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“Are you taking your B6 and doxylamine at night?” I could tell he tried to hide the bite in his tone, but anything surrounding my pregnancy irritated him.
“Religiously,” I croaked.
“I’ll write you a prescription for Zofran,” he huffed.
“I won’t take it.” There was limited information about the side effects and, no matter the pain this pregnancy caused, I already loved my baby.
“Fine, but we’re leaving in ten minutes.” His heavy steps could be heard marching across the wood floor.
I slowly lifted my head and wiped off my mouth. The thought of having dinner at his parents’ and being interviewed by another reporter made me want to vomit some more. How many times was I going to be made to sit by Brock’s side and hold his hand while I shed a river of tears and recounted how devastated I was to learn of his death? After that I would share the relief and joy I’d felt when the intel they had received turned out to be wrong. Keeping on script, I would thank the team of Navy SEALs for rescuing him. Brock would make a lighthearted joke about how irked he was that it was the Navy that had saved him instead of his comrades in the Army. Then he would stare at me with faux adoration while I told the truth about how agonizing the entire ordeal was. Together we would lie about why we got married so soon, and that would be that. Once the cameras were turned off, Brock would scramble away from me as fast as he could.
It took everything I had to stand up on my shaky legs and make it to the marble counter, which I leaned heavily on. I stared into the oval mirror at how pale my olive skin looked. The bags under my eyes spoke to how exhausted I was. Growing a life took everything I had. No makeup was going to hide how awful I felt. I brushed my teeth and did my best not to gag. There was something about dental hygiene that repulsed my pregnant body.
Ten minutes turned into twenty when I threw up one more time and had to repeat the process. By the time I wandered out of the bathroom, all I wanted to do was go to my designated room here and sleep forever, or at least until the first trimester was over. I had to lean against the wall for support as I walked down the hall, careful not to disrupt any of the artwork. The custom watercolors I had handpicked with Brock after he had bought the house six months ago. Those were happier days—house hunting with him. I’d fooled myself into thinking he wanted my input because perhaps one day he meant for the place to be ours. As I passed by the white french doors that led to his bedroom, I was painfully reminded that this house was his and his alone. I stopped, ran my hand across the smooth wood, and leaned my forehead against it. Wishing for the nausea to subside and aching for the doors to welcome me in. Both were futile dreams.
The day we were married, Brock brought me here and took my luggage to the guest bedroom down the hall. Every day since, he’d spent most of his time behind these closed doors, unable to work until he passed all his physical and psychological evaluations. I knew he was anxious to return to his practice—at least that’s what he told the reporters in my presence. I wondered if it was wise. When I did spend the night here, I could hear Brock screaming out in his sleep: reliving the hellish real-life nightmare he’d endured in Afghanistan and probably since being home. I longed to go to him and comfort him, but I knew it would be unwelcome.
I closed my eyes and thought of Kinsley, my younger sister. I heard her crying at night about Brant marrying another, when I couldn’t bring myself to stay the night here. Which was more often than not. Most of the time I slept at the loft I had once shared with both Kinsley and Ariana, before Ariana got married this past summer. Little did Kinsley know I played a part in her sobs. How it racked me with guilt, and how I prayed she would never find out what I had done. Still, the guilt was easier to bear than the loneliness. Which was why the nights when I should have been “home” with Brock, I found myself at the loft. I kept paying rent under the guise that I didn’t want to leave Kinsley high and dry. While it was true—she could have never afforded it by herself—the real reason was because it was the only place of refuge I had left to me.
