Chapter 11
“I… um… should get going too,” Bert said, but he didn’t move toward his SUV. “Unless you need help with anything else?”
“Actually,” Mary said, the words coming out before she could second-guess them, “I could use help with my boxes of books.”
“I won’t turn down helping you put your favorites in their new home,” he said, grinning.
They moved into the living room, where a box labeled “books” sat waiting to be put on the shelves. He worked, placing the books where she directed. When he uncovered the eight volumes of Anne of Green Gables, he turned to look at her. “You must love these. They look well worn.”
“Not well worn, but well loved!” she protested.
“Tell me why,” he encouraged. “I never found any book that seemed to have touched me like these obviously did for you.”
Mary took one of the volumes from his hands—Anne of Green Gables, the first book. Its cover was faded and the spine creased from countless readings. She held it like something precious, her fingers tracing the familiar outline of the title.
“I first read these when I was eight,” she murmured.
“My grandmother gave me the set for my birthday, and I fell completely in love with Anne Shirley. This red-haired orphan girl who refused to let circumstances define her, who saw beauty and possibility everywhere, who turned her struggles into stories and her loneliness into imagination.”
She opened the book, the pages falling naturally to a well-loved passage.
“But it wasn’t until after the accident that I truly understood why these books mattered so much to me.
Anne faces rejection and hardship. She’s an orphan, and she’s poor, but she doesn’t fit the mold of what people expect.
But she never lets any of that diminish who she is.
She creates her own joy, finds her own family, and builds a life that matters through sheer force of will and optimism and refusal to give up. ”
Mary’s voice grew stronger, more passionate.
“When I was in the hospital, when I was learning to use the wheelchair, when I was facing the reality that my life would never be what I’d planned, I reread these books.
And Anne reminded me that limitations don’t define you.
That you can face hard things and come out on the other side, still believing in beauty and possibility.
That having to adapt doesn’t mean having less. It just means having different.”
She looked up at Bert, her eyes bright with emotion.
“Anne loses her adoptive father Matthew, faces financial struggles, and gives up her dreams of college to take care of Marilla. But she doesn’t become bitter.
She finds new dreams, new ways to make a difference.
She teaches school, writes stories, builds deep friendships, and eventually finds love with Gilbert after years of stubbornly refusing to see what was right in front of her. ”
Mary hesitated, wondering why she’d let her mouth run away with her passion about the last part. She hoped Bert didn’t feel awkward with her revelation about love with him right in front of her.
Bert's expression softened, and he sat down on the couch beside her wheelchair. “So Anne taught you how to rebuild.”
Releasing a breath, she was relieved that he was still focused on the character she found so inspiring.
“She taught me that rebuilding was possible. That you could face devastating loss and still choose joy. That you could adapt to circumstances you never wanted and still create something beautiful. That being different from what you’d planned didn’t mean being less than what you’d hoped.
” She held the book close to her chest. “And she taught me that kindred spirits—people who truly see you—are worth waiting for, even when you’re scared to let them in. ”
“Kindred spirits,” Bert repeated, testing the phrase. “Is that what we are?”
Mary met his gaze directly, her heart pounding but her voice steady. “Yes, I think we might be.”
Bert reached out and gently took the book from her hands, setting it carefully on the coffee table before taking both her hands in his.
“Then I’m grateful to the author who created a character that taught you not to give up.
Because if you had, I never would have met you.
And meeting you, Mary? That’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a very long time. ”
She felt tears prick her eyes, but she was smiling.
He picked up several other leather-bound books, but she quickly realized he had her journals in his hands. He looked at the covers, then lifted his gaze to her. “I think these are personal?”
Letting out a shaky breath, she nodded. “I had a counselor while in rehab. It helped ground me when my emotions were flying all over the place.” She looked down at her legs for a moment.
“It was hard… life-changing. And while I was glad to be alive and knew I was luckier than many people, I still had to wrap my mind and emotions around what my new life would look like. She encouraged me to journal. I did, and it helped. I still do it, although not as often.”
He nodded and placed the journals reverently onto the same shelf as the Green Gables books. Finishing the last box of books, he smiled. “This is a good place for you. The house, I mean. It suits you.”
“It feels right,” Mary agreed. “I can finally breathe here, you know? It’s mine in a way the apartment never was.”
Bert leaned back in the chair, his arms crossed over his chest, and looked at her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “What you said earlier, about the accident. I want you to know that I think you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”
She felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I just did what I had to do.”
“No,” he said firmly. “You did more than that. You could have given up, could have let the injury define you and limit what you tried to do. Instead, you fought your way back and built a new life. That takes incredible strength. And I want you to know that I see it. I see you.”
She nodded, touched by his words but also curious about something she’d noticed. “Can you tell me about your hearing loss? Because the way I see it, you’re also a strong hero.”
Bert’s hand went unconsciously to his left ear, where Mary had noticed the small, flesh-colored hearing aid he wore.
For a moment, she thought he might deflect and change the subject the way he sometimes did when conversations got too personal.
But then his shoulders relaxed slightly, and he met her gaze directly.
“We were in Mogadishu,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact in the way of someone who’d told the story enough times that the emotion had been smoothed away.
“I was a SEAL. We’d just taken care of a high-value target, and made it back to our ready area when the insurgents hit us with a coordinated attack.
One of the explosives went off too close…
maybe fifteen feet from where I was positioned.
The blast wave...” He paused, his jaw tightening.
“It ruptured my left eardrum and damaged the cochlea. Partial but permanent hearing loss.”
Mary felt her chest tighten with sympathy. “That must have been devastating.”
“It was the end of my SEAL career,” Bert admitted, and she could hear the old grief beneath the calm exterior.
“Everything I’d worked for, everything I’d trained to be was gone in an instant.
I couldn’t meet the physical requirements anymore, nor could I operate in the field at the level required for special operations.
The hearing loss affects my directional hearing, my ability to distinguish sounds in chaotic environments.
In combat situations, that’s a death sentence, not just for me but for anyone on my team. ”
“So what did you do?”
“I fought it at first,” Bert said with a humorless smile.
“Went through every possible treatment, every experimental therapy. But the damage was done. Eventually, I had to accept it. They moved me to support operations—intelligence analysis, mission planning, and coordination. Important work, but not what I’d signed up for.
Not what I’d trained my whole adult life to do. ”
He was quiet for a moment, his fingers absently adjusting the hearing aid.
“I was good at the support work, but I felt... diminished. Like I was watching life happen from the sidelines instead of being in it. I became quieter, pulled back from conversations because it was easier than constantly asking people to repeat themselves or positioning myself to hear with my good ear. People started seeing me as the silent guy in the corner, and after a while, I started seeing myself that way too.”
“But then Logan offered you a position here,” Mary said, understanding dawning.
“Yeah. Logan and I served together before my injury. He knew what I was capable of, knew that losing some hearing didn’t mean I’d lost my tactical mind or my ability to train others.
When he was building LSIMT, he called me up and said he needed someone who understood both field operations and logistics.
Someone who could train Keepers and also coordinate the complex moving parts of running a security company.
” Bert’s expression softened. “He gave me a second chance to be part of something that mattered. To use my skills in a way that made a difference.”
Mary felt warmth spread through her chest. “He saw you, the same way you see me.”
“I guess he did.” Bert’s eyes met hers, and the intensity there made her breath catch.
“I still struggle with it sometimes—the hearing loss. I position myself in rooms so my good ear is toward the conversation. In loud environments like bars or crowded restaurants, I have a hard time distinguishing individual voices from background noise. It’s frustrating as hell. ”
“I never would have known,” Mary said honestly. “You seem so... competent. So in control.”
“Same way people would never know about your paralysis if they didn’t see the wheelchair,” Bert pointed out. “We’ve both learned to adapt, to work around our limitations in ways that make them less obvious. But they’re still there, still part of who we are.”
The air between them felt charged, heavy with things unsaid. Her heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it. “Bert,” she said, not even sure what she was going to say.
“I should go,” he said abruptly, pushing to a stand. “It’s late, and you probably want to get settled in.”
Disappointment crashed through Mary, sharp and unexpected. “Okay. Thank you for everything today. And for staying to help.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Bert said, already moving toward the door. “To help you unpack the rest. If that’s okay.”
“That’s more than okay,” Mary said softly. “Thank you.”
He paused in the doorway, turning back to look at her. “Sleep well.”
Then he was gone, and she heard his vehicle start up, and he drove away, fading into the night. Mary rolled back to her living room, surrounded by new furniture and the life she was building, and tried to process what had just happened.
In the months she’d known Bert, he’d become someone special. Someone she looked forward to seeing every day, someone whose opinion mattered, someone who made her laugh, challenged her thinking, and paid attention to the small details of her life.
Someone she was falling for, if she was being honest with herself.
But maybe friendship was all they could be.
She knew the statistics, had heard them from well-meaning therapists during her recovery.
Relationships were difficult for people with disabilities.
Many partners found the reality of life with someone in a wheelchair more challenging than they’d expected.
The physical limitations, the accessibility issues, and the constant need to plan and accommodate.
Not many people were cut out for that. And Bert was such a good man, such a good friend. The last thing Mary wanted was to risk that friendship by admitting feelings he might not share or, worse, emotions he might feel obligated to return out of kindness.
She’d take friendship over nothing. A kindred spirit. She’d take his presence in her life, his quiet support, his careful attention to her needs. Even if it meant burying the hope that flickered in her chest every time he smiled at her.
Even if it meant lying awake at night in her new house, in her new bedroom, thinking about blue eyes and calloused hands and a man who saw her in a way no one else did.