The Way Home (37 page)

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.

C
LOSE 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.”

O
NLY
J
ESS 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.

“T
HIS 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.”

W
HILE
J
ESS 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.

“This was from our first tree,” she’d told him, as she lifted a tarnished and scratched silver and blue ball carefully out of a box.

She knew where every decoration had come from and how long she’d had it. It was not one of those designer trees he remembered seeing in fancy department stores. She called it her memory tree, because so many of the decorations were homemade, some from when she was a kid and some, like his Scout craft projects, from pine cones.

She was a very special woman, he thought, as he heard the bell ring downstairs signaling that the customer had left. And Ty Brown was a stand-up man. He still couldn’t get over that Brown had volunteered for his rescue mission. But he did understand why Jess might love him.

Telling her about Rabia had been the right thing to do. The relief they’d both felt after their mutual confessions had actually been the catalyst for a special sort of love between them.

It felt good to have someone like Jess on his side. But he couldn’t hold her life up forever.

He heard her walk up the stairs and turned when she opened the door. “You need to tell him, Jess,” he blurted out. “You need to tell Brown. You need to go to him.”

Her brows drew together. “Where’s this coming from?”

“You love him. It’s that simple.”

She smiled sadly and shook her head. “I think we’ve both figured out that nothing in our lives is simple.” She walked over and sat down on the arm of the sofa. “I hurt him. You can understand that. I can’t expect him to forget that I walked away from him. Look. Don’t worry. If things are supposed to work out with Ty and me, it will. Right now, you’re my priority.”

“I think maybe I might be the fool in this mix.” He limped over and drew her to her feet and into his arms. “Our marriage may be too broken to fix, but I do love you, Jess.”

She hugged him back. “I know. I love you, too. And I’ll always be here for you if you need me.”

They were going to get through this, he thought, actually believing it for the first time. Somehow, they were both going to get through this.

Then Jess’s cell phone rang and turned his world upside down again.

“P
UT US ON
speaker, Jess,” Mike Brown said after saying hello and asking if Jeff was there. “You both need to hear this.”

“What’s wrong?” Jess glanced nervously at J.R.

“Just put us on speaker, sweetie.”

“It’s Mike Brown,” she told J.R., as she switched the phone to speaker mode.

“Jeff,” Mike said by way of greeting. “Look. I’ve got some bad news.”

J.R. frowned at the phone. “How bad?”

“Word just came down that your story’s been leaked.”

J.R. went pale. Jess touched a hand to his shoulder to steady him.

“How much of the story?” she asked, hoping maybe it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

“More than should have been. Apparently, some genius working in Army’s public relations section ferreted it out, decided it was time a branch of the military other than the SEALs got some glory, and he let it all out.”

“How could that even happen?” Jess asked, as J.R. limped to the sofa and sat down heavily.

“How does any secret get leaked?” Mike said in disgust. “Somebody talked who shouldn’t have, and word spread from there. The only thing that seems to have escaped exposure is the black team’s involvement. The after-action report fudged on our connection and substituted Special Forces.”