We Were Never Here(84)
And then—come to think of it—once I’d signed on, once I couldn’t turn back, once it was clear her plan was working perfectly, she’d reclaimed her usual role as the foreman. She demanded I survey the area while she drove ahead; she presided over the handling of Paolo’s body. She knows it’s the one thing I can’t tell Aaron, the thing standing between us, and she loves that.
But then I threw a wrench in her plans: I pulled away.
I gazed at Aaron, his wrist hooked casually over the top of the steering wheel. My heart rate vroomed. How far would Kristen go to right the ship?
The hotel appeared and Aaron pulled into the lot. He put the engine in park and turned to me with his most earnest face. “I’m sorry, dude. That all sucks.”
“Thanks. I just needed some space from her. And Arizona is nothing if not space, right?”
“Oh, for sure. And hey, I’m stoked to be away from the ol’ grind and here on, you know. Mars.” He gestured out the window, where the clay-colored ridges resembled a sci-fi comic book. “But I’m glad you told me. I knew something was up.” He drummed his fingers against the parking brake. “You can always talk to me. We all have shit we don’t feel like talking about. And that’s fine! But…I’ve been down that road before, relationships where she—or I—wasn’t willing to let that guard down, you know? And just be real.”
I nodded slowly. It was one of those weird, high-def moments when the conversation is so real, so important, you’re almost detached, floating a few feet above it.
“See, here’s what’s cool.” He yanked the key from the ignition. “You want space, you want to get away—I get that, I’ve done that, I’ve dated people who’ve been like that. But usually that means they run away from me.” He tapped his sternum. “And you insisted we head west! Together! Makes me feel like a million bucks.”
My voice was round and shy as I said: “I always feel happier around you.”
I glanced his way and saw his chest puff, his eyes shine. So I knew I’d said the right thing. But what I thought first was: Right, because I wasn’t running away from you.
* * *
—
The hotel was on the outskirts of town. A faded mural of southwestern motifs spread across the wall behind the check-in desk, and the blue and tan blankets draped over the armchairs looked filched from a yoga studio. Aaron gamely complimented everything in sight, snapping photos and pointing out details, as if he could sense my disappointment. God, he was kind.
On the elevator ride, a wave of exhaustion hit me. I raised an eyebrow. “Those gummies still accessible?”
The room was a bit more promising, with broad windows and a slim balcony facing a crumply mountain we eventually identified as Camelback. Bristly, moss-green trees dusted the flat expanse between us and the mountain ridge, and the thought spilled out before I could cork it: This reminds me of the Elqui Valley.
There it was—the downward rush of THC, like a choir of Gregorian chanters sliiiding an octave down. A whole bunch of monks. What a funny thought: Silent monks opening their mouths to sing, to give their vocal cords a workout, to let the sound waves crash and echo around them. Also, that’s a funny word, monk. Monk. What was I just thinking about?
Oh, right: how very kind Aaron was. And beautiful, kind Aaron wanted to hold me, to kiss me, to make me feel safe. Safety—what did we call it? The opposite of fear? The thought warmed me and I crossed to the wardrobe, where he was diligently sliding his shirts onto hangers. I slipped my arms around his slim waist and kissed his neck. He turned around, his grin matching mine, and then meeting mine, and then our mouths were moving together in a slow, interesting tango, and then our fingertips and soft skin and all our bodies’ corners, inner and outer, concave and convex, moved like one.
It was all feeling so good, stretchy and wide and endless, until the awareness of Kristen, of Sebastian and Paolo and the LAPD began to build in my mind like charged particles, like the sudden viridescent blare of the Northern Lights, and when I gasped it was out of panic, panic like I’d never known, panic that I’d never, ever, ever be free from my nightmare.
Afterward, we lay spooning in the tangled sheets, watching out the window as the crooked horizon grew umber and then politely faded into the background, black.
“I’m starving,” he announced, propping himself up onto an elbow.
“I’m…I might be too high. I’m feeling a little…anxious.”
“Oh no, I’m sorry. About what?”
About Kristen leaking the photo of me and Sebastian, maybe even sweetening it up with an anonymous tip about its connection to Paolo’s case. Or sending in the molten lump, Paolo’s license number still visible, along with my home address. About the calls I keep getting from Chilean and Los Angeles numbers. About the cops breaking down the door, throwing me on the ground and maybe hurting you, too, in the commotion.
“It’s like—I get to the end of a breath and I worry that I’ll forget to take another,” I said, which was true. “Or that I’ll never have the energy to get up again.” It was a lesser concern, but still it registered: I needed to pee and the bathroom was fifteen feet away, and how, hooooow would I ever cross the distance?
“Aw, babe. Guess these gummies are pretty strong for a newbie. What do you need?” He brought me water and found a nearby spot with takeout pizzas. He woke me to say he was going to pick up his order—the only thing I remember before morning. In my dreams, I saw the mama rabbit, her neck so hacked her head clung by a flap of white-red skin. She kept trying to hop but instead limped and hobbled and zigzagged closer and closer to the edge of a Chilean cliff.