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Tears were stinging Brynn’s eyes, but she blinked them back without moving, not wanting to distract him from finishing.
“What was really weird?” he said. “It was so damn graceful, the way it arced over before going into the nose dive. It was like watching an Olympiad in slow motion.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Tanks were full, of course. The fireball was spectacular.” He sat forward and put his elbows on his knees, digging his thumbs into his eye sockets.
Brynn didn’t say anything for a time, then, “If you had been flying it, could you have corrected it?”
He lowered his hands. “That’s the point of the story, Brynn. If I’d been flying it, there would have been nothing to correct. Thirteen people died because I nodded off.” He looked at his palms as though seeing blood on them. “I knew all those pilots. They were great guys. The best of the best. Such a fucking waste.”
“You think the least you could have done was to die with them?”
He raised his head and looked at her with vehemence.
“That’s is, isn’t it?” she asked softly. “That’s the issue. You didn’t die that day.”
“I beat the odds.”
Nodding slowly, she said, “But if you fly long enough, often enough, in conditions that are risky enough, the odds will begin to stack against you until eventually…”
“My number will come up.”
Even having guessed that was his mind-set, she made a mournful sound of dismay. “You want to die?”
“Not die,” he said, “just…just not have to live with this anymore.”
She searched his haunted eyes. How could she respond in a way that would reverse his thinking, reset his reasoning, relieve his guilt, or console him to some extent, any extent? Nothing came to mind. “I don’t think anyone, except yourself, can help you with this, Rye.”
> “I didn’t ask for anyone’s help. I don’t want anyone’s help.”
“You would rather suffer alone.”
“And not have to talk about it.”
“That must be awfully hurtful to people who care about you.”
“It is.”
“Is that why you’ve shut yourself off from your family?”
He stood up and turned his back to her. “From everybody.”
From her, certainly. His lovemaking had been passionate. He’d whispered stirring things she had taken as sincere because he hadn’t said them to woo her. She had already been wooed. But the instant the intimacy had shifted from the physical to the emotional, he had detached himself.
She wanted to go to him now, hold him close, and tell him how she hated that he suffered this continuous anguish. But knowing that her attempted comforting would be rebuffed, she stayed where she was.
At the window, he said, “No change. He’s still there, and it’s still pouring. What do you want to do?”
She looked at the clock. It was almost one-thirty. “Honestly, now that I’ve been prone, I don’t think I could endure the drive. I would be a danger to myself and anyone else on the road. I would arrive at five-thirty or thereabouts. Would it be fair to the Griffins to barge in at that hour and hit them with all this?”
“That’s up to you. Whenever you say you’re ready, I’ll take on the guy outside to get you out of here.”
She glanced toward the window. “He hasn’t bothered us, and no one else has come along. Why don’t we rest? Just for a few hours. I could leave at dawn, present myself at a reasonable time of morning, and still have hours to spare.”
He looked at the bed. “I could use a nap. I can’t promise that I won’t twitch.”
“But I promise that I won’t talk.”
He gave her a wry smile. “Deal.” He walked over to the bed, managed the sleeves of his shirt, and pulled it on. He picked up his new phone and the card key, then switched off the bathroom light. “Go to sleep. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
