On Broken Wings

by Chanel Cleeton

  I settled for the politic answer rather than spilling my guts.

  “I’m not looking to date right now.”

  She smiled. “Just wait. Love will knock you on your ass when you least expect it.”

  Oh, the irony.

  “I’m not really in a place where I’m up for a relationship. Work’s taking up my focus right now.”

  Not entirely true, but she understood better than anyone the level of sacrifice that came with being a fighter pilot’s wife.

  “Are you ready for the deployment?” she asked, putting us back on safer ground.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be. Being away will suck, but at least it’s not too long. And at this point, there’s so much buildup that I’m ready to leave.”

  Our dates had shifted a few times, the length changing from four months to three, and now I was ready to go, do what we needed to, and get home. And yeah, it helped that I wasn’t leaving anyone behind who’d miss me while I was gone. In my younger years, I’d had a few girlfriends through deployments and the separation was tough. It was easier when you were on your own.

  “Becca’s having a hard time with the lead-up to you guys being gone. I told Jordan I’d talk to her,” Dani commented.

  “Yeah, Thor’s a little worried about it, too.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Better. He’s looking forward to getting out and joining the Guard.”

  “Have you ever considered it?”

  “Getting out and joining the Guard?”

  She nodded.

  “After I retire, maybe. I haven’t really thought about it, to be honest.”

  I’d made the decision to stay active duty until I was eligible for retirement in seven years, pretty fucking pleased with the fact that I’d be receiving a pension at forty-one. I hadn’t been tapped by the Air Force brass for leadership, though, which was fine with me; guys like Noah and Joker were groomed early on. I was a damn good pilot, but I didn’t have the patience or finesse to play the game the way I needed to in order to get ahead. Flying was all I really cared about.

  “What about you? Have you considered going back to work?” I asked.

  “Sort of. My Series 7 license lapsed a few years ago so if I go back to working as a financial advisor I’ll have to retake the test.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “It was okay the first time around, but that was when I was straight out of college. Now it’s like my brain’s been asleep for years. I’m not really sure I’ll pick up the material as quickly.” She shrugged. “The other problem is that in order to get licensed you need to be employed by a financial services firm, and I’ve filled out more job applications than I can count, and still nothing.”

  “It’s gotta be tough after moving around so much.”

  “It is. With all our overseas assignments I didn’t really work much, at least not the type of work experience that’s helpful now. I can explain the gaps in my employment history, but it’s hard enough to get a job.” She took a sip of her beer, her tongue darting out to catch a stray drop of liquid that landed on her bottom lip. I forced myself to look down at my plate, to concentrate on something other than her mouth. “Plus we got married so young that I didn’t have a lot of time to build much work experience.”

  “Are you okay with money? If you need help . . .” I figured Joker had the same standard life insurance we all did, but I’d never been in the position to worry if it was enough to take care of a wife. Mine would go to my parents in the event something happened to me.

  “I’m fine, but thanks. I’m just trying to find out what happens next.”

  “You will.”

  “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. It’s been a year.”

  I’d never imagined it was possible to feel someone else’s pain, but hers was a knife in my heart.

  “That’s right. It’s only been a year. You need time. You don’t need to have all the answers now and no one expects you to.”

  I didn’t know where these words came from, didn’t even know I had them inside me, just that I had an overwhelming need to make her feel better. Maybe that was what drew me to her—the way she made me want to work to be a better person, to be more than I’d ever thought I could be. Flying came easy; the rest of it? Not so much. Maybe that’s why it mattered more, why I felt more like a hero when she swept those green eyes my way than I ever did in the sky.

  We made small talk for the rest of dinner and then I helped her clean up, having more fun hanging out in the kitchen with her than I’d had in a long time. So much so that I didn’t want to leave to go back to my empty house.

  I hovered in the doorway, the dishes cleaned and put away. I shoved my hands in my pockets, feeling like I was in high school again, lingering on a doorstep after a date, saying good night to a girl I crushed on.

  Dani stood in front of me, tugging yellow rubber gloves off her hands, an apron tied around her waist.

  Fuck me—I didn’t know why it was hot, only that it was.

  “Thanks for dinner.”

  She grinned. “Thanks for painting. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem. If you need anything else done before we go, let me know. I’m happy to help out.”

  “Thanks. And if you want another home-cooked meal, you’re always welcome. I had fun tonight.”

  I nodded, the curve of her lips doing funny things to my heart. I’d had plenty of women in my life, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever known anyone with a smile like hers. She was so expressive—when she smiled, I swore it set something inside me on fire, and when she was sad, my heart broke.

  I didn’t move. Neither did she.

  “I should probably get going.”

  “Night’s still young?” she teased.

  “It’s a Sunday.”

  “I seem to remember a Sunday Funday, or two, or twelve throughout the years.”

  I laughed, embarrassment filling me. “Not too many of those anymore. I’m old now. I usually limit my partying to one night a week.”

  If even.

  “So no big plans?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll probably just go home and watch TV or something.”

  Sundays were always the worst days when you lived alone. Everyone was with their families, and I usually ended up sitting home alone and bored. Now that Noah and Thor were in relationships, there were only a few of us single guys left in the squadron, and I’d lost my two best wingmen.

  “Do you want to watch TV here for a bit?” She looked a little nervous, and that tugged at my heart, too. “If you don’t have anything else going on.”

  How had I missed that she was lonely? She had friends here—people like Jordan and Becca—but it was tough when everyone else around you had families and lives of their own.

  “I would love to watch TV with you,” I answered honestly.

  I followed her into the living room, a rush of adrenaline similar to the one I got in the jet hitting me as I settled onto the couch next to her, careful to put some distance between us. This whole day had been exquisite torture, no more apparent than sitting next to her now, the scent of her perfume clinging to me. I shifted, trying to adjust my arousal without her noticing—the odds of her staring at my crotch were blessedly low—willing myself to think of the least sexy thing I could.

  “What do you want to watch?” she asked.

  Considering how much I was struggling to concentrate on something other than her, it didn’t really matter. “Whatever you want.”

  She flipped the channels for a bit until she came to a home improvement show. “Does this work?”

  “Sure.”

  The couch shifted next to me, and I stared at the screen, not allowing my gaze to drift in her direction. The last time I’d felt like this—hell, I was having some serious flashbacks to being fourteen and sitting
next to my first girlfriend, Casey, too shy and awkward to make a move. Except I wasn’t fourteen anymore, and I knew exactly how good it would feel to have her beneath me, or on top of me, or against the wall . . .

  Out of my periphery, I watched Dani bring her bare legs up to the couch, tucking them to the side so she was curled up in the corner, the hem of her T-shirt raising a hair and exposing the tiniest sliver of skin, her shorts exposing a whole lot of leg.

  Fuck me.

  I wanted to take her into my arms and settle her into my lap, wrapping my arms around her, pressing my lips to her hair. That was the thing about Dani—it wasn’t only that I wanted to be inside her; I wanted to hold her hand. That alone, the simple gesture of her fingers linked with mine, would be everything.

  The show went by in a painful half hour. I couldn’t focus on anything besides Dani sitting next to me on the couch, looking so soft and warm, while I sat there, my body stiff and aching. The credits rolled and I waited to see if she’d say something, if she’d get up, but instead she shifted to the other side, another hit of her perfume wafting over me.

  Another episode started, and she began making small talk—how she would have chosen a different paint color or commenting on how difficult the couple was. I wasn’t a big fan of talking when the TV was on, and I definitely didn’t give a shit about home improvement, but I found myself relaxing with each of her comments, laughing along with her. Maybe we could do this. I’d been her friend for years; it hurt, but having her in my life as my friend was better than not having her at all. Not to mention, she seemed happy having me around. Lighter.

  Another show started and she got up, grabbing a blanket from a basket next to the TV.

  “Are you cold?”

  The fan was going overhead, the A/C was on, I was wearing cargo shorts, and I was on fucking fire. But even as I told myself we were going to be friends, the devil on my shoulder answered for me.

  “A bit.”

  My heart hammered as she sat back down on the couch, closer this time, wrapping the blanket around her legs and handing me the rest so I could cover myself as well. I took it from her, her fingers brushing mine in a tantalizing tease. The blanket wasn’t quite long enough to cover both of us, and she moved a little closer, her leg settling against me, suddenly making touching calves seem erotic.

  Jesus.

  “Better?”

  I nodded, not sure I trusted myself to speak. I was rock hard, need pummeling me like a prizefighter.

  Another episode started up, and I sat there pretending I was riveted, pretty sure nothing in the fucking world would get me to move off this couch. This was heaven and this was hell, and I swallowed up every single moment.

  DANI

  I settled into the curve of Easy’s body, barely resisting the urge to lay my head on his shoulder. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this relaxed, my mind, for once, quiet. These were the moments I’d missed, the times I ended up talking to myself while I sat alone.

  I missed cuddling. Missed the sensation of having someone close by, of feeling a little less alone. I wasn’t necessarily physically affectionate by nature, but there was something about Easy, a bond that had been forged long ago that made me more comfortable with him than I was with anyone else. He’d held my hand—held me—through so many of the toughest moments in my life, that now it was the most natural thing in the world to curl my body into his.

  I snuck a peek at his profile, wondering if he minded. I couldn’t see his eyes, his gaze focused on the show, could barely make out the edge of his strong jaw, the curve of his full lips.

  His head cocked to the side, his blue eyes connecting with mine. “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Is this okay?” I made a face, trying not to laugh. “The cuddling, I mean?” I doubted many women said the word “cuddling” to Easy. Likely, if they found themselves in my position, there were a lot of other things they’d do instead.

  He was quiet for a moment.

  Oh God, had I made him uncomfortable? I was so used to being myself with Easy, I hadn’t even considered . . .

  I pulled back, but he caught me mid-motion, his arm coming around my waist, tugging me toward him until my body curled up against his side, my arm draped over his waist, my head leaning against a monster bicep. He adjusted me for a second, his big hands coming under my calves, his fingers grazing the back of my knees, pulling my legs across his until they rested just above his knees.

  “Better?” he asked.

  It really was. My body went limp against his, my limbs boneless. I sighed and nodded against his shoulder, completely and utterly content.

  We watched three more episodes with me wrapped around him, my legs in his lap, until my eyelids started fluttering, sleep beckoning.

  He nudged me gently with his shoulder. “Why don’t I go and let you get some sleep?”

  I nodded, too tired to say much of anything. I released him, my body reluctantly rising from its position on the couch. I walked him to the front door, hiding a yawn behind my hand. He caught that, too, smiling down at me.

  “Get some sleep, okay?”

  “I will. Thanks for hanging out tonight.”

  His smile deepened. “My pleasure.”

  I expected him to turn and walk out, but instead he took a step toward me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me in for a hug. His lips ghosted across the top of my head and something inside me swelled with the sweetness of the gesture, with the way he looked at me, the kindness in his voice.

  He really was an amazing friend.

  He released me, but I reached up, placing my palm on his face, my fingers skimming his cheekbone.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, and by the look in his eyes, he knew I wasn’t just talking about the painting, or even tonight, but how much he’d been there for me these past few years. I couldn’t imagine what I would have done without him.

  He nodded, his jaw clenching against my fingers. “Sweet dreams, Dani.”

  I let my palm fall, watching as he turned and walked to his car, all long-limbed grace. I stayed there in the doorway, waiting until he got in, and then it was clear he was waiting for me to close the door before he’d drive away, so I did, locking up and walking into the bedroom.

  A few minutes later I was asleep, and I didn’t wake until morning.

  FIVE

  DANI

  Doctor Paul called me on Tuesday and asked me to dinner. The conversation was okay, and thanks to Jordan’s prodding and my own desire to be proactive—whatever the hell that meant—I agreed to meet him at my favorite Italian restaurant on Friday, figuring worst case, I’d get some tiramisu out of it. Now, fifteen minutes into the date, it was obvious the tiramisu would be the highlight of my evening, and even the promise of really good dessert wasn’t making this worthwhile.

  Jordan was right—he was a nice guy. And he was cute—dark hair, brown eyes, decent build that probably would have been more impressive if I hadn’t spent most of my adult life hanging out with fighter pilots who treated working out like a religion. The conversation started out polite and stilted, but the evening quickly devolved into a dissertation of all the things that were wrong with Doctor Paul’s ex-wife. I sat there, beyond uncomfortable, wishing the night would end.

  Poor guy. His ex-wife had obviously hurt him when she left, and he definitely wasn’t over it, but he was looking for someone who would identify with what he was going through, someone he could commiserate with, and that wasn’t me. I was on my own now, too, but I couldn’t relate to the stories he told or the anger inside him. I supposed I was angry in an abstract way—not at Michael, but at life. Being a widow was a different manner of loss entirely.

  By the time dessert came around, not even the prospect of tiramisu could make me want to extend the date.

  “Are you sure you don’t want anything?” he asked.

&nbs
p; “That’s okay. Thanks, though. I should probably get going. It’s late.”

  He shot me a look of disbelief, which I’d probably earned considering it was barely 8 p.m.

  When the check came, I split it with him, beyond guilty over my lack of interest. I’d tried. I really had. I’d asked him questions, I’d made polite small talk, I’d even dressed up for the occasion. I didn’t feel anything. At all. And no amount of loneliness would ever convince me to settle for anything other than love, not after what I’d had with Michael. And even as I felt guilty being on a date with someone else, he wouldn’t have wanted me to settle, either.

  Doctor Paul and I said good-bye outside the restaurant, neither one of us bothering with the façade of making plans for another date, and then I was sliding into my car, grateful I’d decided to meet him there rather than have him pick me up at home.

  I called Jordan.

  “How did it go?” she answered instead of a normal greeting.

  I laughed at the eagerness in her voice. Bad date and all, I appreciated her attempt to help.

  “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think we’ll have a repeat performance. He was nice, but not for me.”

  “Ugh. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I appreciate you setting me up.” The truth was, even though the date was a bust, it was nice to get dressed up, to put on makeup and do my hair. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made an effort with my appearance—not since Michael died, at least—and it felt good to be me again.