Back to You

by Jessica Scott

  “Because you’re not a perfect man,” she whispered, “but you’re a good man.” She rubbed the material of his uniform over the scar on his heart. “And you’re mine.”

  She slid her arms around his neck and drew him close. He felt deflated, somehow defeated. She simply held him. It was a long moment before he relaxed and let himself be held. His arms slowly came around her waist.

  With a shuddering breath, he exhaled, like he’d been depending on the air in his lungs to keep himself upright. After a long moment, he leaned back. “So I’m going to need some help writing a resumé,” he said with a twisted smile on his lips.

  “You’re not making any major life choices right now.”

  “This is what I want.”

  “I know you do. But I also want you to make this decision when you’re not grieving for a friend.”

  “Nothing will change my mind. I can’t do this anymore. You deserve better.”

  “So do you.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She smiled then, and the sight lit the darkest corners of his soul. “You’re going to argue with me now?”

  His answering smile was sad. “Maybe.”

  “I need you to hear what I’m about to say.” Her fingers stroked over the skin of his cheeks, his forehead. Her eyes filled with relief. “I’ve wanted you home for so long.” She rested her forehead against his, savoring the feel and touch of having her husband close enough to touch. “The war almost broke us. But it didn’t. It didn’t. Now we need to take some time for us. We need to figure out who we are without the war hanging over our heads.”

  “Laura, I’m—”

  “I’m not actually finished.” She pressed her finger over his lips. His eyes were dark with unspoken emotion. “You came home but that’s just a start. We’ve got a long way to go. But we’re going to work on that together.”

  He smiled against her finger. “Can I talk now?”

  She closed her eyes, terrified that he would back out, that he would decide to deploy again. And if he did? She would wait. She knew that now. Because these last few weeks had refilled her well. She was no longer empty, no longer pining after a man who didn’t know how to be home. It would hurt, but if he decided to stay in the army, she could do this. She would do this.

  But there was fear in her voice when she said, “Depends on what you’re going to say.”

  He brushed his nose against hers. “I don’t deserve you.” He crushed her to him then, pushing the air from her lungs with the intensity of his embrace. A moment more and he kissed her, pouring a thousand unsaid things into that kiss, that single moment. Her heart blossomed beneath his touch, opening and expanding and making room to love this man again. Not the man who’d left her and gone to war. This man. The man who had come home, a little bit broken, a little bit different, but still the man she loved.

  It had taken nearly losing him to see that. She closed her eyes and savored this single moment. Needing it. Needing him.

  “I love you.” The words tore from his lips, ragged and harsh against her ear. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come home.”

  The swell of emotion crested and broke and she leaned back, swiping beneath her eyes. “You came back. That’s all that matters.”

  “I’m not the same man I was,” he said gently. “I’ve got a lot of work to do to rewire my normal.”

  She stroked her hands over his cheeks. “You’re right. You are different. But you came back to me. That’s all that matters.”

  He pulled her against him again, wrapping her tight in his arms. “I was always coming back to you. It just took me a while to get here.”

  Epilogue

  “Are you ready for this?” Trent asked, brushing lint from Shane’s lapel.

  “Honestly?” Shane asked roughly. The crisp blue of their uniforms looked sharp in the setting Texas sun. The warm Sunday afternoon was not oppressively hot and the breeze flowed through the sheer curtains Laura and Nicole had finished hanging that morning. “Yes,” he said softly.

  “How’s Jen feeling?” Trent buffed the U.S. insignia on Shane’s collar.

  “She’s not sick yet. So that’s a positive.”

  Carponti adjusted his sleeve. “So what do you want, a boy or a girl?”

  “I just want Jen and the baby to be healthy.” Shane’s voice thickened and he cleared his throat. “I don’t care either way.”

  “I felt the same way,” Trent said.

  “Oh, I think having a girl would be worse,” Carponti said. “I think being sent to the store for tampons at midnight has got to be harder than being sent to the store for a box of condoms.”

  Trent laughed and shook his head. “There’s something wrong with you.”

  “Come on. You’re not going to be embarrassed to go to the store for tampons?”

  “I’ve been married for more than a decade. I’ve bought tampons before.”

  “Really? Regular or super?”

  Trent laughed and pinched the bridge of his nose before he excused himself and headed toward the house. “None of your damn business.”

  Trent took in a deep breath and headed into the small bedroom on the first floor, where Shane had spent much of his time recovering from his battle wounds. This was good. Things felt right.

  He dug through the small bag he’d brought with him, his hand wrapping around the small orange pill bottle. None of the usual anxiety had started squeezing his heart or shortening his temper but he’d been wary of trying to do too much. He stared down at the bottle, trying to decide if he should take the anxiety med or run the gauntlet and see what the day brought.

  A quiet knock on the door made him tighten his grip on the bottle. He was almost tempted to hide it. Laura slipped in, a warm smile on her face. Her gown looked like it was painted on her body, and her caramel-colored hair was piled high on her head, with just a few stray ringlets dusting over her bare shoulders.

  Trent’s mouth went dry as she approached him.

  “You okay?” Her fingers slid over his where he held the bottle, warm and soft and strong.

  He swallowed, looking down at their joined hands. “I was, ah, debating whether or not I should take one. Just in case.”

  Her fingers tightened around his. “Whatever you decide, it’s what’s best for you. It’s a temporary thing. We’ll get you through this.” She brought her other hand up to cover their hands. “Normal takes time. We’ll get you there.”

  Her smile was brilliant, casting light into the lingering dark corners of his soul. “I didn’t think you’d understand.”

  “I don’t,” she said honestly. “But that doesn’t make it any less real to you. I want you home. The rest will take care of itself.” She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. “And I’ll be here to walk through whatever darkness you go through as long as you’ll let me.”

  He pushed his glasses to the top of his head, then lowered his forehead to hers. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She brushed her lips across his. “Now we’ve got a wedding to attend.” She met his gaze. “Are you ready?”

  “Yeah. I think I am.”

  He tucked the pills back into his hygiene bag. They were there if he needed them. For now, that was enough.

  * * *

  Laura stuck her head out of the back door and made a motion with her hands.

  “Okay, here we go,” Shane said roughly from the pergola.

  “Take your seats!” Carponti shouted over the crowd.

  “This isn’t a formation,” Trent said. “You don’t have to pretend you’re the sergeant major.”

  Carponti adjusted the sleeve of his uniform over his prosthetic hand, his voice unusually gruff. “Yes, I do. Sarn’t Major Giles told me to make sure that no one shows their asses today.”

  The intimate crowd settled into their seats, then silence fell over the small gathering. A light breeze wafted through the sheer curtains around the pergola. Another moment passed and the back door opened.

 
Ethan and Emma stepped out onto the porch together. Emma wore a tiny silver dress similar to Laura’s and Nicole’s and carried a tiny basket of flowers. She wasn’t quite able to master the duties of a flower girl because instead of dropping a few petals here and there, she dropped clumps at random intervals. Ethan carried a small pillow and Trent wondered how Laura had managed to get the rings attached securely enough to keep their son from spilling them.

  His son and daughter made their way down the porch steps together, both of them looking far too serious. Trent’s heart swelled in his chest as they approached. His little girl looked at him with big eyes filled with trust and love, and his tiny man was trying hard to look grown up and serious. He pointed his little sister toward the chair she was supposed to sit in and then sat in the one next to it. Trent’s eyes watered.

  Nicole emerged next and Carponti straightened his posture as his wife made her way down the aisle. Nicole looked glamorous as always, but there was something about the way she looked at Carponti that made Trent’s heart settle into place. They joked about sex and nothing ever seemed serious between them but when it mattered, she was there for him.

  Then the world tipped beneath his feet as his wife stepped onto the back porch. He’d already seen her in the silver gown, but the light shimmered off her now, making her glow. Seeing her take that first step off the back porch and down the aisle toward him, he felt like he was watching his bride approach all over again. She was more beautiful now, more whole.

  More precious. Because they almost hadn’t had this day. Or any other days. His mouth went dry and he cleared his throat roughly.

  Laura smiled at him like he was the only man in the world, and a fierce swell of emotion ran through him. He swallowed as she stepped onto the pergola. The sunset glinted over her shoulders, framing her in a silver and golden glow. His blood warmed and he wondered how long it would be before he could steal her away for a moment alone.

  Then everything stopped as Jen stepped onto the back porch.

  Trent felt his throat close as he looked at his best friend’s future wife.

  She wore no veil, just a simple headband sparkling with sparkling stones. Her gown swept over her shoulders with the tiniest capped sleeves and sloped gently over her breasts. There was no trace of her scar, no visible proof that she was anything less than perfect. Because she was.

  Next to him, Shane cleared his throat. Then coughed and did it again. Trent and Carponti leaned over at the same time.

  “Are you crying?” Carponti whispered.

  “Fuck off, both of you,” Shane mumbled beneath his breath. He exhaled with a rush as she stepped onto the pergola. “Hey.”

  “Hi.” She smiled up at him, her eyes glittering brightly.

  “If you go through with this, you’re never getting rid of me,” he said quietly.

  “Chaplain, would you do the honors before he chickens out?” Jen asked.

  Chaplain Hobbes smiled. “Of course.”

  As the ceremony started a strange sound that faintly resembled a sniffle came from behind him, but he did not turn around. He wasn’t sure he could survive seeing Carponti cry. He was pretty sure the world would end if he did.

  He met Laura’s gaze as Shane took Jen’s hands.

  And as his long-time friend married the woman of his dreams, Trent stared at the woman of his. There was still a long journey ahead. Many dark nights. Coming home from war was not a single event. It was a process. A journey.

  Trent was one of the lucky ones. He’d had a family to come back to. A woman he’d almost lost.

  As Shane kissed his wife, Trent swallowed the hard lump of emotion in his own throat. So many friends lost.

  But Shane had made it. So had Carponti.

  They’d come home. They’d come home. Back to the families that had waited for them. Back to the families that made it all worthwhile.

  It was a start.

  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author Jessica Scott is a career army officer; mother of two daughters, three cats, and three dogs; wife to a career NCO; and wrangler of all things stuffed and fluffy. She is a terrible cook and an even worse housekeeper, but she’s a pretty good shot with her assigned weapon, and someone liked some of the stuff she wrote. Somehow, her children are pretty well-adjusted and her husband still loves her, despite burned water and a messy house.

  She’s written for the New York Times’s At War blog, PBS’s POV: Regarding War blog, and Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America. She deployed to Iraq in 2009 as part of Operation Iraqi Freedom/New Dawn and has served as a company commander at Fort Hood, Texas.

  She’s pursuing a PhD in sociology in her spare time, and most recently she’s been featured as one of Esquire magazine’s Americans of the Year for 2012.

  Learn more at:

  JessicaScott.net

  Twitter, @JessicaScott09

  Facebook.com/JessicaScottAuthor

  Turn the page for a preview of the next book in Jessica Scott’s Coming Home series,

  All for You

  Available February 2014

  Prologue

  Camp Taji, Iraq

  2007

  Sergeant First Class Reza Iaconelli had seen better days. He closed his eyes, wishing he was anywhere but curled up on the latrine floor in the middle of some dirty, shitty desert. The cold linoleum caressed his cheek, cooling the sensation of a billion spiders creeping over his skin. He had to get up, to get back to his platoon before someone came looking for him. Running patrols through the middle of Sadr City was so much better than being balled up on the bathroom floor, puking his guts out.

  He’d sacrificed his dignity at the altar of the porcelain god two days ago when they’d arrived in northern Baghdad. It was going to be a tough deployment, that was for damn sure. Dear Lord, he’d give anything for a drink. Anything to stop the madness of detox. Why the fuck was he doing this to himself? Why did he pick up that godforsaken bottle every single time he made it home from this godforsaken war?

  The walls of the latrine echoed as someone pounded on the door. It felt like a mallet on the inside of a kettle drum inside his skull.

  “Sarn’t Ike!”

  Reza groaned and pushed up to his hands and knees. He couldn’t let Foster see him like this. Couldn’t let any of his guys see him like this. “You about ready? The patrol is gearing up to roll.”

  Holy hell. He dry heaved again, breathing deeply until the sensation of ripping his guts out through his throat passed. After a moment, he pushed himself upright and rinsed out his mouth. He’d definitely seen better days.

  He wet his brown-black hair down and tucked the grey army combat t-shirt into his uniform pants. Satisfied that no one would know he’d just been reduced to a quivering ball of misery a few moments before, he headed out to formation, a five-to-seven-hour patrol through the shithole known as Sadr City in his immediate future.

  He was a goddamned sergeant first class and he had troops rolling into combat. They counted on him to do more than show up. They counted on him to lead them. Every single day.

  Maybe by the time he reached thirty days in country, he’d stop heaving his guts up every morning. But sick or not, he was going out on patrol with his boys.

  The best he could hope for was that he wouldn’t puke in the tank.

  Chapter One

  Fort Hood, Texas

  Spring 2009

  “Where the hell is Wisniak?” Reza hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and glared at Foster.

  Sergeant Dean Foster rolled his eyes and spat into the dirt, unfazed by Reza’s glare. Foster had the lean, wiry body of a runner and the weathered lines of an infantryman carved into his face, though at twenty-five he was still a puppy. To Reza, he’d always be that skinny private who’d had his cherry popped on that first run up to Baghdad. “Sarn’t Ike, I already told you. I tried calling him this morning but he’s not answering. His phone is going straight to voicemail.”

  Reza sighed and rocked back on hi
s heels, trying to rein in his temper. They’d managed to be home from the war for more than a year and somehow, soldiers like Wisniak were taking up the bulk of Reza’s time. “Have you checked the R&R Center?”

  “Nope. But I bet you’re right.” Foster pulled out his phone before Reza finished his sentence and started walking a short distance away to make the call.

  “I know I am. He’s been twitchy all week,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Foster. Reza glanced at his watch. The commander was going to have kittens if Reza didn’t have his personnel report turned in soon, because herding cats was all noncommissioned officers were good for in the eyes of Captain James P. Marshall the Third, resident pain in Reza’s ass.

  Foster turned away, holding up a finger as he started arguing with the doc. Reza swore quietly, then again when the company commander started walking toward him from the opposite end of the formation. Reza straightened and saluted.

  It was mostly sincere.

  “Sarn’t Iaconelli, do you have accountability of your troops?”

  “Sir, one hundred and thirty assigned, one hundred and twenty-four present. Three on appointment, one failure to report and one at the R&R center. One in rehab.”

  “When is that shitbird Sloban going to get out of rehab?” Captain Marshall glanced down at his notepad.

  “Sloban isn’t a shitbird.” Reza squared his shoulders, staring hard at his commander, daring Marshall to argue. “Sir.”

  Marshall looked like he wanted to slap Reza but as was normally the way with cowards and blowhards, he simply snapped his mouth shut. “Who’s gone to the funny farm today?”

  The Rest and Resiliency Center was supposed to be a place that helped combat veterans heal from the mental wounds of war. Instead, it had become the new generation’s stress card, a place to go when their sergeant was making them work too hard. Guys like Wisniak, who had never deployed but who for some reason couldn’t manage to wipe their own asses without someone holding their hands abused the system, taking up valuable resources from the warriors who needed it. But to say that out loud would mean agreeing with Captain Marshall, something Reza would be dead before he ever did in public.