Page 89 of The Husband Hour
“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?”
She nodded. It was a good question. “They were afraid, because of Rory’s fame, that the news would leak out before they could reach me. They couldn’t risk waiting.”
She sagged with exhaustion, her entire body weighted.
Matt moved close, unclipped her mic, and took the sound pack from her waist. She felt like collapsing against him. He steered her away from the camera and over to the bed.
“Just sit here for a minute. Let me get those off.” He turned off the lights, clicking on only a bedside reading lamp. The room felt calmer, and her sobs quieted to hiccups.
