who understands. I feel . . . I mean, maybe it sounds stupid, but when I'm with you, I feel safer going to bed with all my demons. Like I can come apart and freak out, and . . ." He chewed his lip. "It's like . . . well, you mentioned when we flew to California. Flying scares the fuck out of me, and I know damn well there's nothing you can do to keep the plane from crashing. There's a risk, and that's just how it is. But when you're there with me, I feel like I can face that risk." He sat back and blew out a breath. "I don't know. It sounded better in my head. I-"
"No, I hear what you're saying. And I understand. To tell you the truth, it's been a lot easier to try to sleep when you're here too." I pressed my elbows into my thighs and lifted my shoulders, hoping he couldn't tell I was stretching a new spasm out of my back. "We're good at keeping each other calm and coping through nightmares, but one thing that's never going to get any better is my back. The pain is always going to be there, and it-"
"I know it is. I've known that since the beginning."
"Yeah, well, the novelty wears off fast. Believe me. It might not happen in the first few months. Might not even happen the first year or two. But sooner or later, it wears thin when you're with someone who occasionally has to cut a trip to the commissary short because he's in too much pain to walk, let alone carry groceries."
He sighed. "It goes both ways, you know. What if we want to travel together? I mean, you've got enough to deal with when you fly. How long before you get tired of holding my hand and telling me we're not going to die when you're hurting bad enough to break a sweat?"
I wanted to tell him I couldn't imagine ever getting tired of holding his hand. "That's part of the problem, actually. That I'm always hurting bad enough to break a sweat." I swept my tongue across my lips. "You've got a lot to deal with. You don't need someone whose top priority, all the time, is minimizing pain."
"I could say the same to you." His tone was gentle, but invited no argument. "But it's not a matter of what I need. It's what I want. And what I want is to be with you."
"And what I want is for you to be happy, not having to . . . I mean, Jesus. You can't possible enjoy constantly having to accommodate me in the bedroom. That's going to get real boring, real fast. I promise."
He arched an eyebrow. "Have you ever heard me complain about the sex we have? I enjoy everything we do in the bedroom."
"For now. How long before that isn't enough?" I forced back the ache in my throat and tried to hold his gaze. "It's not that we can't fuck, you know? It's that every single time we're in bed, we're having a threesome with my pain. Every time. I'm sick of it, so why wouldn't you be?"
Clint sighed. "Do you think I'm an asshole?"
"What?" I sat up straighter, ignoring the jolt of pain. "Of course not."
He took my hand. "Then why are you so sure I'm only sticking around until the sex gets boring? I was married for sixteen years, for God's sake. I know people get into a rut, and the sex does get boring, and it takes work to keep it interesting. That's not going to be any different here."
"Aside from the part where our sex life is already-"
"Yes." There was a hint of exasperation in his voice, but also a sparkle in his eyes. The corner of his mouth rose a bit as he squeezed my hand. "What's it going to take for you to believe me?"
I tried to smile, but that crippling doubt and worry made it nearly impossible. "Time, I guess?"
"Then will you give me the time to convince you?"
"Would you think less of me if I said this scares the ever-loving fuck out of me?"
Clint's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "You think you're scared? Jesus, Travis. I lost my wife of sixteen years as a direct result of being fucked up in the head. I can't even see my kids without someone else there, all because my job traumatized me so bad, I fell apart." He brought my hand up and pressed his lips to the backs of my fingers. "So don't you think I understand what it's like to be afraid that something that happened to me in the past might destroy the best thing that's happening to me now?"
I . . . had no idea what to say. I stared at him, disbelieving. Of course I'd known about his trauma-fueled downward spiral and his divorce, but it had never occurred to me that he might be quietly afraid that I'd be the one to walk away. That he was afraid he'd send me packing.