Cindy Gerard - The Way Home

A sob wrenched out unbidden, and then the floodgates broke.

She sank to the floor, helpless to pull herself together. All the years without him, all the pain of adjusting, and now, less than a month with him, and she’d hit the wall.

She’d thought she could help him.

She’d thought she could heal him.

She’d thought they could begin again.

For him, she needed to begin again.

But it was never going to happen. She couldn’t reach him. She couldn’t have Ty. She couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t catch her breath. Her chest hurt. And still she cried, her tears mixing with her blood and her helplessness and her shame.

She felt his hands grip her shoulders. Felt him lift her, wrap her in his arms, and hold her as she unraveled.

After several long minutes, he walked her into the living room. He sat down with her on the sofa and wrapped them together in a big soft comforter, with Bear anxious and confused at their feet, the soft lights from their new Christmas tree gently twinkling.

And despair crowded around them like darkness crowded in on dusk.

SUNDAY MORNING, JESS WOKE UP on the sofa, the comforter still tucked around her, her head on J.R.’s lap. Bear, curled up in a tight ball, slept soundly at her feet.

Her head hurt. Her eyes and throat burned from crying, and her lip felt as if it had swollen to the size of a basketball.

Then J.R. finally started talking, and none of that mattered anymore.

“During the beatings,” he said hesitantly, “they used to tell me they would find my family and kill them if I didn’t talk.”

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t speak.

“So I told them I didn’t have a family. I told them I didn’t have a wife.”

She sat up slowly and found him looking at her.

“I didn’t remember… until last night. Maybe… maybe that’s why I don’t remember you… maybe I said it so often to protect you my mind made it true.”

She hadn’t thought there were any more tears left inside her. “I am so, so sorry for what they did to you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.” His brows furrowed, and he took her hand. “Was I a good husband, Jess?”

“You were a good man, J.R. You’re still a good man.”

He grunted. “Tell that to your lip. And do not say that you’re OK one more time.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Was I a good husband?” he persisted.

She stretched to cover her discomfort over broaching this subject, then got up and walked to the kitchen to make coffee, put on water for his tea, and figure out what she was going to say.

He was still on the sofa when she came back. And he was still waiting for an answer.

“You were as good as you were capable of being.” She sat down beside him again and gathered the quilt over her, tucking it around her bare feet.

“What does that mean?”

They’d gone past the point of whitewashing and tiptoeing around each other’s feelings last night. When the dam had broken on her tears, so had her ability to cushion the truth. “It means we were kids when we started dating. It means we fell in love and became a couple before we figured out what it was like to be friends. It means,” she went on gently, “that when you enlisted, I suddenly had competition. You loved me, but you loved the Army more. Everything about it. Were you good to me? Yes. But the Army came first. I knew that when I married you. I figured at some point… I don’t know… I guess I figured you’d eventually decide you’d had enough, and then we could be one of those couples who came first in each other’s life.”

“Sounds like I was a jerk.”

“No. Not a jerk. A very principled man with a very big passion and sense of patriotism.”

“At your expense.”

“Nothing’s ever perfect.”

He stared straight ahead for a long moment. “Did you ever think of leaving me?”

“Yes,” she said honestly. “Right before your last deployment. I begged you to promise me it would be your last, that you’d put in for an instructor position here in the States. We fought about it. You left without saying good-bye.” The next word she’d heard was of his death.

He looked sideways at her. “Would you have left? If I’d come back then, would you have left?”

“I honestly don’t know. I loved you. But the deployments, the danger, being alone all the time… it wasn’t easy for me.” She pressed a palm to her forehead. “God, that sounded horrible. All you’ve been through, and I’m complaining because I had it bad.”

She got up suddenly and headed back to the kitchen to check on the coffee. When she returned with her mug and tea for him, she decided to risk asking him a question.

“Is Rabia the woman who helped you?”

He stopped with his tea halfway to his mouth.

“You said her name. Last night. When you woke up from the nightmare.”

He exhaled heavily. “Yes. Rabia and her father. He was the village malik. The liaison between the people and the jurga, the religious and governmental council.”

She hesitated only briefly. “Can I ask how you ended up with them?”

At first, she thought he wasn’t going to respond. But then he started talking. About the mission. The attack. His captivity. His escape. How Rabia had found him.

While he’d been reluctant at first, the longer he talked, the more she could tell he’d needed to get this all off his chest.

He told her about how ill and helpless he’d been, about the opiate addiction, hiding under the floor from the Taliban, and how he constantly worried that he was placing Rabia and her father in danger. How he would have left if he could, but he could barely walk.

He talked through a pot of coffee and several cups of tea and honey and breakfast and continued talking after lunch until he was finally exhausted. For that matter, so was she.

It was all so horrific. So terrifying. That he was alive was a testament to what a strong man he was. And to the bravery of two very special people.

She felt closer to him now than she ever had. He was open and unguarded. It felt like the time to break another barrier they’d both been avoiding.

“Let’s… let’s go to bed,” she said hesitantly. “We could both use a nap.”

He looked at her, and she could see both anxiety and indecision in his eyes. Her heartbeat quickened.

Finally, he rose, took her hand, and led her toward the bedroom.

CLOSE TOGETHER, UNDER the covers, Jeff held this sweet, kind woman who was his wife in his arms. Her heart beat rapidly against his. She was nervous. Hell, so was he.

But he owed her this. She wanted a husband, not a houseguest. So when she turned her face to his, he pushed back thoughts of another woman’s face, another lifetime ago.

It was not unpleasant kissing her, taking care for her poor split lip, taking pains to be gentle and responsive when she tentatively kissed him back.

She turned fully in to him, warm and petite and covered only in her soft flannel gown.