Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(66)

When I get inside, I see a big banner hanging over the living room door. FEELING LIKE A MILLION BUCKS. It has dollar signs, American flags, hearts and smiley faces painted all over it. Reagan! I call out for her but a Post-it on the TV informs me that she is at her job training.

I march straight to our bookcase for my clinical psychology textbook. I flip through the pages until I find the section I want. As I read, I jot down the key words on a piece of paper.

Marine

Five years—from 1998 to 2003

Combat. Likely Afghanistan and Iraq

Isolation

Hypervigilance

Control

Nightmares

Hair-trigger temper

Rage

Violence

Guilt (“I shouldn’t”)

Lights flickering (To alert him to someone’s presence?)

High-alert at certain triggers—thunder, traffic, honking, camera flashes, new places

Thousand-yard stare (Flashbacks? Memories?)

Physical distance; last through doors; back never exposed; never anyone behind him; won’t go in a crowd (Why?)

Predisposition: eidetic memory

It all fits. Textbook case. Aiden Hale has posttraumatic stress disorder. Severe, by the looks of it. Whatever terror he lived through during combat has never left him.

What got him started down the military path? I don’t know. Whatever it was, he came out of it alive and scarred. But the discipline he learned, combined with his natural intelligence, allowed him to rise to the very top.

At what cost? Loneliness. Self-imposed isolation. Maybe that is why he cannot allow himself to get involved with me.

I hear three distinct slow knocks on the door. They lack Reagan’s femininity or Javier’s friendliness. I peep through the hole. The new lifeblood burns my veins. I open the door.

Aiden leans with his arm on the doorframe. He is looking down at my feet. Then his eyes travel over me, one inch at a time until they meet mine. They are blue fire.

“You have every reason to shut this door in my face. But will you be the miracle I think you are and let me in?”





Chapter Thirty-One





The Truth


I step back against the foyer wall and nod for Aiden to enter. He walks inside and stops in front of me. His face is ashen, the only light burning is in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Of course.” I close the door and lead him to our living room. He follows me, his quiet steps heavier. He ducks under Reagan’s million-dollar banner, treads past the sofa and stops smack in the center behind the ottoman.

“Would you like to sit down?” I ask. “Or something to drink?”

He shakes his head and starts to pace. Left, right. Left, right. With each step, he flits in and out of the ray of sun streaming from the window. Unsure what to do, I perch on the arm of the sofa, listening to the rustle of his suit.

He grasps his forehead like he wants to rip it off. I try to think of something to say but instinctively I know I shouldn’t. He is at the edge of a precipice and he will either jump on his own or not. He stops pacing and fixes me with his stare.

“From the moment you fell asleep in my arms on our first night, I’ve been trying to deserve you. Or if not deserve you, at least deserve the thought of you.” The words gush from his mouth.

“I’d touch your hair, your face. You smiled, then started whimpering in terror ‘six-oh-two, six-oh-two’. I had no idea what it meant but I knew you were in trouble and I knew no matter what it was, I’d try to save you. From anything, especially myself.” His teeth clench, and he runs his hand through his hair, grasping his neck.

“You deserve better, Elisa. Someone to heal you, not to drag you down. Gentle, not violent. The best thing for you is to let you go.

“But I’m selfish. I kept telling myself, ‘One more day, just one more day. I’ll be extra careful, always on my guard, never turn my back.’ The trouble was I hadn’t counted on your effect. All my structure, all my rules, they evaporate around you.” He splays his fingers in the air. “It took just holding you for a few minutes and I slipped… Such a simple, elemental mistake, and it could have been deadly.” His voice rises abruptly on the last word, making me jump.

“Deadly?” I gasp. “Why? What mistake?”

His hands turn to fists. “I fell asleep, Elisa… You have no idea how very close you were to getting hurt—” He sucks in a sharp breath and looks away. His eyes lock on the window. His frame shudders like he is seeing something vicious in his head.

But I relax as I finally understand. “You mean your nightmare? Aiden, I was fine. Nothing happened to me.”

Instantly, his jaw clenches. “Yes. By sheer dumb luck.” His voice is harsh, angry. “If you had touched my back instead of my face or had wrapped your arms around me, I would have attacked you and not known what I did until it was too late.” He fixes his eyes unblinking on the scratched hardwood floor.

A chill seeps through my skin to my bones. A gust of fear, if I’m honest. Yes, PTSD has nightmares and flashbacks but this sounds different. “Why would you have attacked me?” I try to put volume in my voice but it’s muted.

He looks up at me for an immeasurable moment. The ever-present tectonic plates slow down until they still. “I have a startle reflex, Elisa. No one can sneak up on me or touch me from behind, whether I’m asleep or awake… If they do, I will rip them apart or crush their bones, much like I did my own mother when I came home from Iraq… All because she tried to wake me one night from a nightmare. Just like you did.” His voice drops to a whisper, and he looks back at the window, beyond the glass pane. His eyes gloss with a liquid film. His right hand closes into a white claw, and his muscle bands quiver under the tailored lines of his jacket. Exactly as they did during his nightmare.