MONUMENT, COLORADO —30 DECEMBER 2004

Marcus Ryker’s wedding to his high school sweetheart was hardly a spectacle.

It was a miracle.

And Marcus had the Taliban to thank.

Elena Garcia had seen the story of the helicopter crashes and the shoot-out in Kandahar on the evening news. When the story about Marcus being wounded in combat appeared in the local media a few days later, Elena broke up with her new boyfriend, a medical student at UC Denver, and called Marcus on every number she had for him. When she couldn’t reach him, she called his mother. Then she called her father. By the time Marcus was awarded the Purple Heart, he and Elena were a couple again, and after he’d recovered and been given a brief leave for Christmas, they were married.

The ceremony in which Marcus Johannes Ryker pledged his undying love to the eldest daughter of Javier Rodriguez Garcia was so small and understated it didn’t even get reported in the local newspapers. The Garcia family had money, but Elena begged her father not to use any of it on a big wedding. She didn’t want all the fuss. Nor did she want to do anything that might cause embarrassment to her mother-in-law-to-be. Marjorie Ryker was now a widow twice over. Surviving on Social Security and a modest Air Force pension, she was barely making ends meet, especially given all she’d done to help Marcus through college.

Marcus didn’t want anything showy either. The incident in Afghanistan had already brought him far too much attention. Something simple and quiet sounded just right to him. So Marcus’s mother hosted the two families for dinner at her home on a snowy Wednesday evening. She made lamb chops, mashed potatoes, green peas, and mint jelly —Marcus’s favorite. The next afternoon, the couple were married in the Garcias’ living room. The pastor who had discipled Marcus during his senior year of college officiated. Only immediate family and a few close friends attended. The reception was catered by Famous Dave’s barbecue. Afterward Marcus and Elena drove to Aspen for a honeymoon of skiing and snowboarding, a wedding gift from her parents.

Friday was New Year’s Eve. With a massive snow squall bearing down on everything west of the Continental Divide, Marcus heated up the leftover Chinese food they’d had for lunch. He opened a bottle of champagne that had been chilling in the small refrigerator, compliments of the resort, glad their Baptist friends were, for the moment, nowhere to be found. Then they curled up by the fire in their rented two-level villa, and Elena gave her groom not one gift but two.

Marcus tore the wrapping paper off the first, and what he found took his breath away. It was a single-volume first edition of Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago, and it was signed by the author himself.

Marcus gasped. “This must have cost you a fortune!”

“You’re worth every penny,” she replied, her eyes dancing with desire. “I would have paid ten times more.”

They kissed with abandon until Marcus realized he had not opened the second gift. They took a pause, caught their breath, and sipped more champagne. Next Marcus unwrapped the somewhat-larger gift.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“You’ll see,” she said playfully.

What he found was a scrapbook Elena had made for him. On the first page was a faded class photo of Marcus in the sixth grade.

He stared at it.

Elena laughed.

Marcus did not.

He looked hideous. His hair was long, his clothes were too dorky to describe, and he was wearing braces and battling acne. He was not smiling. Instead, he looked forlorn, and Marcus knew why. All those memories started rushing back, and he fought to control his emotions. He didn’t want to ruin the moment or make Elena feel bad. But the photo was taken not long after he had lost his father.

He thanked her and was about to kiss her, but Elena nodded to the note she had written under the picture.

June 2, 1991 —Photo Day —Lewis Palmer Middle School.

This was the day I fell in love with you, Marcus Ryker. This exact day.

My family had just moved to Monument from the Springs. I had cried for weeks. I pleaded with my father not to make me change schools so close to the end of the year. But he didn’t listen. He’d found a house he and Mama liked. So we moved, and there I was. My sisters weren’t born yet. I was lonely, depressed, angry, furious, and yet suddenly curious about this cute boy in English, social studies, and PE.

The only reason I came to school every day was to see you. You were taller than the rest of the boys. You were quiet but strong —and fast. Fast like the wind. And crazy. Always climbing on things. Jumping off things. Doing backflips. Pulling pranks. You were always getting in trouble, but not real trouble. Not big trouble. The teachers liked you. You always seemed to get off with a warning. You were just having fun, and you were fun to be around.

I had only one friend, Marcy Gallagher. She sat in front of me in homeroom. Her dad was the mayor. She knew you. She liked you. She would talk about you all the time. So I never told her about the crush I had on you.

Then came the day for class pictures. My mother sent me to school that day in the ugliest brown dress I had ever seen. She had just bought it for me the night before. She insisted I wear it. I screamed at her and told her she was ruining my life. I threatened to sue her for child abuse, but she wouldn’t relent. She sent me to school in that hideous dress, on photo day, of all days!

Somehow, when I got in line to get my picture taken, lo and behold, I found myself standing right behind you. I was so mortified. I kept praying you wouldn’t turn around and look at me. But you did. That was the day you introduced yourself to me. You asked if I was new to the school. I was so scared I couldn’t speak. So I just nodded and blushed. And you smiled at me —not a big smile, just a little smile, but it was such a sweet smile —and you told me you liked my dress. When the photographer said it was your turn to have your picture taken, you sat down and your smile faded. All at once you looked sad. I wondered why. I wanted to ask you, but you said good-bye and ran off to class.

The photographer called my name. I just stood there, transported into a dreamworld where Marcus Ryker had actually talked to me —to me! Smiled at me! Complimented me! You were either a big, fat liar or a very kind boy. I decided it was the latter, and I told God right then and there that I wanted to marry you. I told God I didn’t know why you were sad, but I wanted to make you the happiest boy in the world. And then I ran off, in that hideous brown dress, without ever having my sixth-grade picture taken. My parents were furious. But they got over it. And I got you.

So just in case you didn’t already know it, that’s my mission in life, Marcus Johannes Ryker —making you happy for the rest of your life. You can’t shake me now. I’m yours forever.

Marcus held his wife tightly. “You can’t shake me either,” he whispered in the candlelight. “I’m going to stick to you like glue.”