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.

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 fucking card, Hendrix. Do we have to go over this every fucking 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 façade. 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.