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
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.
She touched his face and deepened the kiss. He touched her hip and drew her closer.
And he couldn’t.
He couldn’t do this. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“I’m sorry.” He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
Beside him, she lay achingly still. He’d disappointed her. He’d humiliated her.
“It’s not you, Jess. You’re…”
“Still a stranger. It’s OK.” She sounded childlike and fragile and, though it might have been wishful thinking on his part, a little relieved. “Just sleep, OK? We both need to sleep.”
ONLY JESS DIDN’T sleep. She lay beside her husband in the quiet afternoon light, afraid that she could never do this. She’d tried. She’d even initiated. But it hadn’t felt right. It had felt like a lie. How could she ever be a wife to him again? Not the kind of wife he needed her to be. Even if they finally breached this barrier and made love, it would be a lie.
The tears came again. Soft and silent.
She cried for all he’d lost. For all she’d lost.
She cried for Ty and let the ache of missing him finally take over.
She turned away, had to get out of the bed, but J.R. stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and pulled her against him again, then held her while she wept.
“THIS ISN’T GOING to work, is it?” Jess asked two weeks later, after several more dismal attempts to be intimate.
They were in bed again; he’d reached for her again. Nothing happened. Again.
They’d both tried, but every time, it ended up with one or both of them in tears—him consoling her or her consoling him or both of them consoling each other.
Yet, inexplicably, in the midst of all their pain and confusion, they formed a bond that they’d never shared when they’d been married. Through the trial, through the despair, they recognized and respected each other as survivors. Battered, bruised, and confused, they comforted each other, cried for each other, even laughed at the unrelenting irony of fate getting them this far and then putting on the skids.
They’d found trust. They’d found confidantes. They’d become friends.
And they could now be brutally honest with each other.
That’s why she’d finally put it out there on the table. It wasn’t going to work. She thought she knew the main reason.
They’d talked a lot. Late into the night. Early in the morning. He, in particular, talked a lot about the Afghan woman and what life had been like there. His eyes softened when he spoke of her. His voice became melancholy and sad. And it had finally occurred to her.
“What aren’t you telling me, J.R.?” They sat side-by-side in bed, pillows propped behind their heads, Bear snoring softly at their feet.
“What do you mean?”
“Rabia,” she said gently. “Was she more to you? More than a woman who saved your life?”
He looked down, clenched his jaw.
“Talk to me. Whatever it is, it’s OK. I know you don’t want to hurt me. But I know your heart isn’t here. Amnesia or not. Memories or not. Your heart is never going to be here again, is it? It’s back there. With her.”
He finally looked at her. Tears filled his eyes, and she put her arms around him. “Tell me about her.”
So he did, finally admitting that he’d fallen in love with her. “But it doesn’t matter,” he said dismally. “She won’t leave Afghanistan, and I can’t go back there.”
Jess’s heart went out to him as it never had before. Because she understood. “Come on.” She urged him out of the bed. “I’ll make some hot chocolate. I’ve got something to tell you, too.”
WHILE JESS WAS downstairs handling a customer in the store, J.R. stood in front of the Christmas tree, absently thinking about what she’d told him about her and Ty Brown and looking at the motley collection of ornaments she’d hung along with old-fashioned tinsel and popcorn garland.
