Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(100)

“They did things to him I’ve never seen done to an animal, let alone a man. If I fought them, they’d cut off some body part. If I behaved…” He shudders.

“I started bartering with them in Arabic. What did they want? Let’s talk. They wanted a live Marine to sell to al-Qaeda. ‘Big money for Marines.’ I said, ‘Fine, let him go, I’ll come with you. I speak Arabic, Farsi, was trained in intelligence. I’m the man you want.’ They started whispering to each other and finally said yes. Untied Marshall, kicked him, ‘Go, pretty boy.’

“He wouldn’t leave. I begged him to leave. ‘Goddamn you, go. You’ve got a woman. Two sisters, a mother. Go…’

“He started crawling to the classroom door, inch by inch, streaks of blood behind him. Then he turned to look at me. I couldn’t see his nose anymore. Or his lips. But I know he smiled…” Aiden’s lips lift into a small smile and he closes his eyes. Even though I’m shivering, I smile too. They both made it, somehow. If that doesn’t make a scientist believe in providence, nothing will.

He opens his eyes and grips my hand.

“They shot him.”

“No!” My gasp rends the air as my hand flies to my mouth.

He nods. “Seven times…one bullet each. He was gone with the first. Has been gone ever since…”

In the long, deafening silence, I replay all the times I’ve mentioned Marshall’s name and see his reactions with new eyes. His flashback. His thousand-yard stare. He always cut me off or changed the subject. But he also never lied. Marshall is still alive to him. Still his best friend.

“Who saved you?” I mouth, all voice gone.

“Cal and Hendrix.” He shrugs as though this should not matter. “We destroyed them all…”

He skips everything they must have done to him, all the terror for himself, and for the first time, he looks away from my jawline and into my eyes.

“That’s the kind of man you’re with, Elisa. The one who killed his own brother.”

Because of me, he said when I asked why Marshall wasn’t going to the cabin.

Abruptly, I’m furious. Claw-through-the-earth-to-the-desert furious. At everything. At everyone who did this to him. “Aiden, you didn’t kill anyone who didn’t deserve it. You didn’t kill Marshall. You—”

He puts his index finger on my lips. “I made the call for us to stay in that schoolyard. I didn’t bargain right. I didn’t rip through those cables fast enough. I— Believe me, Elisa. This is all on me.”

“No, it isn’t! This is not your fault. Baby, even your startle reflex—which obviously resulted from this torture—was not out of fear for yourself. It was out of fear for a friend. And you live with it every day.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything! Everything. This was not your fault. You bartered with your own life. What else could you give?”

“Stop, please.”

“No, I won’t! I will never stop telling you this. No matter where I am. This was not your fault.”

“Elisa.” His voice is low, almost defeated. At the new timbre, I realize what a fighter he is. About everything but this. And because of that, for the first time, I want him to be furious. Yell at me, rip this whole garden from the roots, do anything but this surrender.

“Marshall would not have wanted this. You’ve got to live, Aiden—live for two, not for none. Remember what you told me about my parents?”

He doesn’t answer.

“You said I need to start living my own life. Sweetheart, you have to do that too.”

“Elisa, baby, please…one step at a time.” He looks at his black sneakers.

At his weak voice, I lose all fire. My stomach starts twisting but I relish the pain—what else can I give to him that he will accept? I shove my fear and anger aside so I can use them later to fight this with him. Then I take a deep breath and, very slowly, wrap my arms around his neck.

He looks up. His eyes are lightening. Slowly but surely. I want to tell him I love him. I want to shout it. The only thing stopping me is that his memory will associate my I love you with this painful moment for life.

“I’ve never been more in awe of you,” I tell him. “Nothing you’ve told me changes my feelings. In fact, it makes them stronger.”

He smiles dimpleless. “Well, you still have plenty left to see. You’ve chosen to live with this for a while.”

For a while? Forever.

I kiss him. Here, in this garden that now has both our stories, not caring an atom who sees us. At first his kiss is light. Then it changes. His tongue and lips don’t move with their usual domination. Just a slow togetherness. For a long time, until the shade of the rose hedges falls over us. When he pulls away, he is as breathless as I am.

“You’re the first person—the only person—I’ve told that story to.”

“I’ll keep it well,” I say, kissing his scar. “What was Marshall’s name?”

“Jacob. Jacob Samuel Marshall.”

“Maybe we should plant a rose for him?”

He smiles. His voice is returning. “I don’t know. Flowers were not his thing.”

“What about a tree? In our new garden at home?”