Where?"
Panic sets in. I wasn't planning on meeting her in person. She still doesn't know I'm blind and I want to keep it that way.
"We don't have to meet in person," I say quickly. "I just wanted to ensure we set up a time to talk in the next couple of days or so. I've sent the documents to you. If you could look them over and then we could talk. Does that work?"
"Okay, I'll look around for them and then we can talk in the next couple of days and I might even answer your call." Her attempt at humor should make me laugh, but I hesitate too long and it comes out as a forced tittering sound.
"Is there something you're not telling me?" Jordan asks.
"There are some things with the estate that we need to talk about. You haven't returned my calls."
She laughs at my accusation. This soft laugh that causes my heart rate to speed up. "Don't feel bad. I haven't returned anyone's calls, except Ashleigh's. I've been pretty pissed off at the world, at Ethan, at you."
"I'm sorry, Jordan."
I hear her take a deep breath. "I know. Me, too," she says after a minute.
Closing my eyes, I imagine her standing right in front of me. My free hand reaches out as if to touch her face. I smile despite the circumstances. The irony of it all. My being attracted to her is probably the reason Ethan is dead. Guilt attacks me with a full frontal assault with this thought.
"Jordan." I speak her name with this unbelievable reverence. I shake my head in an attempt to get a grip on the emotions she stirs up in me in just talking to her. "If we could just be friends," I say with diffidence.
Another silence. A long one. I shift my weight, trying to maintain my balance as I wait for her answer.
Her exasperated sigh says it all.
"Truthfully?" Her voice trembles. "I'm not ready to be friends with you." There's another long pause. "Brock, I've really got to go. I'm picking up Max from preschool. I can't be late."
"Sorry," I say without attempting to mask my disappointment with her answer. I shake my head and silently curse the darkness. "Okay. I''m flying home to Austin, tomorrow. I'll call you in a few days."
"I thought you'd be back in Afghanistan by now."
"Yeah. Me, too." Bitterness seeps into my voice and she must hear it.
I need to end this call before she starts asking me too many questions. Instead, I'm hanging on to every word she utters.
"Why aren't you in Afghanistan?"
"I'll talk to you soon," I say. "Take care of yourself, Jordan."
"Why aren't you in Afghanistan?"
"It's a long story," I say. "They can't use me right now." I wince at my excuse, hoping she doesn't pick up on its faulty reasoning.
"That doesn't make any sense. You have to finish your tour."
This is spoken like a true military wife. Tours, obligations, contracts. I'd underestimated Jordan's familiarity with all of it. Shit. Hang up the phone, Wainwright.
"None of it makes any sense," I say.
"Where exactly are you?"
"I'm still at Walter Reed. They'll be releasing me in the next day or so. Then, I'll be in Austin for a while."
"What? Why? You were at Ethan's funeral. How can you still be in the hospital?"
"There were complications. I had a few more surgeries."
She takes a shaky breath. I strain to hear her and discern the tapping of her shoes, and, finally, the start of a car's engine.
"What's going on, Brock? What aren't you telling me?"
There's a hint of worry in her voice and, like a fool, I savor it. "The flight back from Austin to D.C. with the cabin pressurization dislodged a bullet fragment and entered my lung. That took some time to recover from…" My voice trails off. I'm telling her too much.
"A bullet fragment? Were you shot that day, too?"
"A few places." I hold my breath as I crave her sympathy while at the same time I cajole myself to reject it. "I'll call you, Jordan."
"What happened that day? If you could just tell me."
I close my eyes at hearing her desolation, realizing she just wants to make sense of it all, too. So do I. But I don't have any
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