Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(70)

I want to help Aubrey. Hold her. Take away whatever the hell happened to make her react this way. I’d also like to know what this is all about.

“Aubrey,” I say softly, coming up behind her, but from the side, so she can see me in her peripheral vision. No need to scare her, if she really is that lost in her thoughts. “Are you hurt?”

She turns, her eyes on me. They grow wide in surprise, as though she’s only just now realized I’ve been in the room. “Physically?” She makes a weird sound in the back of her throat. My chest constricts as I think of the possibility that Aubrey is injured… Or worse.

“No.” She says, looking back down at the sink.

The relief I feel is overwhelming. “What is it then?” I take a step closer. I can see into the sink now, to her hands. If Aubrey’s posture is wooden, then her hands are leaves, shaking in the wind. Her fingers beat a soft cadence on the metal.

I need to make this right. Whatever it is. I need to put Aubrey back together.

I take her hands from the sink and hold them in mine. My thumbs rub the tops of her hands, as though maybe she’s shaking from cold and not shock.

Her eyes are dark, fathomless. I squint into them. “Sixty?”

She breaks. Her eyes flash. A rush of air escapes her mouth, like she’s been holding her breath for too long.

“Put on a movie for Claire and come to my room.” She pivots without warning. Her long hair snaps me on the chin. I watch her hurry away. No more wood. More like lightning.

I do as I’m told, and Claire is only too happy. Aubrey monitors her screen-time, so there’s no way Claire will question an unexpected movie.

Before I leave Claire, I lock the front door, double check the lock on the back door, and give her a cup of water.

“I’ll be right back. I’m just going to talk to Mommy.”

She doesn’t respond. The movie has already taken Claire to the land of make-believe.

Firmly rooted in reality, I walk to Aubrey’s room. Staying calm under pressure is a necessity for my career, but right now I’m struggling. Suddenly I think about the Titanic and the unshakeable Molly Brown. That would be Aubrey. Unshakeable. Until today, anyway.

I tap on her door with two knuckles.

“Come in.”

I push open the door and find Aubrey standing in front of her dresser. She’s wearing the same red bra and black leggings I peeled off her last night. What’s missing is the oversized sweatshirt she’d had on a few minutes ago.

She strides right up to me, reaching behind me to shut the door. Her breasts graze my chest, and in the back of my mind I register the sound of the lock turning.

“Don’t you want to talk about what upset you?” It takes a lot of willpower to ask this question. Aubrey’s rarely this brave. I like it. But then it reminds me that her bravery is clearly tied to whatever has upset her, and that changes it.

“Not right now I don’t.” Her lips are on my neck, tongue fluttering over the hollow at the base of my throat, and I’m having a hard time concentrating.

“You’ll feel better if you talk.” My voice is garbled. It won’t take long before I give up. I can only take so much.

She steps back, it’s only a foot, but instantly I miss her heat.

Her eyes flash like they did just a few minutes ago in the kitchen.

“Talking won’t make me feel better. What I need now is to not talk. I need you to push me up against the wall and make me forget my name.” She steps back toward me, her hands slipping under my shirt. She traces a design across my chest with her flattened palms. “Make me forget what’s inside my chest right now.”

She leans back so she can stare at me, pleading eyes on mine. I can feel the edge I’m teetering on. Shouldn’t I be a gentleman? Refuse her? But this is Aubrey. Aubrey knows what she wants. Aubrey doesn’t speak words she doesn’t mean.

“If you’re expecting me to be gallant and refuse you, this is your very last chance to tell me.” My willpower is worn down to a nub.

She shakes her head. “No white knights allowed in here right now.”

I do as she asks. With my hand over her mouth, I push her until the wall stops us, and I give her some time to live outside of whatever is inside her chest.





It worked. But then time was up, and it was over, and I’m right where I was before I asked him to take me out of my mind.

I’ve got to leave this bathroom, go out to the living room, and tell Isaac what happened. And that’s when it hits me.

She was here.

I’d been too busy feeling the splintering of my chest. I didn’t stop to think about her here.

My fingers trace my reflection in the mirror above the counter. Did she look in this same mirror? Did she stare at herself, wonder how she could have left? Did she almost change her mind, run back to us, envision how she would pull me into her arms and smell my hair? Or did she stand tall and congratulate herself on a job well done?

I walk out, and with every step, I wonder if I’m placing my foot in a spot her weight pressed upon. The cabin is new to me now. I’m looking through her eyes.

A lot of this has probably been updated at least once in the past eighteen years. But not that fireplace. And not the stream. Maybe that’s where she did her reflecting. She’s a mother who left her child behind. She had to have reflected on that. She’s not a monster.