Logan
FOB near the Spratly Islands
Six weeks in, and I’m starting to see progress. They let me start active motion this week. Feels like a win, though lifting my arm even a few inches makes my muscles shake, like they don’t trust me anymore. I don’t trust them either.
The exercises are repetitive. Resistance bands.
Shoulder shrugs. External rotations with a light-ass dumbbell that makes me feel like I’m made of glass.
My grip is stronger. My range of motion is better.
I can push a little harder before the pain catches up to me.
Everything is slow. Controlled. Painful.
But I do it all. Every damn rep, no matter how much it pisses me off to feel this fragile.
Because the alternative—never flying again—isn’t an option.
The mental side of things? That’s harder to measure.
Sutton doesn’t give me numbers to track or goals to meet.
Just a quiet room and the expectation that I’ll talk.
Some days, I do. Some days, I sit there, arms crossed, jaw locked, and let the silence do all the talking for me.
But even then, it’s not as unbearable as it used to be.
The anger isn’t as sharp. The guilt doesn’t sink its claws in as deep.
I still carry it, but it doesn’t suffocate me as much.
Work helps. They have me coordinating with the ops team, planning flight schedules, and keeping things running while I’m grounded.
It’s not the same as being in the air, but at least it keeps my head in the game.
It keeps me useful. And when I’m buried in flight logistics—timing, fuel loads, airspace restrictions—I can almost forget how much it eats at me not to be up in the air.
“You talk to Lila lately?” Townsend’s voice is casual. Too casual. Like he’s testing the waters before pushing me in.
I don’t look up. Don’t acknowledge the way he and Dalton have me boxed in at my desk.
Townsend leaning against the edge like he owns the place, Dalton hovering behind him with his arms crossed, quiet but not silent.
I keep my eyes on the flight plans in front of me, pretending to review them even though the numbers blur, even though I haven’t been in a cockpit in weeks.
Even though I miss her. More than I have the right to.
I shake my head. “No.”
Dalton tilts his head, eyebrows up. “Not at all?” His tone isn’t surprised. It’s skeptical. Judging.
I flick a glance at him. “No.” The word snaps out harder than I mean it to, but I don’t take it back.
Dalton exhales, shifts his weight like he’s about to say something but stops himself.
Townsend doesn’t stop himself. “You planning on fixing that?”
I finally look up, meeting his stare. “She’s better off.”
Silence hums in the space between us. Neither of them buys it.
Dalton uncrosses his arms, his voice quieter but steady. “With all due respect, James you don’t get to decide that for her.”
Something twists in my chest, sharp and unrelenting.
Townsend pushes off the desk, taking a step closer, eyes hard but not unkind. “You think keeping your distance is protecting her? It’s not. It’s just you hiding.”
My jaw tightens, every muscle wired tight. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Townsend doesn’t flinch. “I know you, James. And I know Lila. She doesn’t want perfect. She wants you. The rest—the guilt, the what-ifs, the shit you keep carrying—you’re the only one keeping that wall up.”
Dalton backs him up with a quiet, “He’s right.”
I want to tell them to fuck off. To mind their own business. But the truth is, every word they’re saying is a direct hit, and I don’t have the strength to take the shot and not feel it.
“Just drop it,” I grind out, my voice flat, final. I close the folder harder than necessary and shove my chair back, the scrape of metal against tile too loud in the quiet. I stand, walking away before they can say anything else.
I tell myself I’m doing the right thing. That she deserves someone who isn’t drowning in his own shit. That I need to get my head straight before I drag her down with me.
But I know the truth.
I’m not protecting her.
I’m just a coward.