Placing his hands on either side of her face, he rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. "I've got something to tell you."
Addison pulled back slightly and gazed steadily at him, her expression perplexed and very serious. "Okay. I'm a good listener."
Randall had known this moment would come. He should have been prepared, but he wasn't. He told himself it didn't matter what she thought of him—he would be gone in a few weeks. But he knew better. Her opinion of him mattered. Mattered a hell of a lot more than he wanted it to.
"Sit down," he said.
Watching him, she sank to a sitting position and leaned against the front of the sofa. Randall sat down beside her and draped his arm around her shoulders. He hadn't realized how difficult this was going to be. The old pain was like a rock in his chest.
"Jack told you I worked for the National Transportation Safety Board, didn't he?"
She nodded.
"For the last twelve years, I've been a crash site investigator. I worked my way through the ranks. I was good at it. Damn good." He hesitated, uncertain, hating what he was about to say next, hating that the words made him feel so damn vulnerable. "Five months ago I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder."
She gazed at him, unfazed. "I know of the disorder. One of my regulars at the shop was in Afghanistan. He's the vice president of an architecture firm two blocks over."
"It's a common affliction for soldiers who've seen action."
"I can't imagine the horror of a plane crash.”
"I always thought I was immune." He let out a self-deprecating laugh. ''That's why I was so good at what I did. I didn't get shaken up like most people. I didn't puke on my shoes, or have nightmares. I was too damn arrogant to even consider the possibility that I wasn't strong enough to handle the job."
"The disorder doesn't have anything to do with strength."
"Maybe. Maybe you're right. I don't know." He paused, grimaced. "For five years I denied the symptoms. I refused to see them, even though deep down inside I knew something was wrong. I told myself I was just burned out. Tired. I took some time off. Came here, to the mountains, and went camping with Jack. I started drinking. But it didn't help. Then last year, I got assigned the Allegiance Air crash in Minneapolis."
"My god. I remember it," she said. "Over two hundred—"
''Two hundred and fourteen men, women, and children." He gazed into the fire, remembering. God, how he hated remembering. It never ceased to amaze him how his mind could conjure up smells and sights and sounds and terrify him all over again.
"My team and I worked the first twenty-four hours around the clock. Not unusual for a crash like that, but I was tired. It was cold as hell. Rain coming down in sheets. I was hung over. I just stood there looking at what was left of that jet, of people's lives. Bodies. Toys. Jesus Christ." He broke off, felt the cold sweat on his neck, his heart racing in his chest.
Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to continue. "After thirty-six hours, I fucking lost it. I broke down in front of my team. I sank down in the mud and cried like a goddamn baby."
"Oh, Randall—"
“That was the beginning of the end. After that, I merely went through the motions. I drank every day. I lost my integrity. My self-respect. My team lost respect for me. Eventually, I got reported." Humiliation burned like lava in his gut. "I got written up a dozen times before my superior did something about it.
"But I couldn't let go of that crash." Revulsion and nausea rushed over him as he remembered. "I started having flashbacks. I stopped sleeping to avoid the nightmares. I started hitting the bottle to forget. But the booze only led to blackouts. The blackouts led to lost days. I knew I was in trouble, but by then I didn't give a damn."
Raking an unsteady hand through his hair he faced her, looking for signs of pity, of disgust. To his surprise, he saw only compassion—and respect. The realization shook him so thoroughly that for a moment he didn't trust his voice to speak.
"When I stopped being effective in the field, my superiors sent me to the company shrink. Six weeks later, I was diagnosed and put on mandatory leave."
It had been the lack of control that bothered him most. Control over his career. Over the will of his own mind. It was that same lack of control that had eaten away at him every time he picked up a bottle and broke the seal.
"You came to Denver," she said.
"Jack and I grew up here."
"Has time away from the job helped?"
"I honestly don't know. The flashbacks have ceased. But I still have an occasional nightmare."
"It's not wrong or weak for someone to break under those kinds of conditions. There should be no shame in what happened to you."
"I'm probably an alcoholic." He watched her carefully as he spoke, trying to gauge her reaction, and keep his own in check. "I don't know."
"You didn't open that bottle of cognac today."
"I wanted to. Goddammit, I wanted to open that bottle so badly I could taste it."
"But you didn't. That's what's important."