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Brock stewed on that while he stretched his neck from side to side.
While he ruminated, I thought back to the day of his return. At his request, I’d flown to Washington, DC with his family to welcome him home. He was torn and battered, but despite his injuries, he hobbled straight to me as soon as he came off the plane. Not to his mother, father, or brother. Me. We fell into each other’s arms. He held on to me for dear life. Our tears wetted each other’s cheeks, and his salty kisses healed my soul. My other half had returned.
Brock never left my side for the first few days. As wonderful as that was, my conscience began to nag me, even before I knew I was pregnant. It only got worse when he started talking about our future. It caught me off guard. We had never discussed our lives in terms of us being a couple. When he had returned, though, he’d just assumed we would be. His harrowing experience had him seeing life differently. And though I wanted nothing more than to be with Brock in every way, I knew I had to tell him what had happened between Brant and me. Brant and I both knew we had to, but we didn’t know how. Especially when it would hurt so many people we cared about. I would never forget the pain and utter revulsion on Brock’s face after I told him what had happened. I tried to explain that it was because Brant and I were hurting so much and emotions took over. Brock didn’t care. He’d walked out. It wasn’t until I’d found out I was pregnant that he had come to my rescue.
“We should wait until your first trimester is over.” Brock shook me out of my thoughts. I was grateful for the reprieve. The days after my confession still made me shudder.
I nodded and went back to staring blankly out the window for the remainder of the silent trip.
When we arrived at his parents’ place, he pulled around the back so we could enter through the mudroom, which was more like a hotel lobby, chandelier included. I got out of the car and smoothed out the lapel on my blush linen jacket. His mom had been playing dress up with me. I had spent more time in department stores and boutiques the last month than I had for my entire thirty-four years. It was one thing Brock had shared with me—his credit card. It felt wrong to take his money, but he’d insisted. More like his father had insisted. His dad didn’t like my bargain rack look, and I didn’t like him scrutinizing me, so I took the money.
Brock met me at my door. It was showtime. He took a moment to give me more than his usual inconsequential glance before he had to torture himself by touching me. With every sweep of his eyes, my vulnerability ticked up. I tucked some of my dark hair behind one ear. “Do I look that awful?”
He swallowed hard, keeping my gaze. For a second, I saw a glimpse of the man I fell in love with so many years ago. “No. You’re . . . never mind.” He shook his head and held out his hand, and I noticed that, like mine, it was once again adorned with a wedding ring. We never wore them unless we were out in public or around his parents. His plain, thin, solid-gold band had been his maternal grandfather’s. Sheridan was thrilled to pass it down to us. It had only added to the guilt. Brock’s grandparents had been married for sixty years, and Sheridan felt the ring was charmed. I was going with doomed.
My ring, on the other hand, was purchased by John. Brock would have never picked out the ostentatious pear-shaped diamond that strangled my finger. I was embarrassed to wear such a monstrosity, especially around the kids I worked with. Kids who had known food stamps, empty bellies, and uncertainty. Kids like me. Brock would have known that. Although, I understood why he didn’t want to pick out my ring. It would have been like rubbing salt into the gaping wound I’d carved out of his heart.
I hesitated to give him my hand. I wanted him to reach for mine like he had when he’d first come home. To not waste a second before his fingers locked securely with mine. My hand ached for his thumb to brush across it. This imitation affection was like having only seawater to drink. It would wet your lips, but before long it would steal your life away.
Brock stretched his hand out farther while tapping his foot.
“I don’t want to pretend today,” I pleaded.
He dropped his hand before using it to rub his forehead. “We don’t have a choice, Dani. The news crew will be here any moment.”
