Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(52)

I realize now that I have never heard him truly ask for something he needs. Well, he just did. I nod and pull away with more strength than it took to board that plane four years ago. He inclines his head once and sweeps out of the room.

I lie on his side of the bed, feeling his warmth that is still trapped inside the comforter. I keep my eyes on the door, willing it to open. I focus only on the scent of his pillow, listening for any signs of the man on the other side of the wall. But there is only silence.

Hydrogen, 1.008…Oxygen, 15.999. Fluorine, 18.998. Neon, 20.180…Astatine, 210. Radon, 222. Francium, 223. Radium, 226.





Chapter Twenty-Four





Breach


Light seeps through my eyelids, tinting the world outside golden. My first thought is that I should feel warm. But instead, I’m shivering. My eyes fling open.

I’m in Aiden’s bed, on his side. But he is not here.

Instantly, I remember and jolt up. I feel the other side of the bed. It’s cold. On my pillow is my dad’s watch. Something crawls in my stomach at the sight. I pick it up—9:30. As I fasten it on my wrist, the soft, worn leather gives me some structure. First things first: move.

I clamber out of bed, feeling the ache of his thrusts between my thighs. Over the chair in the corner are my dress, bra, knickers and sandals. My stomach twists again so I escape to the restroom.

I’m so cold that I crave hot water. But as I tiptoe in the grotto shower, my skin contracts sharply. Suddenly, I don’t want to wash him off. Right now, my skin smells like him. I twist back the shower lever tightly.

When I come out, the bedroom is still empty. The hair stands on the back of my neck. Should I go find him or should I wait here? What will make it worse or better? The shivers become violent so I get dressed. As I bend to slide on my sandals, I see one of his shirt buttons under the bed. Madly, I pick it up and tuck it in my bra. Then, with a deep breath, I head for the living room.

He is on the sofa, facing my way, back to the glass wall, reading a National Geographic. Freshly showered, hair still wet.

“Good morning,” I say, noticing with relief that my voice does not betray my unease.

He looks up from his magazine. The first thing I see is the difference in his face between now and yesterday when he woke me up with the centifolia. It’s perfectly composed. But something is off in his eyes—they’re too still. A neutral sapphire.

“Good morning, Elisa. Did you sleep well?”

It’s there in his voice too. Polite but a bit detached. The shivers return.

“I slept fine,” I answer a little late. “It looks like you’ve been up for a while?”

“Yes.”

It’s not exactly his words that are chilling me. It’s that detachment in his eyes and tone.

“So what have you been doing?”

“Worked some. Pondered the universe.”

“Pondered the universe? That sounds ominous.”

“Aren’t all such ponderings ominous?”

“It depends on the conclusions one reaches.”

He almost smiles. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

That’s it? That’s all he is going to say? “So what conclusions did you reach?”

He stands up and walks to me. His tread is slower too. “Many. But what else is there to do at night. Are you hungry? Do you want some breakfast?”

Breakfast? “No! I’d rather talk.”

He gives me a million-miles-away smile. “Not now—I have a conference call. Make yourself at home. I’ll see you shortly.” He strides past me, taking his distant smile with him.

“Aiden?” I call after him. He has moved so fast, he is almost at the threshold of the room. He turns, his eyes expectant.

“Yes?”

“Is this about your nightmare? Is that why you’re acting so…so different?”

Nothing changes on his face. “No, Elisa. The nightmare does not concern you.” His voice is formal, as though he is saying “it’s none of your business”.

“Yes, it does. You didn’t act like this before last night.” With another stab in my stomach, I miss the man he was. The beautiful, warm man giving me Baci and whispering secrets.

No emotion touches his eyes. He takes a few steps back into the room and stops—still far from me. “Before last night, you asked for two days with me and I gave them to you. Whether I had a nightmare or not is irrelevant. Time is up, Elisa.” He whirls and leaves the room, the lights flickering at his passage.

My knees buckle the moment he turns the corner and I sink on the sofa. My time is up. How well I know it. I stare at the stack of Powell’s books by the wall, the terrarium of flowers, my new Nikon camera. They look suddenly inert. Perfunctory. Like the gravity that kept them from drifting is extinguished and now they rotate in the universe homeless. Just like me.

I thought this was all about the nightmare. But now, listening to him, I look at last night with new, finally clear, wide-open eyes. He was saying goodbye even before his nightmare, when he was making love to me. This is what I’ll remember when I look at that painting. Why? What was it? I play with the hem of my dress as hypotheses tabulate in my brain.

Option One: He does not like the real girl behind the painting. Maybe I was too much of a mess, too open, too closed, too everything Reagan says men don’t want.