Page 39 of Escorting the Bodyguard
“I was a Ranger. Afghanistan. My unit was tasked with escorting a local informant to a secure location.” My throat tightens around the truth. “I had to choose which route to take. Two options—one looked clear on drone recon, the other had been swept for IEDs the day before but was longer.”
Her expression is guarded but she’s listening.
“I chose the route that looked clear. Wanted to get our guy to safety faster.” My voice gets rougher. “We hit an explosive device halfway through the convoy. I pulled my teammate Mason from the wreckage, but he was bleeding out from shrapnel wounds. I pressed my hands to the worst of it, but I couldn’t stop the bleeding. No matter what I did.”
I have to stop for a moment, the memory of dust and heat and the metallic smell of blood overwhelming me. “He died in my arms. Because I made the call that put us on that road.”
I walked away with third-degree burns across half my torso. I remember the fire more than the pain. The heat, the smell of melting fabric, the way everything went orange and black and wrong. I survived, but I shouldn’t have. That’s what keeps me up at night. Not just that I lost him. That I lived.
I watch her face while I tell her the rest, how Mason had a daughter who would never remember her dad, how I spent months recovering in a military hospital, how I left the service not long after that, and how I’ve carried this guilt for two years. “And when you told me about the baby, all I could think was—what if I make the wrong call again? What if something happens to you because of me?”
Her expression has softened slightly, but her arms are still crossed. “That’s awful, Ford. I’m sorry you went through that.”
She takes a small step closer, and for a moment I think she might reach for me. Instead, she curls her fingers into the hem of her shirt.
“You know that wasn’t your fault, right? What happened to Mason?”
My insides clench at the words. “I’m getting there,” I say quietly. “Slowly.”
I can see her wrestling with something, the way her jaw tightens. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter but firm.
“But trauma doesn’t excuse what you did to me.”
The words sting because they’re true. I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest, but I force myself to meet her eyes. “You’re right.”
Her hands are shaking, and I can see the hurt she’s been carrying for months break through the surface.
“Do you have any idea what it felt like when you walked away? When you left me standing there pregnant and alone?” Her voice gets louder, composure splintering. “I had to go to my first prenatal appointment by myself, Ford. Sit in that waiting room surrounded by couples while the receptionist kept asking if my partner was running late.”
My throat closes up. I want to reach for her, but I don’t have the right.
“I had to quit my job with no savings, no plan, no support system. I had to figure out how to build a life for this baby while wondering if you’d ever even want to meet him. Or her.” She wraps her arms around herself, the gesture protective. “I spent weeks thinking I’d done something wrong, that maybe if I’d been different, better, you would have stayed.”
I catch the tremor in her voice, see her hands clench at her sides. “I let you see who I really was, Ford. I came to bed without makeup, told you about my mother, about learning that love had to be earned.” Her voice breaks on the last words. “And then the second things got hard, you walked away. Like the real me wasn’t worth the effort.”
The words hit me like a sledgehammer. I was so trapped in my own spiral of fear and self-doubt that I never considered—never even thought about what my leaving would mean to her. How it would feel like confirmation of every terrible thing she’d been taught about herself.
“Gemma, no. You didn’t?—”
“I know that now,” she says. “But I didn’t then. Do you know what that does to someone? To be abandoned when they’re at their most vulnerable?”
The weight of what I put her through feels crushing. “What I did to you was unforgivable.”
“Well, did you at least feel better after you walked away?” The question comes out sharp, angry.
“No. I fell apart after I left you,” I say. “Started drinking. Taking every dangerous job I could find.”
She’s watching me carefully now, some of the anger fading into something that might be concern. “Almost fled to Azerbaijan just to get as far away as possible.” I run a hand through my hair, remembering how close I came to signing that contract. “My business partner found me drunk in my office at two in the morning, about to disappear to another continent.”
Her eyebrows lift. She uncrosses her arms but doesn’t move closer.
“He dragged me to this veteran’s support group he attends. Therapy followed from there.”
At the mention of therapy, something releases in her face.
“The more I worked through my trauma, the more I realized what I’d thrown away.” I pause, the words still hard to say. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. How you never flinched when you saw my scars.” My voice gets quieter. “You just accepted them. Accepted me.”
Her shoulders relax, and I see her swallow hard.
