Beautifully Broken: If You Leave Part 45

Epilogue.

One Year Later Arlington, Virginia

Gabriel

The rows of white headstones seem to go on for miles and miles in the quiet cemetery. But only one matters right now.

The one I'm standing in front of.

Marshall Elijah Crane.

Mad Dog.

Brand bends down on one knee, wiping the slight layer of dust from the headstone. Of course it doesn't say Mad Dog. It spells out his full name and his rank in plain block letters. It doesn't say anything else about him.

It doesn't say that he was funny as s.h.i.+t, that he was loyal as h.e.l.l or that he was scared to die, but faced it with honor anyway.

It doesn't say any of that.

"Hey, dude," Brand greets him quietly. "How's it hanging?"

I roll my eyes and Madison jabs him in the ribs.

"What?" he asks innocently. "I'm not gonna change how I talk to him just because he's dead."

I hold my hand out to Maddy and she hands me the box.

"Why didn't you tell me what you did?" she asks softly. "Why did you wait until they gave you this medal?"

"Don't feel bad," Jacey pipes up. "I didn't know either. I can't believe he didn't tell me."

I shake my head. "It wasn't relevant."

Brand chuckles wryly. "It was relevant to me."

I glance at him and suddenly, instead of seeing him standing tall and proud as he is now, I see him b.l.o.o.d.y and unconscious. His leg was blown to bits and I had no idea if there was anything else coming for us. I did the only thing I could do.

I draped him over my back and I carried him.

"Your husband carried me for two miles," Brand tells Maddy, his voice low. "After the Humvee exploded, Taliban rebels stormed in from the perimeter to kill any survivors. He pulled me out of there and carried me to safety, through the hills and the sand and the smoke. They would've killed me if he hadn't."

Maddy raises an eyebrow and leans into me. "And you never found this important to mention until now? I sounded like an idiot when the Pentagon called to invite you to the awards ceremony. A little heads-up would've been nice."

I smile. "I didn't know they were going to do that. Sorry about that."

"Why wouldn't they?" she answers incredulously, as she pushes her hair out of her face. "You're a hero, Gabe. Everyone knows it but you. For months you only focused on what you didn't do that night. What you should've been focusing on was what you did."

I stare at her, meeting her gaze. "I know," I answer.

And finally it's true. I do know. I know that I couldn't have stopped what happened that night. It wasn't my fault. The failure wasn't mine.

It's something that's taken me quite a while, but I'm at peace with it now.

Because the wheels of the government turn slowly, it wasn't until a month ago that we got the call. They wanted to honor Brand and me for that night. Brand with the Purple Heart and me with the Medal of Honor.

A medal for outstanding valor in the face of great peril, above and beyond the call of duty. That's what the president said to me today as he hung the blue ribbon around my neck.

Maddy and Jacey sat in the front row and cried.

And Mad Dog's wife was there next to them. It took her months. But time and a letter from Maddy made her understand that I would've given my life to save Mad Dog's.

And I would've.

But that's not how it happened. So I'm here today to honor his memory in the only way I can.

Kneeling, I drape the blue ribbon around the top of his headstone.

"Don't let this go to your head," I tell him.

Of course he's not here to hear me. But somehow, with the quiet reverence of this place, it seems almost possible that he is. That he's standing behind me with a bottle of Mad Dog in his hand, laughing as I leave my medal with a dead man.

But that's OK.

It belongs here.

I need to leave it behind, along with everything else that happened that night. I don't want to think about it anymore.

"You're sure you want to leave it here?" Maddy asks gently.

I nod. "I don't need a piece of metal to tell me who I am."

She smiles, gorgeous and warm, as her hand flutters down to her stomach, where our baby is just barely beginning to show.

"You feeling OK?" I ask. "It's hot. Do you need some water?"

She laughs. "I'm good, babe. Ask me again in a few months. Right now I'm fine."

Brand wraps one arm around her shoulders and the other around Jacey's. Together the four of us stand for a second, soaking in the quiet, silently paying tribute to all the fallen soldiers around us. I know that Brand is thinking the same thing I am. It could very easily have been us buried here beneath the dirt and the gra.s.s.

But it's not.

"If the baby is a boy, I want to name him Elijah," I finally say to Maddy. "Is that OK?"

Her eyes well up and she nods. "As long as his middle name is Gabriel."

Warmth floods through me. "Deal," I manage to say, lacing my fingers through hers.

"You might not want to talk about it," she tells me gently. "But our son will hear about what a hero you are. Just so you know that."

She lets go of my hand, gripping my arm instead, and I think about the words beneath her fingers.

Death before dishonor.

Mad Dog is dead and there is nothing I can do about that. He died with honor. Along with Ara Sahar and all those other women and children. But I'm still alive. So there's only one thing I can do. Live for them.

Live with honor.

"You ready?" Brand asks, glancing at me.

I nod. "Yeah."

And finally I am.

We walk away together, leaving the past behind us where it belongs.

Acknowledgments.

I spent a lot of time secluded in my office while I wrote this book. So I have to thank my family for putting up with me. For never complaining about eating out so much. And for not making fun of me (too much) when I forget to shower or eat or when time gets away from me. I'm blessed that you're so supportive and I love you so much.

Amy Pierpont, my rock star editor from Forever. Oh my Lord. I don't know what I would've done without you during this book. Thank you for being patient through the four revisions and for not killing me whenever I added new stuff. And thank you for being awesome and for your amazing insight.

To Lt. Col. (Ret) Gerritt Peck and SPC Desiree DeCoteau. Thank you both SO freaking much for answering all my questions about life in the military and Afghanistan. I know you're both busy, so it meant so much that you were willing to take the time to answer everything I asked. You're both heroes.

To my BFF and partner in crime M. Leighton. I have to thank her in each and every book because she practically holds my hand when I write. If I have a problem or a question, if I'm stuck, if I'm neurotic, if I'm unsure... I call M. And she talks me off the ledge or drops whatever she's doing to take a look at the scene and give me her input. She's crazy awesome. And someday, hopefully, we'll live in the same area-next door to each other with adjoining wine cellars.

To my dream agent, Catherine Drayton. You're amazing and I still find myself in shock sometimes when I see your name in my in-box or on my phone. Thank you for taking a chance on this rural farm girl.

To my talented and amazing PR/marketing team... Kelly Simmon from Inkslinger PR and the amazing ladies at Hachette: Jessica, Marissa, Jane and Tanisha. You guys are simply the best.

And to the bloggers and readers who read my work. Each of you is awesome. And I appreciate each of you more than you'll ever know. Thank you so much for all that you do, for reading my books, for your kind notes and e-mails and Facebook posts and tweets. You're the reason I get to do what I do and I will be eternally grateful.

A Note from the Author

As of the writing of this book, around 3,460 Congressional Medals of Honor have been bestowed on US military personnel who have acted with outstanding valor and courage.

The recipients of that honor deserve that recognition.

So do the thousands of military personnel doing their jobs both around this country and around the world.

And so too do the many soldiers who have fought in combat and came home with PTSD, often to a debilitating degree. According to statistics, in 2012 more soldiers lost their lives by suicide (averaging one per day) than on the battlefield. That is staggering.

And heartbreaking.

Soldiers face the things that we don't want to face, things that we don't have to face because they do it for us. Because they face it, because they look fear in the eye, they come home scarred on the inside.

We shouldn't forget that. We shouldn't forget them.

There are scores of websites and groups out there, all designed to help injured soldiers and soldiers with PTSD. If you'd like to support a cause, if you'd like something to believe in, I'd highly recommend looking into one of them to become active in. One that I found during my research is the Wounded Warrior Project (www.woundedwarriorproject.org). You can start there and learn ways to help.

I have a special place in my heart for soldiers, which is one of the reasons this book came to be.

Before I quit my job in the corporate world for my dream job of writing books, I had the enormous privilege of working with a team of former military officers and soldiers. Each of them embodied the traits of the kind of person we should all aspire to be.

Honor, dignity, loyalty, bravery, discipline. These guys showed me firsthand the amazing people that soldiers are.

Also, my own grandpa served in WWII. I remember the stories my grandma would tell of not hearing from him for months (because letters were delayed). Then when she went to the movies one night, there was footage of soldiers boarding a s.h.i.+p bound for overseas and she saw my grandpa. She said, "I knew it was him. No one had a walk like Olen."

Those boys were boarding a s.h.i.+p to go fight against unknown terror, things they'd never seen the likes of before. Yet they did it with honor. They did it with dignity. All of them found out firsthand that fear is a choice. They faced fear so that everyone back home didn't have to. It gives me chills to think about.

My grandpa, who has pa.s.sed away now, embodied every one of the traits I mentioned above. He was quietly dignified, strong and brave. He never talked about what happened to him in the war, because many men of that generation didn't. It was too horrible to speak of.

Things have changed, though, and soldiers are encouraged to talk about the things that scarred them. They are encouraged to deal with their internal demons... demons they acquired in the line of duty.

Demons they acquired when they were protecting us from harm.

This book is my way of honoring each one of them. It's a reminder that they fight for the things that people like me take for granted. Like Maddy said in the story, soldiers fight so that we can rest easily. They guard us against the things that go b.u.mp in the night.

They serve with honor so that we can live free.