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GAGE

I have to tell her.

In the beginning, it didn’t seem necessary. In those first few weeks of visiting Rory at Barks n’ Bliss, we were still getting to know each other. Wearing a prosthetic had nothing to do with it.

Then, as the months went by and we became friends, I just came up with more reasons to keep it secret.

She’ll look at me differently.

She’ll think I’m weak.

What if she pities me?

I couldn’t bear it.

I liked seeing the admiration in Rory’s eyes whenever the topic of the Army came up.

I liked being the strong guy who could lug around fifty-pound bags of dog food and wrestle those enormous dog kennels into submission.

I didn’t want her worrying that it was too much for me—it wasn’t, I carried rucksacks heavier than those bags of food—because she knew about my missing foot.

I think of all those things, my biggest fear was her pity.

So I put it off. I told myself it wasn’t important. That it would be different if we were dating and having sex was on the table. But with things as they were, Rory didn’t need to know.

For six months, I tried my best to convince myself it was the right decision.

For half a year, I repeated the just friends mantra more times than I could count.

But now? It doesn’t feel right.

And what I feel for Rory is so much more than friendship.

All last night, I lay awake, thinking about her. Worrying. Wondering. Wishing.

Before the helo crash, I never would have considered myself a coward. Far from it. I lived by our motto, Night Stalkers Don’t Quit. It didn’t matter the risks, I was ready to face them.

Then I woke up in the hospital in Germany, missing my right ankle and foot, and everything changed.

Medically retired from the Army, I had to return to a civilian life I didn’t want.

I had to learn how to walk again.

I wasn’t the same man I’d been for the first thirty-four years of my life.

No longer confident to the verge of cockiness, I became a weak shadow of my former self.

Four years later, I’m better. Stronger. Except for my missing foot, I’m in as good of shape as ever, thanks to rigorous daily workouts and sparring sessions with my teammates.

But deep down, though I’d never admit it to anyone else, I still feel like damaged goods. That’s why I always wear pants, so no one knows about my injury. And it’s why I haven’t dated since I left the Army.

It’s why I never asked Rory out, even though she’s the most interesting and beautiful woman I’ve ever met.

But.

Yesterday, while we walked through the woods, there was something in the way Rory looked at me; like maybe she wanted more, too.

Am I brave enough to bare myself to her?

Then again, can I really go on like this, not telling her the truth?

If nothing else, Rory deserves to know her protector’s weakness. She needs to know I’ll always have moments of instability, when my prosthetic doesn’t act the way I want it to. Times when I can’t run as quickly as the situation demands.

Like when the gunman was shooting at her. I couldn’t breathe as I ran towards Rory, hoping against hope my steps would remain steady. That I wouldn’t stumble and reach her too late.

I got to her in time. But it haunts me, just the same.

In the shower this morning, I finally decided. I’m going to tell her today.

Decision made, impatient to get it over with, I texted her just past seven AM asking if she wanted to have breakfast together. Not thirty seconds later, her response blinked onto my screen.

That would be great! I’ll cook something this time. How do omelets sound?

They’d sound delicious if my stomach wasn’t lodged somewhere in my esophagus.

As I walk onto the front porch of Rory’s cabin, two steaming coffees from Breakfast Bliss in hand—yes, I know she offered to cook, but I couldn’t show up with nothing—I firmly tell myself to get it together.

There’s no reason to feel nervous about this.

I’ve narrowly dodged missiles while flying through enemy territory. I’ve pulled out teams who were seconds from capture and a torturous death. I pulled myself back from a crippling depression and found a life ten times better than I could have imagined.

It’ll be fine. We’ll have breakfast, then head into the living room to talk. I’ll tell her about the accident. My injury. And regardless of her reaction, I’ll handle it.

Pasting a smile on my face, I shift the coffees into one hand and knock on the door with the other.

In the seconds before she answers, I give myself a mental pep talk.

It’s fine. Maybe she won’t look at me differently. This could be a good thing for us.

I can do this.

Then Rory opens the door, and I immediately realize this is not the time for unburdening myself.

She’s smiling, just as she always does when she sees me, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Her posture is stiff, either from pain or stress, and she’s tugging at her hair in that nervous way I’ve seen her do when she’s feeling uncomfortable.

“Hi, Gage,” she says, her eyes shifting from my face to the two coffees and back again. “You didn’t have to bring over coffee. I could have made some.”

Even her voice is flat. Unhappy, despite her best attempts to hide it.

“I know. But I got you one of those cinnamon creme lattes you like.” After a moment’s debate, I hug her with one arm, breathing in the soft floral scent of her hair before pulling away.

I hand over her coffee while trying to figure out what to do next.

Ask her what’s wrong? Pretend I didn’t notice anything?

Fill the silence with conversation or keep quiet, hoping Rory will tell me what’s bothering her on her own?

“Thanks.” She takes the coffee and lifts it to her nose, taking a deep sniff of the rich aroma. A smile lifts her lips. “As nice as the coffee maker here is, nothing beats a latte from Breakfast Bliss.”

“They do make good ones,” I agree. Even though I much prefer my coffee black or unsweetened with cream, I tried one of the cinnamon creme lattes at Rory’s encouragement, and I was pleasantly surprised by how good it was.

“I didn’t start breakfast yet,” Rory says in an apologetic tone. “I got a little delayed. But if you don’t mind waiting…”

“Of course not.” I turn to lock the front door, then follow her into the living room. “I’m not in a rush. Do you want some help?”

“What about work?” Halfway to the kitchen, she stops. Turns. “With all the time you’ve been spending here, are you falling behind?”

“Not at all. I’m all caught up on my deadlines. And besides, I only work on the flight simulators part time, so I have the flexibility to be available for GMG whenever the team needs me.”

“Oh. Okay.” She takes a sip of coffee, then sighs in pleasure. “I just wanted to make sure. It’s not that I don’t like you here. But I don’t want to be selfish if there’s other work you need to be doing.”

As Rory gazes up at me, obviously upset but trying hard to disguise it, I ache to hold her.

To pull her into my arms, ask her what’s wrong and do whatever it takes to fix it.

To kiss the top of her head, like I slipped up and did at her house the other day.

To reaffirm that her hair is just as soft and silky as I remember.

Do I ask her? Or let it go?

“Are you okay?” I ask before I can second guess myself. “You just look?—”

Rory flinches. “Do I look bad?”

“ No . Not at all. You look beau—” My mouth clamps shut. A beat later, I add, “You just looked a little upset. And I’m wondering if there’s something I can do to help.”

She stares at me for a few seconds, emotion working in her eyes. Her shoulders sag. “It’s just my sister. Whenever we talk, it stresses me out. But it’s not a big deal.”

“If it bothers you, it’s a problem.” Rory almost never mentions her sister, aside from a few basic details—her name is Emily, she lives in Boston with her husband, and Rory only sees her once or twice a year.

At first, I think Rory’s going to brush it off. She even takes a step towards the kitchen, like she’s ready to put her sister in the past and move on to breakfast.

But her foot falters. Then she turns and heads to the couch, flopping onto it with a little sigh. “My sister doesn’t get me. She never has.”

I hurry to her side, taking a seat on the couch next to her. “What do you mean?”

“Well.” Rory sighs again. “You know we aren’t close. At least, I’m sure you’ve figured it out.”

“I got the feeling you weren’t.”

“She’s older than me by five years. So I think the age difference didn’t help.

But she’s always been into different things than me.

Being friends with the right people. Designer clothes.

Always working towards the next promotion.

Even when we were kids, she was busy with cheerleading and parties while I was happier staying home, reading or spending time with our pets. ”

I put my coffee down so I can focus on Rory. This is the first time she’s come close to opening up about her childhood, and I want to give her my full attention.

And possibly be ready to hug her if she needs.

“Anyway, Emily doesn’t approve of my career choice.

She thinks running a dog rescue isn’t a real job.

She thinks I’m wasting my life.” Rory pauses, and her voice lilts up in imitation, “You have a good degree, Rory. Why don’t you use it?

Get an actual job and move to the city instead of living in the middle of nowhere. ”

Irritation flares. “Running the shelter is a real job.”

A ghost of a smile crosses her face. “That’s what I always say. And I like living here.” Pausing, she folds her legs pretzel-style and faces me. “Did I tell you I got my degree in computer science?”

“No.” She told me she met Isla at the University of New Hampshire, but she never mentioned the degree she got there. And now that I’m thinking about it, I feel like an ass for never asking.