The Husband Hour(70)
“I know that’s not who you are. That’s why we’re having this conversation.”
He smiled, and she knew he thought that it was going to be that easy, because in so many ways, it always had been with her. But that was over. She couldn’t afford to be that person anymore.
“I need you,” he said. “I need you to get on that plane with me to Washington.”
She nodded, swallowing hard, resisting the urge to take the easy way out, to say, Yes, yes, that’s what I want to. I need you, I want you, I miss you!
Instead, she said, “The only way that can happen is if you agree to counseling.”
He pulled his hand away, sitting back in his seat. “Come on, Lauren. You know I don’t go in for that crap.”
“Well, I don’t go in for domestic violence. So clearly we have a problem.”
He looked at her like Come on. As if she were being dramatic. But she didn’t waver, and he finally said, “That will never happen again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“This is me you’re talking to, Lauren. You’ve known me since I was sixteen years old.”
She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m afraid that person is gone.”
“He’s not.”
“Well, that person, the man I fell in love with—the boy I fell in love with—would be saying therapy is not ideal, but okay. He would be saying he would never let me down again. Isn’t that what you told me?”
He reached for her hand. “There’s an adjustment period, Lauren. If you’d gone to any of the wife groups, if you weren’t so intent on pushing this part of our life away, holding your breath until it’s over—”
“Do you know that soldiers with PTSD are three times more likely to be violent toward their spouses?”
“Now you’re a therapist, diagnosing me with PTSD?”
“I don’t know what’s going on, Rory! That’s why we need a professional.”
He stood up, dropping money on the table.
“Lauren, I love you. I want to be your husband. If you decide you still want that too, you know where to find me.”
Was he kidding? After everything he’d asked of her the past few years, after every life decision she’d made had been based on his career, his injuries, his needs and impulses—he wouldn’t even see a counselor after hitting her? She had friends in couples therapy because they didn’t like doing the same things on weekends.
She followed him outside onto Melrose Avenue. He had no idea she was behind him until she was two steps away from him yelling, “I can’t believe you! What, in the past ten years, have I ever asked of you? Ever?”
He said nothing and looked at her with something close to indifference. Without thinking, in a gesture of pure, impotent rage, she grabbed the heart necklace, tore it off, and threw it at him.
It bounced off his shoulder and landed on the ground with barely a sound.
She sobbed, unable to go further.
“What happened after that?” Matt prompted gently.
“There was nothing after that. He left for Washington; I refused to go with him.” She’d forgotten about the camera. In some ways, she’d forgotten about Matt. She was talking to herself, going through the scenarios she had rehashed endlessly in her mind over the years.
“He called me a few times. Always insisting he loved me but never acknowledging that anything needed to change. After a while, I sent his calls straight to voice mail. I didn’t know what to do.”
She touched her necklace.
“A week or so after the argument, I got a package in the mail. It was this necklace. The chain was repaired.” And Rory had included a note. I still love you, it read. “Then the calls stopped. I only found out he was redeployed from some routine paperwork that arrived at the house,” she said. “I never saw him again.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The weight of her words hung heavily. It seemed a long time passed before Matt asked, “How did you learn about his death?”
“I was at work. I was writing for an entertainment blog.” The receptionist had appeared at her cubicle.
“Some men are here to see you,” she’d said, wide-eyed. “I put them in the conference room.”
Some men.
Her stomach had turned to stone. The walk from the cubicle to the conference room felt like it happened in slow motion.
The conference room was glass. Two officers stood inside.
“Mrs. Kincaid?”
One of the officers drew the opaque shades down for privacy.
It took Lauren seconds to process the fact that they were wearing Class A dress uniforms. She had learned about this scenario in a family-readiness meeting before Rory’s deployment. Battle-dress uniform: injured. Class A dress uniform: killed.
Now, remembering it, Lauren broke down in sobs and looked around for tissues.
“Lauren,” Matt said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Can you get me a—”
“I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the hallway and returned with a box of Kleenex. She wiped her nose, trying to calm herself from outright hysterics to a reasonable cry.
“I’m just surprised they came to talk to you at work. Why not wait until you were home? In private?”