Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(114)

“Please, don’t call Javier,” I say. “Or Reagan. This is just between you and me. No one else.”

He nods. “Call Bob. Tell him we’ll look for other witnesses first.”

Despite my terror, the words gush out of my mouth, ardent and breathy. “Thank you!”

His eyes soften, roaming over my jawline and throat as is their habit when he needs peace the most. But then he notices his dog tag and frowns.

“I snooped,” I mumble, looking down at my bare feet. “And, umm, I also read your letter. I’m sorry. I have a serious problem, I think.”

I can’t help but peek at his face. His lips, his cheeks, his beautiful brow twist as though they want to lift into a smile but cannot. Instead, his eyes deepen—become bottomless—like they’re extracting every particle from this moment.

“You can’t snoop what’s already yours,” he whispers.

I smile, swallowing back tears. “I finally know the truth about Byron now. I didn’t think I could love you more, but I do.” I rise on my tiptoes to kiss him but he leans away.

“Lack of love was never our problem, Elisa.”

He nods once and sweeps out of the room. I watch the spot where he stood. The tears I was fighting spill through so violently that I can’t make a sound.

You hear that love is strong, love is kind. But love does not fight wars, does not write laws, does not change them. As to these earthly needs, love is impotent.





Chapter Forty-Nine





American Beauty


I know where I am before I open my eyes. Bed, the glass door open, a cool breeze wafting in with the scent of freshly dug earth. And the cinnamon-sandalwood-and-Aiden fragrance around me. I equate it with being awake in every sense of the word. Even if terrified.

Today is his first day Versed-free.

I lie very still on my side, preparing for anything—from “Elisa, Cora has packed your clothes”, to “Elisa, police are outside to take you to prison”.

Aiden blows along my neck, and my muscles relax fractionally. This is normal for the last three days. Then I tense again. But utterly abnormal for him. His touch has vanished completely. In its place are only these soft gusts of breath that leave me bereft.

“You’re up,” I say a little late.

“As are you.”

I roll over to look at him. He is on top of the covers, curled around me without contact, already dressed in frayed jeans and a black T-shirt. The purple circles under his bottomless eyes are deeper. The stubble is thicker, longer, and the dimple is gone.

“Morning kiss, evening bliss, my mum used to say,” I whisper and kiss him. My lips barely brush against his before he pulls away. But for that one nanosecond of touching, we both shiver.

“They’re delivering Marshall’s tree soon, and your roses. I’ll start the sprinklers,” he says and blows out of bed and onto the patio before I can blink.

I stumble up, ignoring the sharp aches in my arm and back. Who cares about bruises when your insides burn this way?

I flit out of bed and into his closet to find something to camouflage the livid purple-and-blue patches on my skin. It’s easier at night—I can just wear long-sleeve T-shirts and flannel pajamas. But in seventy-five degree weather? Ah, yes, leggings and Aiden’s shirt from the painting. Then I can still feel like he is touching me. I slide them on and run out on the patio, lest he disappear.

He is sitting at the wrought-iron table, fingers pressed into his temples, shoulders hunched, empty eyes trained unblinking on the horizon. Like someone is siphoning his soul. The sight makes me shiver.

When he hears me, he stands and arranges his face into a semblance of human features.

“Cora bought you some more clotted cream.” He pushes a beautiful breakfast tray toward me. “Eat something. I’ll start digging the hole for the tree.” He leaps casually over the patio stairs and charges across the lawn without another glance.

“Have you eaten?” I call after him. He doesn’t answer.

The sun fades and a chill seeps through my skin.

“Aiden!” His name bursts from my lips.

He turns, and I notice that even for that fleeting instant he looked away from me, his face aged again. “Yes?”

I try to remember how to smile. “I love you.”

His empty eyes become—impossibly—more still. “I love you too,” he says without any intonation and stalks to the farthest edge of the yard.

I shiver again. Isaac Newton was wrong. Not all bodies at rest, stay at rest. There are bodies—torn, ravaged-from-within bodies—that shudder in stillness, perhaps even in death.

I wobble to the table where my tray is waiting. The same as our first morning. Cream, scones, orange marmalade, eggs, bacon, Baci… I pick at a scone, tossing most of it for the bluebirds, unable to look away from Aiden.

He rips weeds along the perimeter almost violently. Fast, like a hurricane. His shoulders ripple with movement and tension. He picks up a shovel and starts digging. I listen to the chirps, scurries and flutters he leaves in his wake. The sound of life that goes on without visas, wars or accidents.

I jump when his iPhone buzzes next to my tray. I peek at the screen, dreading words like “Prison”, “ICE”, or “Isaac Newton”. But no. Just a reminder for Aiden’s meeting with Corbin later this afternoon. They have been locked up in one of the guest rooms every day for hours. Shutters closed.