Hydrogen, I think instinctively, then stop. Strangely, I don’t want to numb any part of this. That’s why I didn’t help Reagan drain the wine bottles tonight. I want to know the full extent of the damage. My dad had this theory. When I was running a low fever, he wouldn’t give me drugs right away. He’d say, let your immune system fight it, it will make you stronger. Same thing now. If I can live through tonight, then I can make it. Irrevocably altered but, in substance, still me.

I leave a glass of water and some Advil for Reagan and trudge to my room. I take off my mum’s dress, trying not to think of how Aiden slipped it off last night. It seems like it happened a hundred years ago. When I unclasp my bra, his shirt button falls out and rolls dismally on the floor. I chase it under my desk, pick it up and put in on the nightstand. But it calls to me in a pea-in-the-mattress way so I tuck in my knickers drawer. Fresh sobs build in my chest, and I make a decision: I have to wash him off. It’s healthier this way even though my skin contracts at the mere thought, as if to hold on to his scent a little longer.

It’s the longest shower I have taken. The loofah stings, as does the hot water. With each scrub, Aiden’s lips, his tongue, his fingers go down the drain. When I am rinsed clean, despite using Reagan’s blueberry scrub, I don’t glow. All the light has gone out of my skin. I think wildly of a dying firefly. Suddenly, I’m afraid. What if I never work right again? What if I never respond to another man? Losing it now, after knowing what it feels like, would be cruel.

No matter how scientifically I try to dispel the theory, the terror is so strong that my knees give out and I sit in the bathtub for a while. I’m not crying. It’s one of those numbing pains that freeze your tear ducts. I’ve had another pain similar to this. It took weeks then before I could cry. My mind is idle, which is worse than empty. Emptiness is where a mind can sit still for hours. Idleness is a meddler. It looks for things to do, images to conjure, feelings to dredge up, questions to ask. Tonight, I can’t afford idleness. I try to focus only on the good things until the water runs cold. I stand up, turn off the shower and dry myself, ignoring the way the towel smarts against Aiden’s love bites.

In my room, I put on my soft flannel PJs, turn off the light and let the night have me. I don’t have dreams exactly. Instead, I see images thrown together by a crazed mind. Aiden, the flickering lights, the vicious tension of his shoulders, the way they relaxed when I touched them, his memory, his nightmare, his issues with doors and walls, the meeting with the lawyers, over and over again. Like a song stuck to the brain or a word on the tip of my tongue. Is my mind reliving or discovering? I’m just not sure.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Long Night

My day with Javier was easier. And harder. It was easier because I worked for fifteen hours straight and came up with a formula for nontoxic paint. So now I’m finally exhausted, and exhaustion is what I need tonight to be able to sleep.

But it was harder because no matter what I did, a small voice repeated in the back of my head like a broken vinyl record, Aiden Hale. Aiden Hale. Aiden Hale. He called Feign to cancel the painting—which made it final—but he still paid Feign his full commission, which made it worse. How can I get over a man who keeps saving me in every way?

“So the sale is supposed to be tomorrow?” Javier confirms as he pulls up in front of my apartment to drop me off.

“I think so. We’ll see if he has called.” My stomach starts knotting. I had the brilliant idea of leaving my phone behind to avoid conversation. So, of course, all day I’ve been nervous about what sort of message is waiting for me at home, or worse, that there will be no message at all.

Javier clutches my shoulder. “It’ll be fine. You’re doing the right thing.”

I nod, envious of his conviction. “I’ll let you know what happens. Thanks for today.”

I give him a hug and get out of the car. Calico is lounging in his spot on the sidewalk, waiting for his daily scratch. I wave at Javier and snap a picture of his Honda Civic as it clunks away past a shiny, black sedan.

Inside, Reagan is on the couch watching Chatty Man in her KISS ME, I’M BRITISH T-shirt. She is absorbed in Alan Carr’s Britishisms for drunk, giggling and trying to imitate them.

“Pissed up and off the face,” she annunciates at the TV but when she sees me, she mutes her phonetics practice. “Hey, luv. How was your day with Javier?”

“It was good. We worked a lot. Hopefully I won’t get him fired with my painting job.” I yawn. Yes, physical labor is working.

“Did you tell Denton about your million-dollar sale?”

“Yes, I called him from Javier’s phone. He’s beside himself. He demanded to come with me to the sale.”

“That’s great!” Reagan claps. “You’ll have a buffer from the dragon. Speaking of which, I’ve been fielding calls from that asshole all afternoon. Thanks so much for leaving your cell behind.”

I hate the relief and terror I feel at her words. “Sorry, Reg. What did he say?” I wheeze.

Reagan snorts. “Well, the first time was around two, and he asked for you to give him a call. I said ‘fine, whatever’ and hung up.” She sounds disgusted that Aiden had the nerve to call our apartment. “The second time was in the middle of dinner and when I said you weren’t here, he demanded to know when you would be back. I told him I had no idea when your date would be over.” Her green eyes glow in a way that rivals Calico’s.

I sink in the couch, my hand flying to my mouth. “You told him I was on a date?” I whisper through my fingers, horrified.

“Yes. And don’t give me that look. If you ask me, you deserve a real date after that stunt Aiden Hale pulled yesterday.” She looks like she is ready for the boxing ring. The only things missing are the gloves.

“Reagan, why did you do that?” I wail, but my voice is drowned by our phone ringing. I whimper and jump up.

“I bet that’s him again.” Reagan purses her lips like she is eating a lemon. “You want me to get it and say you’re spending the night?”

“No. I’ll get it,” I call as I sprint to the kitchen.

She is right behind me, looking very much like a bodyguard. I open the recipe drawer and turn it inside out digging for a paperclip. I find two. Ring, ring, ring. Ring, ring, ring. Deep breath. Oxygen, 15.999.

“Hello?” I answer. Thanks to the paperclip and a massive internal effort, I sound normal even though I’m a bigger mess than the immigration system. Reagan gives me the thumbs-up.

“Elisa.” Aiden’s voice is quiet, yet every cell in my body responds instantly. I’m ready to run to him and from him at the same time. I sink on the kitchen chair.

“Hello, Mr. Hale.” The formal address burns my tongue but Aiden would be more painful.

Reagan gives me another thumbs-up.

There is a long pause. My paperclip is now a straight wire.

“How was your day?” he asks after a few moments, his deep voice even.

“It was good, thank you. Reagan said you called.” My voice is even too. I should get an Oscar for this. Reagan’s raising-the-roof gesture confirms that my performance is solid.

He pauses again and clears his throat once. “Yes, I drafted the agreement with standard terms, but we can change it if you wish. Does tomorrow still work for you?” For the first time, his voice wavers but it’s so brief that I can’t be sure if it’s bad reception, static or something else.

“Yes, it does. By the way, Professor Denton is beyond himself with excitement and has asked, or rather begged, that he comes tomorrow. He has been there from the beginning, and I’d like to give him that opportunity. Is that all right with you?”