After I successfully ignored the memory card for most of the day, it sat there taunting me when I came back from my rooftop haven where I escaped into the memories there to calm down. And of course curiosity got the best of me, the need to know rooting itself into my thoughts until I couldn’t resist any longer. When I inserted the memory card into the computer, I was shocked when my own image looked back. At first I was pissed that she took pictures of me. It took me a few seconds to realize she snapped them yesterday from across the lobby when I was looking out the window lost in thought.

And the anger and outrage that I’d usually hold on to with my type A personality dissipates when I look at the pictures again. I can’t stay angry. She captured something in my eyes – more than just the expression on my face – that reflects everything I’m feeling inside but thought I was hiding so well: loneliness, anger, bitterness, grief, and temerity. You can’t escape the truth in your own reflection – and everything she’s drawn out through the curve of the lens hits me like an inescapable ton of bricks.

I can’t stop staring at my image, for the first time really comprehending how other people see me, and when I’m finally able to tear my eyes from the lines and shadows of pain and loss written all over my face, I click the next set of pictures. The images depict the daily aspects of life here that we saw on the way to the meet but in a unique perspective. Objects are crisp but people are blurred; yet the images tell a story about each person with such a definitive clarity, I’m overwhelmed. It’s eerie and beautiful and haunting and poignant all at the same time.

Each image is more compelling than the last. Each one holds my interest and engages my imagination. And it scares me that she can see through things so well, because that means she’s probably seeing everything that I’m trying to hide.

I proceed through those images, and when I come to the picture of Omid, I’m staggered once again. Chills chase over my flesh as I stare at his face close up and see the exact same thing in his eyes and expression that she captured in mine. Identical.

We are two men with extremely different backgrounds and experiences in life, and yet it’s unmistakable how similar our stories are. I stare at his picture for quite some time, wondering what atrocities he has seen, what life-changing events he has experienced, and can’t help but feel ten times closer to this man whom I’ve only known from our limited forms of communication.

Clarity comes at me loud and clear: Beaux wasn’t trying to steal my damn story. She was trying to capture a moment in time that relays an entire encyclopedia’s worth of information in a single snap of her shutter.

For hours, I get lost in the images. Over and over I flip through them until I have to take a break, because you can only look at the truth staring you in the face so long before it becomes a sign of your own stupidity. Sighing, I lean back against the headboard and consider how I could possibly make this right. Because as hard as it is to admit, I was wrong. Beaux’s an incredible photographer.

No one will replace Stella, and I need to come to terms with that right now before I waste more time fighting something that’s not even in front of me. While Stella was an incredible photographer, she looked through her lens at the world in a different light than Beaux does. It feels silly to justify it this way, but it’s so true.

Now, I need to figure out how to eat some crow… served right alongside a dash of praise. Problem is the very notion sticks in my throat like a blob of peanut butter. No one likes to admit they misjudged someone.

Especially a man.

For a while I debate my options, but eventually I figure straightforward is the best way to go about this; the least painful of all routes. I suck it up, knowing I’ll need to go find her, but just as I close my laptop, my phone rings. The screen shows a random sequence of numbers that appears to be a satellite phone, which causes excitement to charge through me like a current, and I immediately pick up.

“Thomas here.”

“Tanner, it’s Sergeant Jones,” the rigid voice on the other end of the line says as my hopes rise higher.

“Sarge! Long time, no talk.” A smile spreads on my lips because it’s been too long and oddly I’ve missed his stiff demeanor and dry sense of humor. More important, I miss the favoritism he shows me.

“You chose to come back to this paradise? Shit, why don’t you just enlist if you want to put yourself through the punishment?”

“And steal your glory? Nah, I couldn’t do that to you.” I laugh at our long-running joke.

“Thanks for your humility.” He chuckles. “So, uh, you want to tell me your source’s name?”

And here we go, right back in the continual dance of him asking and me refusing.

“You know I can’t do that, but I did let you know what I’d heard,” I say as a means of an apology. I had to let Sarge know it’s known to locals that his guys are privy to an upcoming meet, because if locals know, then possibly the opposition does too, and that puts Sarge’s guys in danger.

“Thank you.”

“No thank-you needed. A story is a story, but our guys’ safety comes first.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to Stella.”

“Thanks.” The line falls quiet and I hate the silence, so the next step of our dance. “So I have a favor to ask you.”

“Ahhh.” He laughs. “No, you cannot go out on the next mission.”

“C’mon, Sarge. I’m bored to tears here. Help out your favorite journalist.”

His sigh comes through loud and clear, and I know he’s thinking about it. At a time when the military hates the post–Iraqi Freedom world where embedded journalists are allowed, the press are considered both a blessing and a curse. When things go well, our presence is a good thing for the men in office because they have an unbiased commercial to use to rally support for the millions of dollars they are spending to combat terrorism. On the other hand, when things go to hell in a handbasket, there’s a documented blow-by-blow of the botched mission that can either turn public tide against the military objective as a whole or find a single person or unit as a scapegoat to blame the error on.

It’s a fucked-up position to be in: to tell the truth and gain trust, all the while having the pressure from the public and the politicos to skew it to their liking. But I’m also aware I’ve earned a reputation with Sarge for not oversensationalizing situations and being fair to his men and their missions.

And I’ll use this unique status to my advantage every chance I can get. He’s required to have so many embedded reporters with him a month, and he prefers to use me over others. His silence tells me that he hasn’t had anyone ride with him in a while, and that means I’ll get my turn sooner rather than later.

“There’s nothing going on but knock and talks right now,” he says, referring to U.S. military knocking on neighborhood doors and talking to the residents to try and gain information on what the political undercurrent is in that specific area. “My guys are lying low.” I groan because this means I’m going to be stuck in this goddamn hotel. “But, how about you come out, hit the range?”

“Are you throwing me a bone here? Something to get me out in the sunshine for a bit?”

“As long as you don’t start humping my leg, we’re all good.”

I don’t hold back the laugh, excited that I get to leave the confines of the hotel and the overly paranoid eyes of my counterparts. “Deal. But I have a plus one. My new photog. She has clearance and everything, but —”

“She? How come you’re the only one who gets to score female photographers?”

“Because I’m just that good,” I tease.

“Is she hot?”

“Sarge…”

“Ah. So you’re humping her leg, then.” I snort because his comment is pretty funny. “Dude, I’m stuck here in what feels like Hades. Can you at least tell me you’re bringing me someone nice to look at to put in my spank bank? My stash of porn is getting old.”

As much as his comment irritates me when I shouldn’t care, it does, but I get it. I’m in the same boat most of the time when I’m abroad as well. Nothing but the same pool of women to look at.

“Yeah, she’s no hardship on the eyes, that’s for sure,” I answer reluctantly before we firm up where to meet.

Beaux’s shooting the shit with some other people in the lobby when I find her. And how in the hell does she manage to look hot in camouflage cargo pants and a tan tank top? I mean what female can wear masculine colors like that and have the word gorgeous come to mind when you see her? Obviously Beaux Croslyn.

Shut it down, Thomas. Just because you think she takes great photos doesn’t mean you have to like her. Or like anything else about her.

I wait behind her, expecting her to sense that I’m there, and watch her hair ripple down her back as she moves her head. It’s a bad idea, because that affords me the chance to take notice of every line of her body and how those ugly pants hug her as she talks to the group around her. The thoughts that flood my head are going to get me into nothing but trouble, so I decide to intervene.

“Hey, Chatty Cathy? Let’s head out.” I see her stiffen at my words before she slowly turns around to face me, one eyebrow lifted and lips pursed.

“You must have the wrong person. I quit. Remember?”

“Yeah well, Rafe refuses to accept your resignation and I was wrong, so let’s go.” I lift my chin over my shoulder toward the front doors. I figure it’s better to say it and get it over with. Then we can move on.

The problem is, she doesn’t move. Nope, she just crosses her arms over her chest and looks at me like I’m crazy. Even better, she’s got an audience around her to witness the emasculation that comes with admitting I was in the wrong regardless of whether they know about the circumstances.

“I think I’m hearing things because that sounded sort of like an apology, but in no way did I hear the actual words I’m sorry fall from your mouth,” she says, holding her hand to her ear in a childlike manner.

Shit. She’s going to make me work for it. Then again, why would I think she’d just roll over and let it go since we’ve butted heads since day one? Or I guess I should say since the first orgasm.

I shift uncomfortably, but then recall the pictures she took of me and her undeniable talent. I’ve been a prick to her, doubting her skill when she obviously can hold her own. Man up, Tanner.

“I’m sorry,” I offer at the same time I hold her memory card out to her as some kind of lame peace offering. She looks down at my hand and then back up to meet my gaze, her eyes asking me if I looked at the photos.

“You’ve got a good eye.” It’s not much, but I’m not big on compliments and fuck if I’m going to start pulling off my jacket to cover puddles for her just yet.

She stares, hands on her hips, head angled to the side while her eyes measure whether or not I’m sincere. I guess she decides that I am, because her eyes flicker to everyone around her as she gauges what she can ask with an audience. “Where are we going?”

“I thought it was time that I show you the lay of the land.” I nod my head toward the door.

“Okay…” She draws the word out, clearly unsure what I’m telling her. But it looks like she’s on board.

The security at the base can be daunting the first time you experience it, but Beaux handles it like a pro. What she’s not liking is how I’m not telling her why we are here.

As we’re escorted via Humvee through the maze of tilt-ups and plywood barracks, I glance over and watch her take in the enormity of this military city for the first time. She leans toward the window to see better, eyes hidden by sunglasses, and when she finally looks over and meets my assessing gaze, she smiles softly before immediately turning back to take in the nonstop hustle and bustle of the base.

I stare at her a bit longer while her focus is elsewhere, allowing myself to get lost in the lines of her posture and wonder what she’s hiding from, when she steps behind the camera herself. Stella used the device as a shield to protect her from the fucked-up reality of her life before she was adopted. I wonder what it is that Beaux hides from.