Kathleen Creighton - The Top Gun's Return

"For… Pete's sake," Tristan exploded, "I had a damn motorcycle accident. Some…jackass cut me off. It's got nothing to do with…anything."

"Your wife apparently doesn't think so." Cory leaned back and laced his fingers together behind his head. "She's worried about you, you know."

"Well, she shouldn't be."

"So…everything's working out great for you? Everything's just…hunky-dory, is that it?"

Tristan made an exasperated sound and jerked away from the reporter's gaze. No point in lying to this man. He could try, but they'd both know the truth. Four months or eight years, it didn't matter; this was somebody who'd been there. He knew.

He let out a breath, but there was still a heavy weight sitting in the middle of his chest. "It will be. I just have to get back to doing what I do…you know? I'll be okay, once I get my flying status back. That's what I've been working on-getting in shape, getting my strength back. Studying…" He stopped when Cory leaned forward abruptly.

For several seconds the reporter didn't say anything, just stared down at his hands, clasped between his knees. Then he lifted his head and as Tristan looked into those keen blue eyes, ageless and compassionate behind the rimless lenses of his glasses, he had the feeling of roles and ages flip-flopping.

"You keep talking about going back," Cory said, his tone gentle…diffident. "Did you ever think maybe…you ought to be thinking about moving forward?"

"I thought I was," Tristan growled.

Cory shook his head. "No, man. Flying Tomcats-that's your past." His grin was crooked. "Hell-nobody flies Tomcats forever." Tristan didn't say anything but jerked away from that relentless blue gaze with an impatient hiss. "Well, do they?" Cory persisted. "Tell me this-if you hadn't been shot down, if you hadn't lost those eight years, you think you'd still be flying Tomcats today?"

Tristan shifted uncomfortably and muttered, "Probably not."

"So, what would you be doing? Think you'd have stayed in the Navy?"

"Maybe-I don't know." He shifted again. Damn, but those cuts and scratches were starting to sting. Weren't the Chinese supposed to have invented something called the Death of a Thousand Cuts? Then he realized he was dangerously close to feeling sorry for himself, and closed his mind to the pain. "I do know I'd still be flying, though. Maybe something besides Tomcats, maybe commercially, but I'll fly as long as they'll let me. After that…maybe become a flight instructor…I haven't thought that far ahead yet." He scowled at his knees. "I'm still working on where I'm gonna live."

"What does your wife have to say about that? I'm assuming you two have talked about it."

"Tried to," Tristan growled. He felt a cold squeezing sensation in his chest. Cory, with a man's usual reticence about discussing personal matters, remained silent, and after a moment Tristan leaned back against the cranked-up bed and closed his eyes. "To tell you the truth, we hardly talk at all. Truth is, I don't know how to talk to her anymore." He opened his eyes and glared at the reporter, using anger to cover more humiliating emotions. "She's a stranger to me, Pearson. She's made a life here without me."

Cory shrugged. "Did you expect her not to?"

"No." He shifted uneasily. "No, of course not. I just don't know where I fit into it. It's like, the place where I used be isn't there anymore."

Both men were silent, listening to the beeps and bells and voices and footsteps all around them. Then Cory drew a long breath and said, "Well, I don't think there's any doubt she loves you."

Tristan's laugh was low and painful. "I'm not sure I'd agree with you, but even if it's true…you think that makes it easier? Because it doesn't. It only makes it worse."

There was another silence, both companionable and difficult. Again it was Cory who broke it, leaning forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees. He began carefully, like someone entering a private space, not certain of his welcome. "What I said a minute ago-about looking to the future rather than the past? That goes for relationships, too, you know. Maybe…it's not so much that there's no place for you in her life, as you're trying to make her fit into the place she used to have in yours. And that's not going to work, because she's not the same person she used to be."

Tristan tried to smile. "That she's not."

"Then maybe what you need to do is work on getting to know the person she is now. I'm betting she's one helluva lady."

Tristan's smile collapsed sideways. "Easier said than done."

"Well, I'm no psychologist," Cory said, with a touch of exasperation, "but I'm always told talking's good. You said you two hardly talk at all." He paused, and getting no denial, added, "I'm betting you haven't told her anything, have you? About…what happened to you over there?"

Tristan shook his head. He could feel his jaw tightening. "And I'm not going to, either. I'm not gonna lay that on her."

"Well, you should." He held up a hand to shut off any arguments Tristan might have in mind, and to Tristan's own surprise, it worked. "And I'll tell you why. Best two reasons in the world-it's what you want, and it's what she wants."

"Oh, for-"

"Okay, forget you for a minute. Take Jessie. She's a nurse, right? By nature she's a mother, a nurturer, a healer. And here you are, one of the people she loves most in this world, wounded, hurt, in need of nurturing, and you-naturally, you're determined to be a hero-you won't let her. Look, she doesn't need you to be a hero. What she needs is for you to be honest with her. You think you have to protect her from the bad stuff? Forget that, man. She's tougher than you think she is. She's a woman, isn't she? Listen to me-you need to let her in. You need to tell her how bad it was. You need to cry, then let her comfort you. If you do that, maybe both of you'll be able to move on."

He paused, and Tristan, thinking he was finished, growled, "I hope you get paid by the word."

Cory laughed. "I wish. Look, sorry for butting in. I don't usually-unless it's family. Don't know why, but I…guess I, uh…I mean, you and I have a…" He stood up in a fidgety sort of way, clearly no more comfortable with expressing his emotions than Tristan would have been. And Tristan, who normally would have enjoyed seeing the reporter at an unprecedented loss for words, instead felt a wave of purely masculine sympathy.

Cory started to turn away, then swiveled back, fingers to his forehead. "Look," he said, frowning, "this isn't from me-something the shrinks said. About grief? What happened to us-to you-it's like a death in the family. We've lost something precious to us-time, months, years…a piece out of our lives. We need to grieve for that…bury it, then move on."

"Yeah," said Tristan, with an impatient wave of his hand, "they told me that, too."

"But you haven't, have you?" Cory said softly. "You've never allowed yourself to grieve. Or Jessie, either."

Sammi June had been to the hospital any number of times. Normally she went in the front entrance, straight to the elevators and on up to the NICU. She'd never been in the E.R. before. She didn't even know where the bike rack was. Finally she chained hers to a handicapped parking post, and her hands shook so badly she almost couldn't get the lock snapped together.

She was out of breath, hot and sweaty, and as she approached the E.R.'s sliding door she could see from her reflection that her face was beet red, and her hair every which way. Not that she cared. She combed her hair roughly with her fingers and gave it a shake to settle it, then strode quickly to the E.R. reception desk and gasped out, "Hi-I'm looking for my dad-Tristan Bauer?"