Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(53)

Option Two: This is about his demons. Whatever evil terrorizes him at night, strains his muscles and shuts him down, is keeping him from me, too.

The instant the options form in my head, I want to run and not see what happens next. But oddly, I can’t bring myself to leave. Regardless of which hypothesis is true, I’m worried about him. But how do you help a man who will not accept it?

I twist the hem some more, wondering what Mum would do. What did she do with Dad? They were always truthful. They never had secrets. And just like that I know what I have to do. Not only because it’s the right thing. But because it may allow Aiden to open up too. That has to help.

I stand, my knees shaking. With every step down the hall, I test the words in my head. When I reach the closed library door, his hard voice stops me.

“Just use my f*cking card, Hendrix. Do we have to go over this every f*cking year?… No, I’m actually thinking of leaving tonight… Yes, that’s fine… See you in two weeks.”

He slams down his phone, then there is silence. He’s leaving? Why? Where is he going? Another shiver whips over my skin. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and knock.

“Yes?” he calls with the same hard voice.

I open the door, feeling less welcome than in the immigration office. He is standing at his enormous desk in front of three continuous computer screens. When he sees me, his eyes betray some surprise. Then his impassive face returns. I wait for him to say something, maybe just my name in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t. He simply waits with questioning eyes.

“Umm, may I come in?” I ask, fighting the impulse to run, which is becoming stronger. As is this visceral concern I feel for him.

“Yes,” he says, indicating with his hand for me to take one of the cognac leather armchairs in front of his desk.

The moment I enter the library, the sight and smell of thousands of books fortify me. I take the armchair, wishing he would come and sit in the other one next to me. He looks at me expectantly.

I call on years of British “be calm” philosophy and smile. “I couldn’t help overhear. Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes. A short trip with friends.”

Odd that this relieves me. If his demons are at work, then friends must help. “Is Marshall going?” I keep smiling.

“No. Did you need something, Elisa?”

I feel the smile freeze on my lips as a wave of nausea rises in my throat. “I—I wanted to tell you the truth. About me. If you still want to hear it.” My voice is losing the even volume, trailing almost to a whisper in the end.

At last, his face loses the controlled fa?ade. His eyebrows arch in surprise. Then the deep V forms there.

“Why now?” His voice is very cautious.

“Because it feels right. And because you wanted to know?” I didn’t mean to say the last sentence. Or say it as a question. But a small, terrified part of me wonders if he really cares.

“I still want to know.”

I should try to fight the relief I feel at this but I can’t. I’ll deal with myself later.

Okay, here goes nothing. I take a deep breath. “I’m moving back to England.”

As I thought, the moment I say this to him, it becomes real. My stomach twists and heaves so violently that I clench my teeth right as bile crashes against them. My throat and lungs battle to keep the acid inside my body.

He blinks rapidly a few times. The rest of him remains frozen.

“What?” he asks eventually.

“I’m moving back to England. My student visa expired when I graduated. I have to leave in twenty-eight days.”

Impossibly, the V gets deeper. His hands curl like claws on the armrests of his chair. “I don’t understand. Why would you return to England after everything that’s happened there instead of renewing your visa?” He sounds annoyed. As if he disapproves of my choices.

“I don’t want to go back. But I tried to get a new visa and they denied it. I had just left my immigration interview when I first saw you.”

He tents his large hands and rests his chin on them. Confusion transforms to suspicion.

“Isn’t there some other visa? It seems a little…unbelievable.”

I bristle at the judgment in his voice but I force myself to remember that Aiden is like Reagan. Unquestionably American. Unshakably welcome. He cannot fathom what most of us outsiders have to go through only to breathe American air. It’s not his fault. He just doesn’t know.

“I’ve tried all I can. I tried three visas, in fact. They were all denied.”

“But what about your credentials? Your supplement? Surely that counts for something?” he demands, straightening into his high-alert posture.

I open my mouth to explain but suddenly cannot. All those details, so vital to me, feel like banalities between us now. I swallow and shake my head. “Not good enough.”

And it’s starting to feel like the truth—about everything.

He stands up forcefully, the chair squeaking from his strength. There is no confusion or suspicion on his face. In fact, there is no emotion. Just purpose. I can’t deny my disappointment. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I was hoping for something. The shifting tectonic plates as he shares something, too, and lets me help. Or a hug, a kiss, a kind word, some reassurance maybe. It will be okay. I’ll miss you. Glad we met. Or even anger. Fuck this. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’d even take some relief from him at having a way out. Anything but this calculated, rational problem-solving. Because with this, I have no idea if he cares or if he just feels like he needs to do something for the poor orphan who has nowhere to go.