“Quit flexing,” she whispered. “It only encourages her.” At least the diversion of Jenni’s perusal offered Grace a moment to recover from the news that Rey would be relocating to Seattle. Instead of texting during the week and driving across the mountains on Fridays, she could come home at the end of the day and see him, sleep beside him, wake up curled with him. Jumping into his lap would not win over the older members of her family, although her sister would probably cheer.
Her parents’ delight and Rey’s thoughtful charm carried the dinner while Grace processed the news that Rey would be in Seattle by January, or sooner. By the last cup of tea, she knew one thing. She wanted to see him every day. When they were alone, maybe her next question would surprise him as much as his news had thrilled her.
Bundled in padded coats, they walked to the end of the driveway and her father’s car. Her heart pounded. She’d offered to drive him home and hoped he’d be interested in a detour to look at the river from someplace dark, but first she had to ask. “It’s true? You’re going to the U?”
“Yes.”
She took a deep breath and plunged. “My place is close. The Metro bus goes right to campus. You could—”
He put his finger over her lips, and her heart shuddered in her chest. “Independent.”
He’d told her he loved her a dozen times since the ice rescue and spent an hour and a half being nice to her family, neither of which seemed like a man who wanted to dump her, but that word confused her. “Of course. I didn’t intend—” the noise of her ragged breathing was loud in the country winter, “—to assume that you and I—”
“Don’t mean no.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and first finger. “Don’t want alone.” His fluidity was failing, and she felt to blame. “Want...parents’ respect.”
That was something she understood, so she started to both listen and hear again. In front of the passenger door, insulated from each other’s bodies by their coats, she leaned toward him until her forehead rested on the padded fabric covering his shoulder.
“U-housing. Disabled.” Their breath wrapped them in a steamy world. “Easy start.”
“I understand.” Almost. She looked up at him. “I just thought... “
“My lease.” His mouth came closer.
Her eyes nearly crossed as she stared at his lips. Could they kiss in the driveway, surrounded by white-light reindeer and possibly half of Pateros?
“Month to month,” he said.
“Ohhh.” Until the next quarter started, her parents were definitely going to have to get used to her coming across the mountains on the weekend.
* * *
One week wasn’t long enough to revise all of her misconceptions about her parents, especially a week filled with catch-up at work and obsessively checking weather conditions in the pass for her drive Friday, so the news that her mother and father were throwing a town-wide celebration for Rey at the restaurant was a shock. How much they relished the chance to host everyone in Pateros and Brewster who wanted to shake Rey’s hand was an earthquake.
Standing in the dining room, she studied the familiar restaurant. The red and gold wallpaper had seen better days, but it highlighted the fresh Christmas tree centered in the window and the garlands tied across the booths. An American flag, a Washington state flag and an army flag—where had they unearthed that?—clustered in front of the register. No one would pay for today’s buffet of Chinese food sitting next to tamales and empanadas from Rey’s family.
Her phone chimed with the signal that meant him.
On the way. Have a surprise for you.
What? she texted in reply.
Have to wait until we’re alone.
Best kind!
“Grace, Grace,” her mother called. “You hung the award, didn’t you?”
“Yes, already.” The mayor had proclaimed today an official celebration in honor of Reynaldo Cruz.
The distinctive red hanbok her mother wore for celebrations had a full-length A-shaped skirt in the Korean style and was at risk of catching in the swinging doors as she carried food to the steam table.
“Mom, let me take that.” Grace held out her arms for the tray of fried noodles.
“No, no. You are also guest of honor.”
Then she understood. In her parents’ minds this was also an engagement celebration. By her silence, she’d permitted the status quo to continue since the news had originally announced the engagement. Whatever people thought in Pateros hadn’t affected her in Seattle, and now that Rey was home and had satisfied her father’s career interrogation, they must assume wedding plans would move forward. If her offer of living together had made him need independence, her parents’ expectations might make him freeze. Or disappear.
Her stomach churned while she rolled napkins around silverware, greeted people she’d known since childhood and waited for Rey to arrive. He entered the restaurant after his mother, sister, brother-in-law and nieces, wearing a sport coat that molded to his shoulders and upper arms. This afternoon he’d opted for his C-legs and khaki cargo shorts, which in theory should look unusual in December paired with a blazer, but the transformer legs were so striking that the shorts were perfect. They were Rey.
Watching him across the tables was all she managed to do for the first hour while people jostled to reach him. Eventually she recognized the hyper-focused squint that meant his words had faded.
“Excuse me.” She extricated herself from a parent of one of her sister’s students, someone who had been behind her in school who she ought to remember better, but right now she wanted to rescue Rey.
She slipped her hand around his arm, and he squeezed it to his side until her fingers were sandwiched between his elbow and his ribs as naturally as if they really were engaged.
“Can you excuse us for a minute?” She smiled at Mrs. Sandoval, the mayor, postmistress, municipal judge and hardware store owner in Pateros. “I need Rey in the back for a surprise.”
His eyes met hers and she saw, as if she’d been born able to read his expressions, relief, the beginnings of anxiety and a hunger to breathe air that wasn’t filled with pine and people and garlic bean stir-fry.
They managed to sidestep greetings and slip through the doors into the tight kitchen. Here there was only the scent of cooking oil. Past the range and stainless steel sink, she opened the broom closet. The hiding spot was tight but well-organized, with supplies hung on walls or arranged on shelves. Nothing would trip him. “In here.”
He reached over her head to the string of the ceiling bulb, plunging them into darkness.
“Better.” That was all he said before his head lowered.
After her week in Seattle, the warm welcome of his kiss promised that they wouldn’t lose the closeness they’d found on the road home.
“Tiny hands.” He brought her palm to his face, pressed his lips to each finger, and the dark focused her senses on his touch and the spice of his skin. That was how she knew he was doing something to her finger, but at first she didn’t understand what.
Her stomach understood first, because it lurched like a rollercoaster. Her heart figured it out next, because it thumpity-thumped to a sprint, and that must have pushed enough oxygen to her head that her brain comprehended: he’d put metal on her third left finger.
“What is...” she didn’t know how to finish her question. It was a ring. But she didn’t know if he was making their engagement real.
“Shrapnel.”
“What?” She knew shrapnel meant the metal debris from a bomb but didn’t understand what that had to do with a ring.
“Lost legs.” He cradled her face in his hands. “Found you.” He pulled her close, fitting her head under his chin and encircling her with his arms.
The breath she’d been holding escaped in a whoosh as understanding dro
ve a fist into her stomach. The ring. Was his shrapnel. From his wound.
“Damn good deal.” His declaration was clear and urgent.
He couldn’t think that.
“Tears.” It was pitch black and he didn’t have fancy army gear, but somehow he knew she was crying. He bent to kiss her cheeks. “Why?”
“I’m not worth your legs. Or your speech. You lost so much.”
“Still me.” He cupped the hand with his ring, kissed her palm and then slid it over his chest. “Still me here.” Then he moved her hand lower, and she brushed his hardness. “Same me.” She heard the smile, but this wasn’t a joke.
“There’s more to you than that.”
“I know. Now.”
“Any woman would be happy to be with you. Don’t think because of this party that you have to—”
“I want you.” His voice rang with strength. “Grace Kim. Marry me?”
She wasn’t an idiot to argue more. “Yes. Yes.” She clutched his shoulders and kissed him, missed his mouth in the dark, aimed again. Both of them were laughing, but she was also trying not to cry on his nice jacket.
The door behind Grace rattled, and her sister said her name. “Okay, this passed cute and entered embarrassing ten minutes ago. Get back out here.”
“We’re coming.”
Rey pulled the light string so they could arrange themselves, and she looked at the dull gleam of the band on her finger.
“Like it?”
She curled her hands over her heart. “I love it.”
In the dining room, her father formally welcomed the crowd, Rey’s sister thanked people in both Spanish and English, then the mayor read the proclamation of Staff Sergeant Reynaldo Cruz Day. Children were restless by the time her father offered her the microphone.
“Hi everyone. Buenas dias. Rey wanted me to say a few words on his behalf. He has a brain injury that limits his speech, but he understands everything. More than I do half the time.” She checked her notes while the audience dutifully laughed. “First, thank you for the gifts you sent to Walter Reed.” She looked at the crowd. “I personally hung the Billiegoats and Nannies banner in his room, and if you look at the lower left—” she pointed to its place on the wall, “—you’ll see the president’s autograph with all of yours.”
Now for the rest. “Rey wanted to add that he shared the cases of fruit with other vets in his building, and they were never without a free snack after therapy because of your generosity. Lots of them practiced using knives—” she stopped to swallow and look at the ceiling. The room silently waited for her to continue. “I really should have prepared for this.” She blinked until she thought she could go on. “His friends relearned how to use their hands or prosthetics by cutting the apples you sent. So thank you.
“That was Rey’s message. He’d like to talk with you one-on-one, which is easier for him. Feel free to drop by his mom’s or stop him in town. He’s glad to be home.”
She had one more thing to say. She’d thought about it in Seattle, awake in her empty bed, and she’d decided that although the explanation of their engagement should stay a private memory between them and only them, a public statement was important. Rey should know she chose him. She put the notes in her pocket and grabbed his hand. “I have something of my own to add. At Walter Reed, I found the bravest man in the world. He turned what I thought I knew upside down, and he spent seven months teaching me, even while he learned how to walk and talk again.”
Rey’s eyes shimmered, and she realized she wasn’t crying alone.
“I’m a smarter girl than I used to be. And that’s because I fell in love with you. The you I know from your texts, where you write so eloquently, and the you I know who struggles to say four words. I’m proud to share the same boat with you.”
Then she was in his arms, and their families were hugging them both, and claps and cheers deafened her in the small restaurant, but she swore she heard I love you too.
“Best four syllables ever,” she whispered back.
* * * * *
A Message from Sergeant Bryan Anderson,
Author of No Turning Back:
One Man’s Inspiring True Story
of Courage, Determination, and Hope
October 23, 2005. That was the day I was blown up in Iraq. Back in the United States, I thought I had a pretty decent attitude. It boiled down to So I’m a triple amputee...now what? I told myself, I can’t change what happened. I’ll take it a day at a time. See how this plays out.
That worked for about four months.
One day in the shower, washing what was left of my body, I looked closer at my limbs and scars. That’s when I started thinking, Shit, I’m half a person. It started repeating in my head...I’m half a person, I’m half a person. Then I started wondering, who could love half a person? Who goes out and thinks, I want a man in a chair with a disability? I’ll admit that like most single guys in their early twenties, I had a pretty simple view of relationships. I thought women wanted a strong man, someone who could protect them and take care of them. How could I do that? Would I be alone for the rest of my life? I love my mother, but would she be the only woman ever in my life?
Thoughts like that set me off the deep end. For a while I was a wreck.
My path out of depression started in an unusual place. Las Vegas. My mother saw that what I really needed at that point in my therapy was to experience real life again, so we went to Vegas and had a blast. I realized that if I had fun, I didn’t think or care about what had happened to me in Iraq the same way. So I started having fun. That helped me figure out what I could and couldn’t do in my new situation. If I hadn’t decided to have fun, I wouldn’t have figured out how two guys with no legs between them could drive a rental car, but I was a former gymnast and pretty much figured out how to do everything I needed to.
The main thing I learned wasn’t how to snowboard without legs or do buttons with one hand. It was how to live. As a result, the more I accomplished for myself, the more confident I became.
And then something pretty unexpected happened. I started to get noticed by women!
Since that day in Iraq, I’ve learned that most women care more about how you make them feel or if you make them laugh than if you have legs. Attraction doesn’t have to come from looks. Confidence is the single most attractive feature in a person.
In the end, losing my legs and one hand became just another life experience that has taught me a lot about who I am and what I’m capable of. I am definitely capable of love. The right person is out there for all of us. Don’t be afraid or shy of who you are. Embrace it. Others will too. That’s not just for stories like this one. It’s true for real life too.
LIVE, LOVE, THRIVE
BRYAN ANDERSON
AndersonActive.com
Author’s Notes and Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading His Road Home. Rey Cruz appeared in First to Burn as one of the hero’s teammates in Special Forces Operational Detachment Alpha 5131, 5th Special Forces Group. Right away he wanted his own story. Now he’s asking for a chance to talk about adjusting to life as an older student and the next stage of his relationship with Grace, so look for a sequel in the future.
At AnnaRichland.com readers can sign up for my newsletter to receive advance notice of new books. I also maintain a list for Grace’s real hold-in-your-hand holiday postcards, which are guaranteed to be fishy.
Most authors appreciate honest reviews, and I’m no exception. If you take the time to write a review, please let me know at Goodreads, Facebook or my website. Thank you!
Every story I write has a soundtrack. This story began when I heard Brandi Carlile’s song “Hard Way Home.” I was in the audience for her November 2012 show at Seattle’s Benaroya Hall. As soon as her voice rolled
out and took over the soaring space with “Hard Way Home,” the title track from her album Bear Creek, Rey’s story filled me. Rey Cruz was a minor character in my first novel, but that Benaroya night was magic. Every line of the song told me part of his story. Before I left the show, I knew Rey had joined the army to “leave this town”—a tiny farm community in Eastern Washington. He was going to “step out of line,” and in the army in Afghanistan that meant he was going to step on an explosive. In a series of nightmares during his recovery, he was going to pass from thinking “if I could turn back time” to realizing that he would rescue that Afghan child again, even knowing the cost.
The line “When we’re driving home, I never have to worry about being alone” was the key to the romance between Rey and Grace. I knew that his road home would be both a literal road trip and a journey to find love and recover from his injuries. After he loses his career as a Special Forces medic, he’s back at “I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up,” once again a Mexican-American kid in apple country who has to decide what to do with the rest of his life. I am incredibly grateful to be allowed to quote Brandi Carlile’s lyrics in my book and here in the explanation of how her amazing song spoke to me. I encourage readers to explore all her music, her website at BrandiCarlile.com and her Facebook page. “Hard Way Home” is the first track on the 2012 album Bear Creek, published by Columbia Records, a division of Sony Music Entertainment. Writers: Brandi Carlile, Timothy Hanseroth and Phillip Hanseroth. Copyright Southern Oracle Music LLC, WB Music Corp.
I also want to acknowledge and thank Sergeant Bryan Anderson, whose memoir No Turning Back was instrumental to my research. His descriptions of life as a multiple amputee reminded me that it’s okay to laugh and be funny, even in stories that start with losses like his or Rey’s, because life is full and thrilling. I encourage readers who want to understand more about America’s injured veterans to find his book or visit his website, AndersonActive.com.
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