Page 50 of The Way Back Home

I place my ingredients on the bench beside him and take the plates from the cabinet above our heads, then I set about fixing us both lunch. “You know, you could come with me? If you wanted?”

The brilliance of my plan unravels thread by thread inside my mind, and I find myself tensing every muscle in my body as I wait for his response. When Sallyann called about Zora, I thought maybe if I could weed out her behavioral problems I could train her up for Dalton because we still haven’t found the perfect candidate for his emotional support dog. After talking with Sallyann, whose no-kill policy is as stalwart as mine, I knew she wasn’t the dog for Dalton, and we’d need some kind of miracle to turn that dog around.

Zora is a Military Working Dog, and by all rights, she should have gone back to the Marines. However, the family of the fallen Marine had agreed to take her because he loved that dog, he gave his life for hers, and they knew what the Marines would do if they sent her back. If a MWD can no longer work, they're fostered out. When they can’t be adopted because of their behavioral problems, they’re put down. From the sounds of things, Zora needs time, anxiety meds, and a whole lot of love. She’s lost her handler. In her mind, there is no fate worse than that. August lost his comrade along with his leg. It doesn’t take a genius to put the two together.

Sallyann is at the end of a very fine tether, but I have a MWD handler at my disposal. It’s as if fate has dropped this opportunity in my lap and I can see how perfect this match would be. August doesn’t want a dog, he doesn’t want any part of my program, but sometimes we don’t choose life—it chooses us. Though it is probably for the best that I don’t mention any of this to him.

August wets his lips. “Sure, why not?”

“Really?” I say too quickly, because it couldn’t be that easy, could it? He raises a brow, and I promptly shut up, handing him the sandwich as a peace offering. He takes it, but not without studying me closely first. It’s evident he knows that I’m up to something, but he doesn’t say anything to the contrary, and as I sit at the small kitchen table across from him, neither do I.

He’s never discussed his IED detection dog with me, but MWDs aren’t ever just dogs in the military, at least not to their handlers. They’re soldiers, they’re Marines, and they save countless lives. I’m hoping Zora has it in her to save just one more, because this dog needs August as much as August needs her.

***

AUGUST TAKES HIS EYESfrom the white line to glare at me. “What?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head and smile at him. We’ve been on the road for an hour now, and I’ve spent the better part of it gawking at him across the cab of his truck.

“You starin’ holes in the side of my face, ain’t nothin’. Out with it, Liv,” he says, and I squeeze my thighs together because I like his new nickname for me a little too much.

“It’s just . . .” I sigh, knowing the next words out of my mouth could either end with him shutting me down or with me actually learning something I can use in regards to August's recovery. “You never talk about your dog.”

He clenches his jaw tightly closed, until that little muscle in his cheek pops. “No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he glares at the road ahead of us, his hands gripping the wheel so tightly the knuckles blanch bone white.

“August,” I say, resting my hand on his forearm. His muscles bunch beneath my fingers, and he follows the line of my hand up my wrist, my arm, my clavicle, and finally, his gaze meets mine. I find it hard to breathe when he looks at me like this, with his eyes afire and his full, beautiful lips curved up in the corners as if they were making promises his body was yet to make good on. Just when I feel my own lips part, and a hot and heady breath rushes out of me, he glances back to the road, flips the visor above his head, and pulls a picture from the elastic strap. The photo is crumpled and worn around the edges. It shows August in full uniform, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make my skin hot and prickly all over, with his broad shoulders and massive frame, and the half smile on his face as he stands proudly holding his rifle. He’s breathtaking. Beside him is a robust Belgian Malinois sitting proudly at his owner's feet, his long tongue lolling out to the side and his eyes squinting against the sunlight. It takes me a beat before I realize August’s gaze is no longer on the road; it’s on me. I wet my lips and glance at him. “He’s beautiful.”

He smiles like even he’s not sure if I’m talking about him or his dog, and then the light leaves his face, and he studies the road again. I turn the picture over and read the inscription.Lance Corporal August Cotton and Havoc.

“Havoc, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “That dog saved my life more times than I could count.”

“He’s magnificent.”

“He was. You know other Marines don’t really get what we do—they give us hell about handling puppies like it’s all fun and games, but I never would have made it out of that desert if it weren’t for that dog. He saved me on nights so brutal and lonely that I thought I could just walk out into the desert and be done with it. I didn’t care if I got captured. I didn’t care if I got shot. I just wanted out of there. Havoc kept me alive, and I woulda taken all the ribbing those boys could dish out willingly if it meant I didn’t have to go through that alone.”

“You don’t have to be alone anymore, August. We could put you in the program and get you paired up with a dog, today. You already have experience with handling—”

“No.” His voice bellows through the truck, and I flinch. August holds his breath and then exhales loudly. “I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Why you always gotta push my buttons?” he bites out. “You push, and you keep pushing until I’m ready to snap.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you ready to snap?”

“I’m this fucking close.” He pinches his thumb and forefinger together.

“Good,” I shout. “Maybe I’ve finally gotten you to feel something after all of this time.”

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