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I closed my eyes and begged for the doxylamine to kick in and lull me to sleep. Unfortunately, Brock was persistent and kept calling. It annoyed me enough that I finally sat up and answered.
“Hello,” I answered shortly.
“Are you okay?” Brock sounded as if he were in a state of panic.
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Where are you?”
“At the loft.”
“When will you be home?”
“I’m not coming to your place tonight,” I said pointedly.
He stayed silent for a moment. “You shouldn’t stay at the loft. It looks suspicious.”
“I’m not with anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I spat back.
“I wasn’t accusing you of anything.” He was just as snippy with me.
“Now that we’ve settled that. Good night.”
“Dani, wait. Please,” his tone softened.
“What, Brock?” I sank into my pillows, so, so tired of life.
“I was worried about you.”
I was taken aback by his response. “Why?”
“Because you’ve been sick, and I know . . . I know I haven’t made this easy on you,” he quietly admitted.
“No, you haven’t.” My stupid voice hitched. Why must I be so vulnerable around him?
“Will you please come home?”
“I am home.” Even though this place I’d once loved didn’t feel like home either. I belonged nowhere, but it made my point to Brock.
He let out a heavy sigh. “You can’t keep staying there.”
“I know that. But I am tonight.” I would cling to this place as long as I could. It was my only reprieve.
“Dani, I would feel better if you stayed here.”
“Why does it matter to you where I stay? You don’t speak to me when I’m there. I barely even see you,” I said, exhausted.
It took him a while to respond. “At least I know you’re safe when you’re here.”
That’s not the response I wished for. I’d thought perhaps his long pause meant he was building up the courage to tell me he wanted things to be different between us. The way it should be between a husband and wife; but no, he was only concerned about my safety. “Thank you for your concern. I’m safe. Can I go now?” My words oozed sarcasm. It was better than manifesting the hurt that coursed through me. Or how truly emotionally unsafe I felt.
“Okay. Good night.” He sounded as exhausted as I was.
I dropped the phone and the floodgates opened. Tears streamed down my face. Why couldn’t he have let well enough alone? I didn’t want his concern. I wanted his love. It’s all I’d ever wanted.
I crawled back under the covers, wishing I could hide from the world. I closed my eyes, willing myself not to think about Brock. It wasn’t working well, and it didn’t help when he began calling again and again and again. I was about ready to turn off my phone when I remembered how scared he had been last night. I genuinely believed he was worried about my safety, given his nightmares and what he had been through in Afghanistan.
“Hello,” I growled.
“Dani . . .”
“Yes.”
“I think we should talk. Will you please come home?”
Why was he being so adamant about this now? “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” His frustration was coming through.
“I already took my medicine, so it’s not safe to drive; but even if I could, I wouldn’t,” I remained defiant.
“I’ll come to you.”
I bolted up. “Why?”
“I just need to know you’re safe.”
“Brock, I’m fine. Go to bed.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.” He hung up.
I ran my fingers through my hair, exhausted yet on high alert now. The worst part was, I had to wait for him. The doxylamine was holding me hostage. There was no way I was risking my baby by getting behind the wheel while under its influence. What had gotten into him? Maybe he had another bad dream. I wasn’t sure, but this wasn’t normal behavior. Brock was no Neanderthal or misogynistic pig who needed to keep tabs on his woman. Though I would hardly consider myself his woman. We were more like adversaries now, and I hated it. Regardless, this wasn’t like him. One of the reasons I fell in love with him was because he respected women and appreciated how strong we were. He was nothing like the loser foster fathers I’d had who thought they were better than women and treated them like property or servants meant to do their bidding. His odd behavior had to be trauma related.
Brock needed to get some professional help. It was bad enough having to live an imitation life in front of the cameras. I didn’t need him hovering over me like a protective guard dog in private when what I really needed was for him to walk beside me and hold my hand. I would even take holding his hand and helping him through his pain, if he would let me. But, obviously, he was in denial that he was even suffering.
