If You Leave: The Beautifully Broken Series: Book 2 (30 page)

My eyes sting as I nod.

“I figured,” I tell him. “But that doesn’t take away the fact that he left without saying a word. He hasn’t returned my texts or calls. It’s a shitty thing to do.”

Brand nods. “I agree. And so does he. I think he can’t trust himself to talk to you. He thinks that if he does, he’ll just come back.”

“And would that be so bad?” Even I hear how thin my voice is.

Brand shakes his head. “I don’t think so. But Gabe is dead set on keeping you safe. He misses you like hell, though.”

My eyes fill up with tears now, so I nod and look away.

“OK,” I finally manage to say. “Thanks for telling me, Brand.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder for a minute and then he’s gone. After a second, Jacey comes back, staring at me in concern.

“Are you OK?” she asks quietly. I nod.

“Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah. I’m glad Gabe is getting help. Want to tell me what happened to him that fucked him up so bad?”

For a minute I’m tempted. But after thinking about it for a minute I shake my head.

“I can’t. That’s his story to tell.”

“I figured you would say that,” Jacey sighs.

“What was Brand annoyed with you about?” I ask. “What aren’t you supposed to tell Gabe?”

Jacey actually looks sheepish. “Um. I lied to Gabe about Jared.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You what?”

“When Gabe first got here, I told him that Jared was still texting me and shit. I lied. He wasn’t. He stopped bothering me after that first night that Gabe got in his face here at the restaurant.”

I stare at her, aghast. “Then why in the world would you lie? The whole point was just to get Jared to leave you alone, right?”

Jacey stares at her hands on the table. “Yeah. I just… I missed my brother, you know? And I thought he’d stay longer if he thought that Jared was still messing with me. Which he did. And then he started dating you, so he stayed anyway. It all worked out.”

I shake my head. “Yeah, except Gabe knocked one of Jared’s teeth out because of your lie.”

Jacey rolls her eyes. “Trust me, he deserved that. He’s an asshole.”

“I know,” I murmur absently. I don’t really care about Jared, to be honest. I don’t care about much at all these days.

I lug the full bin of newly wrapped flatware to the sidewall and then I retreat into my office, closing the door behind me. I seriously don’t want to deal with people right now.

After I work on payroll for a while, I click into my e-mail and what I see there sends my heart into my throat.

Gabriel’s name in my in-box.

I’m barely breathing as I click on the message. I barely breathe as I read the words.

My breath seems caught in my throat as I stare at the page, at the words that Gabe has written. He signed it simply with his name. Not “Love, Gabe.” He doesn’t mention love anywhere, actually.

He also doesn’t mention the fact that he left me without a goodbye, without an explanation… without anything. He doesn’t mention how he wouldn’t pick up his phone or answer a text. Or even just give me a courtesy e-mail. Even a fucking breakup e-mail would’ve been better than nothing.

But even now he doesn’t give me an explanation.

Just a whole lot of “I’m sorry.”

Yeah, well, I’m sorry too.

I’m sorry that I’m in love with someone who doesn’t love me back.

After I’m assigned a room in Walter Reed, I sit staring at the wall.

I want to pick up my phone and call Maddy, but I can’t. She never responded to my e-mail.

She doesn’t want to hear from me, apparently.

As I stare at my phone, I am overwhelmed by frustration, by the idea that I’ve been reduced to this… It pisses me off. And when I look in the mirror that is facing me right now, it pisses me off even more to look at myself.

My anger takes over all of a sudden and I see in a blur of red. My ears roar and I punch the wall next to the mirror as hard as I can. There is a crunch as my knuckles connect with the drywall. That felt surprisingly good.

A nurse comes running and pokes her head in the door, eyeing me, then the blood dripping from my hand. She raises an eyebrow.

“Everything OK, soldier?”

I nod calmly. “Everything’s fine. When’s my first session going to be?”

“Just a minute. I’ll get some gauze for your hand.”

While she’s gone I rinse my hand off in the sink, and I’m toweling it dry when she gets back. She steps into the room with her dark hair wrapped into a bun at the nape of her neck, and spotless nursing scrubs, the perfect picture of efficiency.

She sits next to me and dabs at my knuckles with iodine, then wraps then securely with gauze.

“I’m checking to see if there’s a session available this evening,” she tells me. “I’m not sure how much you know about CPT, but there are twelve sessions. Some like to do one session a week, others like to do one a day, and still others do two a day—one in the morning and one in the evening. I’m guessing you’re a two-a-day type of a guy.”

“I think I’d like to just get it over with, so however I can do it the quickest is fine with me.”

She smiles again. “I’ll let you know if I can get you into the evening session to kick off your week.”

She leaves and I pull out my phone, clicking into my e-mail. I know Maddy hasn’t answered, that she’s not going to answer, but I can’t help but check.

I’m surprised at the heavy weight on my chest when I see that I’m right.

She didn’t answer and my stomach sinks.

I guess some part of me, deep down, thought she might. I don’t know why; I guess I thought that if I did the hard thing and came here to this fucking place, she might forgive me.

But that was fucking dumb. She doesn’t even know I’m here.

There’s no hope left for Maddy and me.

Maddy’s there and I’m here and this place is fucking hell. And that begs the question, if she doesn’t care, then why the fuck am I here going through this at all?

For myself? That’s a weak answer because I don’t really give a flying fuck about myself anymore.

For Brand? He wants me to make it. And I owe it to him. We’ve invested all our money in the business. It would be a dick thing to do to leave him alone to deal with it. But at the moment that feels weak too.

Because at the moment nothing seems to matter.

Everything feels weak.

Especially me.

*     *     *

As I sit sprawled in the folding metal chair in a circle of soldiers with PTSD, I decide that this is definitely the seventh ring of Hell. Everyone is uncomfortable as they sit in the ring, each person trying not to look at anyone else. It’s tense and awkward. I immediately hate it.

The therapist sits in the middle, perched on a high stool, looking through her notes.

“We’ve got two new soldiers with us today,” she finally says, looking up at me. “One of them is here for this evening’s session. Lt. Gabriel Vincent. Welcome to the group. I’m not sure what you’re expecting with CPT, but I’m sure it’s nothing like you think. You are free here to be completely honest, with no fear of embarrassment or shame. Here in the safety of this room, you’re going to realize that whatever it was that you faced in combat wasn’t your fault. With our help, you’re going to come out of this a brand-new man.”

I nod, unsure of exactly what she expects me to do. I also wonder how she’s able to say that nothing that happened in combat was our fault. That’s bullshit. Sometimes it
is
someone’s fault.

She hops off her perch and brings me a clipboard with some papers attached.

“As we do our group session, I want you to work on these work sheets. Then we’ll go over your answers at the end.”

I feel as though everyone is watching me as they begin their regular session and I sift through the papers on my lap. Like they’re trying to figure me out or something. I try to ignore them and get through the dumbass paperwork as quickly as I can.

As I read some of the questions, I just want to roll my eyes. What the fuck?

Please explain the incident that has caused you distress and describe how that incident has made you feel.

What the fuck kind of question is that?

Obviously the incident that has brought me here made me feel like shit or I wouldn’t be here in the first place. So that’s what I write. Fuck it. I’m not going to sugarcoat things. She said to feel comfortable being honest, so that’s what I’m going to do.

I scrawl out answers to all the other stupid questions, only half listening to what the other soldiers are saying. That is, until one voice breaks through my concentration.

A girl.

As she speaks, I realize that she is talking about being held captive by Taliban rebels. Her eyes keep finding me and she stares at me as she speaks. She’s wearing a uniform, so I know she’s still on active duty. Something about her seems vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.

“I was held for nine days in a dirty hovel,” she says, her voice small in this big room. “We were barely fed, we were abused, and I was serially raped for a week by an entire group of Taliban rebels. I wanted to die. I didn’t know if I even wanted to be rescued because I wasn’t sure that I’d be strong enough to survive what had happened. But I wasn’t given the choice. I
was
rescued. The Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment raided the compound and carried all three of us out.”

The Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment.

Me.

I suddenly realize why her eyes are vaguely familiar. I’ve seen them before.

I remember her staring at me in much the same way a couple of years ago, although obviously she looked much different at the time. Her face was filthy and bloody, her fatigues tattered and torn.

I didn’t have much interaction with her that day, to be honest. I certainly wasn’t the one who carried her out, but my squad was there, as was Brand’s.

I remember that day. It was one like many others. It wasn’t my mission to retrieve the prisoners. I was in the front, breaking down the doors and eliminating the captors, while several of my men raided the facilities and carried the prisoners out.

But after we finished the raid and the dust had settled, this girl watched us all from the side, from where the medics were tending her. The other female prisoner was crying, while the male had his head buried in his bloody hands. But not this girl.

This girl kept her head high and just watched all of us as the medics took her vitals, and poked and prodded her.

She stares at me now, her eyes lucid and clear.

“Do you remember me?” she asks quietly. “I was with another nurse and a doctor when we were taken from our Humvee while we were en route to the green zone in Kabul. Your squad is the one that raided the Taliban camp and rescued us.”

Several soldiers in the circle watch me with quiet interest as I curtly nod.

“Yes,” I finally answer. “I remember. I’ve never forgotten how you kept your head held up high while the others cried.”

She smiles grimly.

“It’s how I kept my sanity,” she tells me, her voice painfully thin. “I kept telling myself that no matter what they did to me, they couldn’t take my pride. They couldn’t take my right to be brave or to stare them in the eye as they raped me. They could do their worst, but the only thing I could do was respond with my best. So no matter what they did to me, I looked them in the eye. I didn’t want them to think that they’d broken me.”

I stare at her, at the quiet bravery in the girl’s eyes, shining brightly even now. But something is there, something haunting and sad. Something that makes me ask a blunt question.

“Did they? Did they break you?”

She is quiet. In fact, the entire room is quiet. If someone dropped a pin, I’d be able to hear it. I wonder if the question is inappropriate or rude, but the therapist doesn’t interrupt to say that it is.

Finally the girl nods.

“That’s why I’m here. I went through some therapy right after it happened, but I didn’t want to give in and do the full inpatient therapy thing. It made me feel weak, like if I did it I’d be letting them win. But I finally realized that if I let the PTSD control the rest of my life,
that
would be letting them win. If I keep seeing their faces every night when I go to sleep,
that
would be letting them win. This…” And she pauses, sweeping her arm in a wide circle around the room. “
This
is me winning. This is me kicking their cowardly asses.”

The other soldiers erupt into applause and I am silent for a moment, watching the group. They all seem supportive and there isn’t a judgmental look on anyone’s face. I realize that I’m not clapping, and so I stand up, clapping hard as I stare into the girl’s eyes.

When the applause finally dies down, I sit back down and the girl stands up and crosses the circle. When she gets to me, she stops in front of me.

“I never had a chance to say thank you,” she tells me. “I can’t believe that you’re here… that God has somehow put you in my path so that I can thank you for what you did. You’ll never know how grateful I am to you, and to your men for pulling me out of Hell that day. You saved my life.”

She stands to attention and salutes me.

I can’t even express the emotions that flood through me at this moment.

As a Ranger, I did my job and went back to our camp. I didn’t linger to talk to anyone. Seeing this girl here like this is a reminder that my job had a purpose. And not just any purpose. While a lot of it was ugly and ruthless, we made some lives better.