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.

We made this girl’s life better.

Maybe I’m not such a worthless fuck after all.

I get to my feet and return her salute.

The room explodes into applause again and the quiet reverence is broken.

The rest of the session passes slowly, but finally it’s time to bring it to a close and everyone straggles out. The army nurse looks as if she’s going to come talk to me, but she’s snagged by another of the soldiers on the way out. That’s just as well. I really only want to go back to my room and go to bed.

I grab a sandwich from the vending machines and return to my room, snarfing down the dry bread and turkey.

I collapse onto the bed and stare at the ceiling for a while until I decide that I’m being pathetic, lying here doing nothing. Instead of letting the walls close in on me, I change into workout shorts. I do push-ups and sit-ups simply to get rid of restless energy. After I’ve done five hundred of each, I’m still restless.

I eye my laptop, trying to fight the urge to boot it up and e-mail Madison.

Fuck it. She might not want to talk to me, but I sure as hell want to talk to her.

Dear Maddy,

I’m sure you don’t want to hear this, but I miss you.

Love,

Gabe

Chapter Twenty-Three

Madison

The walls of this house are closing in on me. I stare around at the pictures and furniture and colors… all things that my mother picked out. All things that aren’t mine. It’s time to change that. I’m not going to lie here feeling sorry for myself anymore.

I curl up on the sofa, pulling the coverlet more tightly around my waist, as I look through furniture catalogues. I need new living room furniture, bedroom furniture, kitchen furniture. Everything.

Shopping is good for keeping my mind off Gabriel. Because thinking about him is pathetic. And I’m not fucking pathetic.

I flip open my laptop and order it all, not feeling even a little guilty about spending the money. The Hill turned a profit this year. I can afford it. And I might as well use it on something to change my life, rather than more shoes.

When the phone rings, my heart leaps, because for just a second I think it might be Gabriel.

It’s stupid, I know. Because even if he calls, I can’t answer. There’s no way I’m putting myself out there again for him to stomp on. Fuck. That.