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So there I was in a bed that wasn’t mine, in a plainly decorated room that wasn’t mine, feeling like I belonged nowhere, and thinking about that stupid interview. Brock’s lie hurt more than the truth. All I’d ever wanted was for him to love me. To see me as the woman for him. And to hear him lie about it had me tearing up in front of the cameras. Fortunately, I could play it off as being overcome by his sweet words. But as soon as the reporter was gone and the spotlight off us, he showed how he truly felt. We were back to the silence. I could feel his regret.
I closed my eyes, begging for a way out of it all. Silently praying, even though I felt so unworthy. I was a liar. I was allowing the man I loved to lie on my behalf. The night was so still I could hear the tears drip onto my pillow. First one by one, and then in pitter-patters like raindrops on the roof. Suddenly a bloodcurdling scream rent the air. I bolted straight up, pulling my knees up to my chest. Brock was having another nightmare. Even from two doors down I could tell it was bad. “Help!” he yelled over and over. If only I could, I would. I knew, though, I was last person he wanted help from. But then I heard him call for me. “Dani! Dani! Dani!”
Without thinking, I jumped out of bed in the dark and ran out the door and down the hall. He was still screaming my name. Hesitantly, I knocked on his door. “Brock . . . are you . . . all right?” I knew he wasn’t, but I had no idea what else to say. He didn’t answer; he just kept calling out my name. Slowly, I opened the door to find every light in the room on, including the ceiling light, both bedside lamps, and his bathroom and walk-in closet lights. It was heartbreaking.
Brock was sitting straight up in bed with no shirt on. His glazed eyes were open, yet he didn’t seem like he was awake. At the very least, he seemed disoriented. He was breathing hard and saying my name over and over again.
I’d been reading up about PTSD. I’d dealt with it plenty with several kids who had come through our program, but it was something altogether different when it was your spouse—if you could call Brock that. I approached Brock cautiously, not wanting to make sudden movements or startle him, which could exacerbate his state.
“Brock, I’m here,” I whispered.
His eyes didn’t focus on me, and his cries became more anguished. “Please don’t hurt her,” he pleaded.
I rubbed my chest. He was breaking my heart. Carefully, I sat on the edge of his bed. “Brock, can I touch you?” I knew I should ask because sometimes a person struggling with PTSD will feel trapped when someone without permission touches them. And it’s not like Brock was a huge fan of my touch anyway.
“Dani, please don’t be dead,” he begged.
“Brock, I’m here. Please wake up.”
“Dani, I’m sorry,” he cried, still not awake.
“I know you are. Please wake up.” I gently rested my hand on his cheek.
His hand flew up and grabbed mine. It startled him enough to wake him up. I feared he might be angry, but relief washed over his expression. He grabbed me, pulled me to him, and touched me everywhere. Which meant a lot of skin. I was wearing the barely-there black silk nightgown his mother had bought me for our wedding night. It was the only pajamas I had here.
His touch, though frantic, burned against my skin. My body longed for him, wished to curl up in this bed beside him and become his wife in more than name only. When he was done touching me, satisfied I was okay, he unexpectedly pressed his lips against mine. I was sure he wasn’t fully awake or cognizant of what he was doing. Still, there was a tiny piece of me that wanted to believe he knew exactly what he was doing and that he wanted me as much as I wanted him. That hope had my hands landing on his taut chest and letting my fingers get lost in his chest hair.
I could taste the salt from his tears when he parted my lips. He groaned deeply, and his hands clung to my skin as he devoured me and drew me as close as he could. With urgency, his tongue prodded deeper and deeper. The kiss became so intense I gasped for breath. It broke whatever spell Brock was under. Abruptly, he pulled away and stared wide eyed at me, breathing heavily. “Dani?”
“You were having a nightmare,” I said, breathlessly. “You were calling for me.”
