Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(93)
When we arrive at his house, I get out of the car, sensing Aiden behind me. Close, very close. He slides his palm over the pad and the doors open. I march through them, across the living room, noticing our Powell’s books—from a happy time—still on the dining table. His footsteps echo in my wake. At the bedroom threshold, I pause. His footsteps stop too. His body heat reflects on the back of my neck, and my resolve wavers. So I shut the door behind me. His footsteps do not ring in the hallway. I drape what’s left of Mum’s dress over the chaise and take off Benson’s jacket and my heels. The welts have already started to fade. I put on my periodic table T-shirt and climb into bed.
On his nightstand is the frame I gave him. Was he planning on sleeping here tonight? I fight off every single tear, switch off the side lamp and turn on my side. For the first time since we laid eyes on each other, I’m thankful to be alone.
Chapter Forty
Lifeline
I jolt awake with a sense of unease. Dawn light streams between the strands of my hair, tangled in my lashes. I blink once, twice. I am knotted around Aiden’s pillow, clutching it between my arms and legs. Instantly, I remember last night and my body splits in two. My fingers squeeze the pillow to my chest but my senses try to block Aiden’s words echoing in my ears. Mexican border…let you go… Hydrogen, 1,008. Helium, 4.003. Lithium, 6.94. His words go silent, replaced by the first chirps of the resident bluebirds. Then I see him.
“Oh!” I gasp, the pillow plopping on the bed.
Aiden is sitting on the chair in the corner, ankle over his knee, in the same dark jeans and blue shirt as yesterday. In his right hand, tucked between his thumb and index finger is the quill from our first night. He rolls it gently, the Amherst feather quivering from his touch. A few Powell’s books are at his feet, Byron on top. He is not looking at them. His eyes are on me—vibrant but turbulent, as though images have spun in their depths for hours. I try to speak, even a simple “hi”, but I can’t make a sound with my heart crashing against my ribs.
“I don’t want you to leave.” His voice is soft, quiet.
“Why not?” I whisper.
He sets the quill on Byron’s Poems and stands. A look of purpose flashes in his eyes. He takes the five steps between us, while I try to calm my pulse thudding in my ears. I expect him to sit at the foot of the bed but he kneels on the floor next to me.
“Because you were right yesterday,” he says. “Ever since our first night together, I’ve been so consumed with pushing you away that I didn’t realize how much I don’t want it until you threatened to leave me. I’ve watched you sleep all night, afraid it was my last chance. This little wrinkle between your eyebrows didn’t go away even in your sleep. Thank God you took mercy on me and hugged my pillow or I’d have gone insane. I’ve been dreading this morning even more than on embargo night. Stay with me…please!”
Every word, every pause, every new, shy inflection in his tone is so close to what I have dreamed that for an instant I wonder whether I’m really awake. But then I see his dimming eyes and the dark circles under them and I know I must be. No matter how much he hurts me, I’ll never want this look of anguish on his face. His rare “please” echoes in the air.
“But all the reasons why you wanted me to leave are still here. What made you change your mind?”
He shakes his head. “I haven’t changed my mind. I capitulated.”
It sounds like a regret.
The tectonic plates start shifting and he pales. “Seeing you last night—white as a ghost, dress in shreds, running in the wind—” He shudders. “I haven’t prayed in twelve years and eighteen days but when I saw you, all I kept thinking was ‘Please, God, please let her be okay!’” He shudders again.
I shudder too, but for another reason. What happened twelve years and eighteen days ago? I want to ask but, instinctively, I know this is something he needs to tell me on his own. Abruptly, he grips my hand in both of his. “I’d rather be deployed again than be unable to protect you. If you hadn’t calmed me yesterday, I have no idea what I would have done…or whom I would have hurt.”
I shiver, replaying the violence emanating from him as he whirled toward Javier.
“Elisa?” His right hand flies to my cheek, then at the hollow of my neck. “I’ve scared you again.”
I nod. “Yes, a little.”
He leans away from me immediately, resting his hand on the bed. “I don’t want to frighten you.”
“I’m more afraid of what you may do to others.” I shiver again.
His jaw flexes. “I’ll destroy anything and anyone that may hurt you, Elisa. Including myself. On that point, I will not negotiate.”
“I understand that better than you think. I’d do the same for you. But it’s how little it takes for you to jump straight to destruction mode that scares me. A broken nail, Aiden? A burned dress? What if I’d fallen and sprained my ankle? Or got hit by a car?”
He says nothing but from his rigid shoulders I know that even these scenarios are triggering his vigilance.
I take his hand again. “Life happens, Aiden. One day, whether naturally or accidentally, something will happen to me. We can’t have you go on a carnage spree just because I got the flu. And what if we’re both very lucky, and one day when I’m ninety, I pass away in my sleep, probably dreaming of you. What will you do then if you’re still alive?”