Page 46 of Mountain Defender

“No. I don’t want to forget it.”

And I know it’s far past time.

So I set Rory to the side of me and start pulling up my pant leg. “It’s never been you. It’s me. I didn’t want you to know…”

“Gage?” A moment later, her confusion turns to understanding as she sees the black carbon fiber emerge from my pants. “Oh?—”

I rap the hard material for emphasis before releasing the fabric to cover it again. “Thisis why I left the Army. Or, rather, I had to leave. Medically retired, they call it. Not fit to serve.”

“Gage.” More tears escape. Her voice wobbles. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, don’t be.” I take her hands between mine. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I could say there was a good reason, but really… I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

“I wouldn’t. How could I?”

How do I explain without sounding pathetic? Like a coward?

Maybe if I start at the beginning?

“I was on an op in Syria. An in and out, rescue a GB team that had gotten trapped. But we were shot down. Out of the ten of us, six didn’t make it. Two of them were my teammates.”

“Gage.” Rory’s fingers convulse around mine.

“I didn’t even know until after. When I woke up in the hospital with my right foot gone. It was hard. Everything I’d known for the last sixteen years was over. And my friends… I felt like I’d failed them.”

“You didn’t.” It’s quick. Fierce.

“I know that now. But back then, I felt guilty. Ashamed.” I stroke my thumb across the back of her hand, focusing on the velvety softness of her skin. “Once I was stable, they sent meback to the States. I spent months doing rehab at Walter Reed, trying to learn how to walk again. It was a blow. Going from this guy who could do anything to one who couldn’t even run.”

“Gage.” She leans against my side. Twines her fingers between mine. “You had nothing to feel ashamed about.”

Rather than respond with an answer she probably wouldn’t like, I continue with my story. “After Walter Reed, I moved back to Vermont. Bought a house in the middle of nowhere. Got a job that didn’t require me to go anywhere. And honestly, I’d probably still be there if not for Enzo and GMG.”

Rory stares at me, her brows pulled into a puzzled V. “I can’t even imagine how hard that must have been. And I’m so sorry. But why didn’t you want me to know?”

I could come up with something to save face. To protect my pride. But if I want any chance of something with Rory—if she could possibly forgive me for my silence—I have to tell her everything.

“Because I liked you from the first day,” I admit. “When I saw you with the dogs, laughing, playing with them… You didn’t care about getting dirty, or one of them licking your face. You were so… genuine. Kind.”

“But—”

“That’s not all. It was the way you smiled at me. The way your face lit up. It was how welcoming you were, even though I could tell you weren’t sure about me yet. And yes, I thought you were beautiful. Beyond that, really. From that first day, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

“You really thought that? That I was beautiful?”

The cautious hope in Rory’s eyes is nearly my undoing. “Yes.” I brush a strand of hair back from her face, letting my fingers trail along her jaw before pulling them away. “I told myself I wasn’t good enough for you. That you’d be disappointed if you knew I wasn’t whole?—”

“Gage!” She shoves my shoulder. “How can you even say that? You’re the best man I know. You’re brave. Smart. Generous. Funny. Nothing—nothing—about you is lacking.”

“I didn’t want you to pity me,” I admit quietly, baring the rest of my heart to her. “The way you looked at me, like I was something special… I didn’t want that to change.”

“It couldn’t.” Rory blinks, bringing fresh tears to her eyes. “Youarespecial. Knowing what you went through, how much courage it must have taken to get through it, only makes me admire you more. It makes melikeyou more. I’m sorry?—”

“But it’s the same,” I interject. “Your scars? Honestly, I don’t even see them. But if I look… They aren’t ugly, Ror. They’re badges that show you survived. This mark”—I trace the one on her forehead—“is beautiful. Because it’s a part of you.” I touch the raised line on her jaw, trailing my finger gently along it. “Just like this one.”

“But I have more scars. Because it was summer. And I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. So I got all cut up on my arms and legs. This guy in college, he said they were…” Her voice trails off. Then in a whisper, she finishes, “He said they were disgusting.”

For the first time in four years, tears burn my eyes. “No, baby. Nothing about you is disgusting. I don’t care how many scars you have. You’re my Rory. Beautiful just as you are.”

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