“Jules,” he said slowly, savoring the way the sweet syllable rolled off his tongue. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“What is it?” she murmured in a sultry rasp that nearly sent him over the edge. As she spoke, she placed a hand on his forearm, stealing the words from his mouth with the simplest touch.
Once he told her the truth, would she still want him?
CHAPTER 18
NATE
Nate set his glass on the coffee table, his fingers shaking with nerves. The fire crackled in the hearth, offering him a comforting warmth as snow continued to fall beyond the bay window.
He felt Juliet’s gaze as she sat in patient silence.It’s not fair to keep her waiting.Gathering his courage in a fortifying breath, he turned to face her. “There’s a reason I volunteer at the shelter. It saved my life once.”
She didn’t speak, but her eyes glinted with compassion, encouraging him to continue.
“Coming home from Iraq was harder than I thought. I—I couldn’t sleep.”
“Nightmares?” she asked gently.
“Sometimes. But mostly, I couldn’t wind down enough to even fall asleep in the first place. I was in a constant state of high alert, no matter how hard I tried to relax.” How could he explain the phenomenon of being so exhausted his bones ached and yet simultaneously wired with adrenaline?
“I’m so sorry, Nate. That sounds awful.”
“I dealt with the insomnia for a while, but eventually, the lack of sleep made it difficult to function.” He’d startedforgetting things and making little mistakes that escalated into some pretty big ones, like leaving the stove on when he left the house. Dizziness and fatigue plagued him daily. Then came the headaches—manageable at first, then full-on skull-crushing migraines. Sometimes, he’d black out.
“When I struggled to hold down a job, I finally saw someone at the VA. They prescribed me sleeping pills.” He hesitated as the memories came flooding back—memories that still hurt to relive.
“Did they help you sleep?”
“Yeah. A little too well.” He closed his eyes, bracing against a surge of remorse. “The pills became an escape, day and night. When I took them, nothing existed anymore. Good, bad, past, present—it didn’t matter. The world went completely blank. I felt”—he winced, ashamed to admit the truth—“free.”
He opened his eyes, forcing himself to meet Juliet’s gaze. He expected to see judgment. Revulsion. Pity. But he only saw tears. Tears of empathy and shared pain.
“I’m so sorry you went through that. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like.”
“I’m not proud of my choices. And I’m not trying to make excuses.” He noticed he’d coiled his fist so tightly in his lap, his knuckles paled. But he couldn’t stop now. She needed to know the whole truth. “It wasn’t a conscious decision. More like a gradual numbing over time. I stopped going to work and paying my bills. Sometimes, I went days without eating. I’d given up.”
He’d shared the story several times before with other vets he’d mentored, but sharing with Juliet felt different. Scarier. As if he had more to lose if her opinion of him changed.
“Just over a year ago, Susan, the director of Forgotten Heroes, found me passed out on a park bench. After she woke me up, she bought me coffee and a hot dog from a street vendor. Then she just sat with me, and we talked for hours. Noone had done that before—asked for my story before making assumptions. I felt seen, actuallyseen, for the first time in years.”
A tear slid down Juliet’s cheek, and she didn’t bother wiping it away. She displayed her tender, caring heart without hesitation. It was rare, and he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
“After Susan listened to my story, she gave me this.” He pulled a small ceramic circle from his pocket. The jagged streak of gold down the center glimmered in the firelight.
“What is it? Is it—” Juliet peered closer at the hand-painted cherry blossoms. “A button?”
“Yeah, good guess.” He cradled the precious token in his palm. “A vintage Japanese satsuma, more specifically. From the eighteenth century.”
“It’s gorgeous. The gold squiggle down the middle is an interesting design.”
“It’s calledkintsugi. It’s the Japanese art of repairing broken objects with gold. The custom has many meanings, but Susan says it reminds her that God not only makes broken things beautiful, He gives them a purpose. And part of that purpose is to share our story, our scars, so others know healing and restoration is possible. That’s why I volunteer at the shelter. To tell others that they’re never too broken. And they’re never forgotten.”
Juliet gently caressed the button, tracing the shimmering stripe of gold. When she finally spoke, her voice fluttered faintly, like a whispered thought still being formed. “The scars we bear are a badge, not a blemish. A testimony to the power of faith, hope—”
“And love,” they said in unison.
Their eyes met, and her fingertip slid from the button to the palm of his hand. Her delicate touch trailed the sensitivecontours of his skin, every callous and crease. His entire body tingled, hyperaware of each scintillating sensation.
