Tears gather in his eyes and slowly begin to slide down his cheeks. "I'm not worthy." It's a simple statement, but really the source of all our friction.
"I believe you are," I say with equal conviction and simplicity. "So how do we move forward?"
He nods then, wiping his eyes. "I've been talking to Dr. Wyatt about this. He thinks we should have joint sessions for a while. He thinks there are things we can both do to help me." He stops then and looks quickly from my face, to his hands still in his lap. "Do you … Would you be willing? To go to therapy, I mean. I know it is asking a lot -"
"You fucking idiot!" I yell at him. I catch a brief glimpse of his shocked face as I throw myself into his arms. From the comfort of his neck, my arms wound tightly around his neck, my thighs clutching his waist, I say. "I'd walk through hell for you, Baby. Yes, I think a couple therapy sessions a month is something I can handle. You ass," I throw in for good measure.
He tightens his arms around me and I feel the tension leach out of his body. I pull back and study his face, the face I love so much more than I thought possible.
"You gotta get rid of this beard though. It's a deal breaker," I say with mock seriousness.
"What?" he says, laughing. "I've been told it makes me look very hot."
"Oh, and just who has been saying this?"
"Tons of women," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Tracey, Abby, hell, Cindy loves it."
"Oh, you did not just say that!" I exclaim as I begin to tickle and pinch him. "You are going to pay for that!"
The wrestling turns quickly to sex, but this time is slower, more relaxed, and more loving.
Thirty minutes later, resting my head on his chest, half of my body draped over his, I am wholly content.
"It'll probably take me a couple weeks before I can get back out here," Ian says suddenly.
I lift my head and look at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"
"Moving. I don't think I can do it right away. It's going to take me some time to get things in order," he says. Seeing my continued confusion, he goes on, "You just got this new job, I figured you'd want to stay here. I'm sure I can find a new therapist. In fact, Dr. Wyatt already said he'd be happy to transfer my file and debrief whomever I find out here. He said he could ask around and find someone who has experience with PTSD. Although, hell, I gotta think just about anyone working at the VA would have more than enough experience with that," he concludes.
"But the pub … " I say.
"I could get someone to manage it for me. I don't think I'd want to give her up, she means a lot to me. And yes, the pub's a she," he says when he notices my furrowed brows.
"Sexist," I say. "I hate that male possessions are always female - boats, cars. It pisses me off."
"Yeah well, she was the only woman in my life for ten years and I love her dearly, possession or not. Anyway, if I sold her I couldn't be sure Hal, Tracey and Sean still had jobs. They are such nutcases, who the hell else would hire them? Plus, there's Pappy. He might want to move out here, I think he may be as in love with you as I am, but his heart and soul are in that place too. I don't think – "
"Enough," I say. "We are living in Santa Monica. What I have is a job. A great job, but just a job. You have a whole life in Santa Monica. WE have a whole life in Santa Monica. No question, it's back to California we go."
Ian lets out a huge sigh. Then he smiles at me. I smile back.
"Thanks for being willing to move though, it means a lot," I say sincerely.
"Well, I'd walk through hell for you too, Baby. Moving would be a piece of cake."
I reach up to kiss him. "But seriously, this beard -"
He doesn't let me finish, stopping my mouth with a kiss.
Epilogue
Ian
Santa Monica, California
"Enough already," Pappy says with an exasperated sigh. "Out with it, Ian!"
I look at him, "What are you talking about?"
"Ye've had somethin' on yer mind for a couple weeks now. Ye keep staring off into space, furrowin' your brows, mumblin' to yerself. What on earth is it, son?"
I turn from my computer, swiveling my chair to face him. Leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees, I study the floor in front of my feet before looking up into my dad's eyes.
Taking a deep breath, I admit what I've been scared to say. "I want to ask Kelli to marry me." I say it quickly, on a strong exhale and then sit back and watch his reaction.
He immediately begins nodding, and smiling, but he says nothing.
"Well?" I ask, annoyed. He looks like an Irish bobble head doll and it's fucking obnoxious.
"Well, what?"
"You can be a real arse sometimes, you know that?" I put special emphasis on arse, his favorite term for me growing up.
He chuckles and repeats his question, "What would ye have me say, lad?"
"Is it a good idea? Will she say yes? Can I be a good husband? I don't know. How about just offering some fucking fatherly advice?"
Pappy leans forward and puts his hand on my knee in an attempt to sooth me.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I just … I'm terrified."
"Do ye doubt she loves ye?" Pappy asks.
"No," I say. "I'm certain she'll say yes, but … Can I make her happy? Or will my shit just keep coming up again and again?"
"How does yer ‘shit come up' son? What makes ye think ye can't make her happy?" Pappy asks gently.
Fuck, I shouldn't have said anything. There is no way I'm going to tell him about our problem. It was bad enough talking to Dr. Wyatt about it.
"What's on your mind, Ian? You seem distracted," Dr. Wyatt asked about two months after Kelli had returned to Santa Monica to be with me.
At first I just looked at him with absolutely no intention of actually telling him what was on my mind. But then the memory of Kelli crying quietly in the bathroom, hoping I couldn't hear her, forced me to open my mouth.
"Well, ah, it seems … Fuck … Kelli and I have had a couple set backs … " I couldn't say more.
"What sort of set back, Ian?" Dr. Wyatt probed patiently.
"We ah … Man, I really don't want to talk about this. Fuck it! Here goes nothing. Sometimes we have troubles in the bedroom." There! I said it.
"What type of troubles, Ian? I'm going to need you to be more specific."
Fuck, fuck, fuck! I had to wait a few minutes before I could go on.
"Most of the time there isn't any issue. But sometimes, sometimes right after we start, right after I … get inside her, I freak out. It's fucking awful. I break out in a sweat and shout out something unintelligible. I pull out of her and have to lock myself in the bathroom until I can stop shaking."
Dr. Wyatt was quiet for a moment. "That is a serious issue. How does Kelli react?" he asked finally.
"How do you think she reacts? She pretends to be fine. She pretends to understand. She tries to hold me, tells me it's alright. But how can it be? One minute we're fucking and the next minute I'm screaming and acting as if she has the plague. How does that not fuck with her mind?"
Dr. Wyatt had spent the rest of that session, and all the next one, trying to help me come to grips with the situation and think of ways to deal with it when it came up. We also spent a few joint sessions discussing it. And it is getting better, but it does still happen from time to time.
"I can't talk about it, Dad. It just does," I say.
"And ye think ‘tis significant enough that Kelli won't marry ye?" Pappy asks.
"No," I respond, frustrated. "I already said I know she'll say yes. But how long is she going to be patient?"
"Have ye spoken to Dr. Wyatt ‘bout it?" Pappy asks.
"Yeah. He says that it'll get better. He agrees that it must be hard for her, but he says I have to trust what she tells me. If she tells me she's alright, I need to believe her," I answer.
"But ye don't believe she'll tell ye if she's upset," Pappy says it not as a question, but as a statement.
"No, I don't think she will. You know her, she'll try to protect my feelings. She'll ignore how she's feeling, she'll act as if everything is okay. But she's sensitive. I don't see how it could really be okay with her," I conclude, feeling depressed. Ha! I started this conversation thinking I was going to ask my dad for my mom's wedding ring to give to Kelli. Now I've convinced myself that asking her to marry me is a horrible idea. Fucking classic.