But this morning I had a breakthrough.

I realized that one thing is the root of my issue. I can deal with the fact that Mad Dog died, even though I feel like I should’ve prevented it. I’ve seen other men die before and I had to deal with it.

What tortures me the most is the thing that gives me nightmares.

The girl.

She needed my protection and I failed her. I killed her instead of helping her. Because I couldn’t figure out how to help in the split second that I had to make a decision.

I failed.

That’s the crux of it. I wasn’t trained to fail. But because I failed, people died, and I can’t get past that guilt. The girl symbolizes my failure to me.

Once we make that discovery, Dr. Hart, my therapist, makes me talk about everything I know about her.

Her name was Ara Sahar. The army told me that.

She was ten years old. The army told me that too.

Her uncle was a Taliban rebel who kidnapped her and sent her to destroy my Humvee. Yet another thing the army told us.

She was terrified and needed my help. No one had to tell me that, I saw it in her eyes. And that’s what I can’t forgive myself for. I didn’t see the other girls and women while they were still alive. But I saw Ara Sahar.

“Until you forgive yourself, you aren’t going to move past this,” Dr. Hart tells me solemnly. “I’ve seen this kind of thing a thousand times.”

I stare at him with a heavy, heavy weight on my chest.

“How am I supposed to forgive myself for failing a child?” I ask him painfully. “For failing a hundred children? If you were me, could you? If you would’ve smelled them burning, could you forget that?”

Dr. Hart stares at me thoughtfully.

“If I were you, I would try to think of something, anything, I could do that would give me peace. Sometimes we just have to trick our minds into believing what we tell it. Have you ever considered writing Ara’s parents a letter? Explain what happened, then ask for their forgiveness. I’m sure the army can help us figure out where to send it or tell us if her parents are even still alive.”

Jesus Christ. The idea of even talking to that girl’s parents sends my stomach plummeting into my shoes. I’m sure I’m the last person they want to hear from.

But maybe they do deserve an explanation. An apology.

At the very least.

I gulp.

The therapist pushes a notepad and pen toward me.

“That’s your homework,” he tells me.

I stare at him rigidly before I finally sigh and take the notepad.

That night, as I sit in the darkness of my room, I stare at the blank page for at least an hour before I can think of what to say. Finally, I start scrawling.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Sahar,

You don’t know me, but something I did has changed your lives… and mine.

My name is Lt. Gabriel Vincent and until recently, I was a United States Ranger. I was with the convoy that was involved in the Humvee explosion that killed your daughter.

I’m looking at the words that I just wrote and they are very black-and-white—very matter-of-fact. But in reality, what happened is far from black-and-white. I think about your daughter every day. Every day, I wish I could have stopped what happened, that I could’ve helped her. Every day, I hate myself for not being able to.

I don’t know what to say to you except that I’m very, very sorry. Sorrier than you’ll ever know. I doubt that I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for what happened, so I can hardly ask you for forgiveness. So I won’t. But I do need for you to know that if I could change what happened that night, I would.

I am very sorry for your loss.

My deepest condolences,

Lt. Gabriel Vincent

US Army Rangers, Seventy-Fifth Regiment

I read and reread the letter, then finally decide that there’s nothing else I can say. I fold it up and stick it back in the notepad to give Dr. Hart tomorrow.

And then I think about Maddy. Thinking so much about forgiveness makes me think about her. Out of everyone, she’s the one I should beg forgiveness from the most. I made her trust me, then I just left. It must’ve crushed her, a thought that crushes me.

My fingers fly across the keyboard and I don’t care if I look weak or like a pussy. I just need her to know, to really know, that I’m sorry. Even if she can never forgive me, I want her to know.

Dear Maddy,

I just wrote a letter to the girl’s parents… the Afghan girl. And it made me realize something. I haven’t asked you to forgive me for leaving you the way I did.

I promise you, I only wanted to protect you… from me. I hurt you, Maddy. I could have killed you. But when I left you without an explanation, I know that hurt you too.

You didn’t deserve to have me come into your life and stomp on it. I’m so sorry for that. I’m sorry that I offered you something that I shouldn’t have—because at the time, a life with me just wasn’t possible.

I’m here now at CPT, hoping… praying… that they can pick up all the wrecked pieces and put me back together again.

But it fucking sucks here. I hate it and every day I don’t even know if I can stay. The therapy sort of breaks us back down so that they can build us back up, teaching us the right way to deal with shit. It’s terrible.

I don’t know if I’m strong enough.

I’m sorry for dumping that on you. I miss talking to you.

All I really wanted to say was that I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know. And that even though I don’t deserve it, I hope that you can forgive me for hurting you.

Love,

Gabe

I feel completely wiped as I close the lid of my laptop. It’s like I’ve touched upon every emotion that I’ve ever had today and I decide that I have time for a nap before my last session of the day.

As I drift into sleep I see Ara Sahar’s dark eyes. She’s watching me curiously, but there is no blame on her face right now, which is a break from the usual.

But the nightmares still come.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Madison

As I wait for Tony to come back, I idly scroll through the Internet on my phone, avoiding the urge to check my e-mail. Something, deep down, tells me that I might find an e-mail from Gabe.

And if he keeps e-mailing me, I just don’t know how long I can resist answering him.

I miss him.

I miss him.

God, I miss him.

But I can never open myself like that again. When I do I just get hurt and there’s no way I’m going through this again. Ever. The Band-Aid has been ripped off now, the worst part is over. I just have to stick it out.

But I’m weak.

Not two minutes later, I check my e-mail.

And I was right. There’s a message from Gabe.

My heart beats loudly in my ears as I read each painful word.

Oh my God. Reading that he thinks he’s wrecked almost wrecks me. No matter what he did to me by leaving, I can’t deny that he’s strong and brave… and hearing him like this makes my heart break. Seeing that he wants my forgiveness makes my heart ache.

I hit the Reply button and hesitantly type, You are strong enough. That’s it. No “Dear Gabe” or “Love, Madison.”

My finger hesitates above the Send button, shaking. I don’t know whether to send it. I don’t want him to quit. He needs the help. I honestly want him to be whole again. Even if I can’t be with him, he needs to be whole.

My finger twitches.

And then my phone rings, interrupting me.

Jacey’s number flashes on the screen and I roll my eyes. She’s the last person I want to talk to right now. Seriously. If she wants to be so stupid, I can’t sit around and watch her do it.

But even still. As I glance at the phone, as I look at her name, something in me says to answer it. That I need to answer it.

I pick up the phone hesitantly.

And my ear is instantly filled with Jacey’s screaming.

Gabriel

Screams fill my ears once again, just like they do whenever I remember that fucking night. I stare at the paper in front of me.

So if everything was your fault, how could you have stopped it? Let’s work through this. Write down on that piece of paper every single thing you could have done to prevent Ara Sahar and Mad Dog’s deaths… or the deaths of the girls and women in the village. Because the way I see it, there was never a way to save them. Try and prove me wrong.

The blank whiteness of the paper mocks me, as my pen lingers motionless above it. I listen to the tick of the clock and I stare at my shoes. Finally I scribble out an answer.

I fucking hate this shit. The therapist is just going to tear my answers apart in the morning.

A soft rap on the door interrupts my homework, thankfully. I answer it to find the army nurse.

“Hey, soldier,” she greets me with a grin, as she tosses me a cold soda. “How was your session?”

I practically growl a response as I drop back onto the bed, cracking the soda open and taking a gulp. “I hate this shit.”

Annie perches in the chair, her combat boots shined to a perfect gleam.

“I know,” she answers sympathetically. “You’re going to hate it the whole time. But I’ve gotta tell you. It does help. All the questions they ask actually have a purpose. They get us thinking in ways we didn’t before. I’m still having the nightmares, but they don’t last all night long. I’m still jumpy, but I don’t look over my shoulder as much. We might actually do this, soldier.”

“I’m not a soldier anymore,” I tell her as I scribble another answer onto the work sheet. She rolls her eyes.

“You know as well as I do that you’ll always be a soldier. It’s in your blood.”

And it is.

It feels good to sit and talk with someone who gets that. Brand gets it, but we don’t talk about it. Men just don’t.

Annie glances at me. “Do you ever miss it?”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes now. “What do you think?”

She grins. “I’d miss it like hell. When I first came back, my parents begged me to resign my commission, to come out into civilian life and be ‘normal.’ As if that was going to happen. I’m a soldier. I’ll always be a soldier. I can’t imagine turning in my boots.”

It’s like a sucker punch because I did turn in my boots.

“Everyone has to do what is best for them,” I finally answer. “I had to resign because that was best for me and best for my squad.”

Annie nods understandingly and I know that she does, in fact, understand. She can’t possibly know what it was like to be a Ranger or to resign from the job that I dreamed my entire life of having, but she knows what it’s like to be a soldier to the bone.

That kind of understanding makes it easy to relate to her. And easy for her to relate to me. She glances up at me, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

“I want to thank you again for being here,” she finally says. “Not only so that I can thank you again for what you did for me, but you’ve reminded me of a couple things. Important things.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Such as?”

Annie gets up from her chair and drops down next to me on the bed, something that puts me instantly at unease. What the fuck?