“You can’t snoop what’s already yours,” he whispers.
I smile, swallowing back tears. “I finally know the truth about Byron now. I didn’t think I could love you more, but I do.” I rise on my tiptoes to kiss him but he leans away.
“Lack of love was never our problem, Elisa.”
He nods once and sweeps out of the room. I watch the spot where he stood. The tears I was fighting spill through so violently that I can’t make a sound.
You hear that love is strong, love is kind. But love does not fight wars, does not write laws, does not change them. As to these earthly needs, love is impotent.
Chapter Forty-Nine
American Beauty
I know where I am before I open my eyes. Bed, the glass door open, a cool breeze wafting in with the scent of freshly dug earth. And the cinnamon-sandalwood-and-Aiden fragrance around me. I equate it with being awake in every sense of the word. Even if terrified.
Today is his first day Versed-free.
I lie very still on my side, preparing for anything—from “Elisa, Cora has packed your clothes”, to “Elisa, police are outside to take you to prison”.
Aiden blows along my neck, and my muscles relax fractionally. This is normal for the last three days. Then I tense again. But utterly abnormal for him. His touch has vanished completely. In its place are only these soft gusts of breath that leave me bereft.
“You’re up,” I say a little late.
“As are you.”
I roll over to look at him. He is on top of the covers, curled around me without contact, already dressed in frayed jeans and a black T-shirt. The purple circles under his bottomless eyes are deeper. The stubble is thicker, longer, and the dimple is gone.
“Morning kiss, evening bliss, my mum used to say,” I whisper and kiss him. My lips barely brush against his before he pulls away. But for that one nanosecond of touching, we both shiver.
“They’re delivering Marshall’s tree soon, and your roses. I’ll start the sprinklers,” he says and blows out of bed and onto the patio before I can blink.
I stumble up, ignoring the sharp aches in my arm and back. Who cares about bruises when your insides burn this way?
I flit out of bed and into his closet to find something to camouflage the livid purple-and-blue patches on my skin. It’s easier at night—I can just wear long-sleeve T-shirts and flannel pajamas. But in seventy-five degree weather? Ah, yes, leggings and Aiden’s shirt from the painting. Then I can still feel like he is touching me. I slide them on and run out on the patio, lest he disappear.
He is sitting at the wrought-iron table, fingers pressed into his temples, shoulders hunched, empty eyes trained unblinking on the horizon. Like someone is siphoning his soul. The sight makes me shiver.
When he hears me, he stands and arranges his face into a semblance of human features.
“Cora bought you some more clotted cream.” He pushes a beautiful breakfast tray toward me. “Eat something. I’ll start digging the hole for the tree.” He leaps casually over the patio stairs and charges across the lawn without another glance.
“Have you eaten?” I call after him. He doesn’t answer.
The sun fades and a chill seeps through my skin.
“Aiden!” His name bursts from my lips.
He turns, and I notice that even for that fleeting instant he looked away from me, his face aged again. “Yes?”
I try to remember how to smile. “I love you.”
His empty eyes become—impossibly—more still. “I love you too,” he says without any intonation and stalks to the farthest edge of the yard.
I shiver again. Isaac Newton was wrong. Not all bodies at rest, stay at rest. There are bodies—torn, ravaged-from-within bodies—that shudder in stillness, perhaps even in death.
I wobble to the table where my tray is waiting. The same as our first morning. Cream, scones, orange marmalade, eggs, bacon, Baci… I pick at a scone, tossing most of it for the bluebirds, unable to look away from Aiden.
He rips weeds along the perimeter almost violently. Fast, like a hurricane. His shoulders ripple with movement and tension. He picks up a shovel and starts digging. I listen to the chirps, scurries and flutters he leaves in his wake. The sound of life that goes on without visas, wars or accidents.
I jump when his iPhone buzzes next to my tray. I peek at the screen, dreading words like “Prison”, “ICE”, or “Isaac Newton”. But no. Just a reminder for Aiden’s meeting with Corbin later this afternoon. They have been locked up in one of the guest rooms every day for hours. Shutters closed.
The phone vibrates again—Hendrix.
“Aiden,” I call out. “Hendrix is calling you.”
He nods and digs faster.
The phone stops buzzing but before I can force down another scone crumb, it vibrates again. This one freezes the air solid. Casa Solis.
I watch the number on the screen, unable to move a finger. How can I possibly answer this call? What could I say that wouldn’t be a lie or horror? They’ll know immediately from my voice that something is wrong. I can’t tell them. It would be a huge betrayal of Aiden. And another worry for the Solises.
My stomach twists so sharply that I almost deposit my breakfast in the blackberry bushes. I sense Aiden’s gaze on my face so I compose a smile and wave. He turns to his hole, digging his way to Australia.
The iPhone buzzes again. A text this time.
Hendrix: Storm! Answer!
I leap to my feet—suddenly unable to tolerate anything. Our silence, their insistence and above all, the distance from Aiden. I march across the yard, careful not to trample the wildflowers.
“The whole world wants you,” I say when I reach him. “Not that I blame them.”
His cheeks are slightly flushed—the only sign of life in the otherwise hollowed face. He drops the shovel, takes the phone without a word and reads the text. The bottomless eyes deepen. But instead of answering, he tosses the phone on the grass and starts ripping some thistles.
I put my hand gently on his arm. “Aiden, love, they’re worried about you. Maybe just a line to say you’re…busy?”
He tears a dock weed off its roots.
“Why don’t you go see them for a few days? Corbin said it might help. I’ll be okay back here.” I keep my voice calm even though the idea of not seeing him now—even for an hour—rips me apart more than any attack he could deliver on man or weed.
He takes a deep breath and finally looks at me. “I want to comb through the list of potential witnesses first.”
“Any leads?” My voice trembles.
His muscles flex—the way they would if his arms were around me. “We’ll find one.”
That burns through my composure. I launch myself into his chest, craving his…everything. Maybe he can’t resist comforting me or maybe he craves this too; whatever it is—for the first time in three days—he doesn’t push me away. He cradles me gently in his arms.
My body responds with violence. Blood rushes to my skin, heart crashes against my ribs and the shivers become vibrations. I lock all muscles in place—afraid my desperation will drive him away—and rest my head on his chest. There’s more Aiden than sandalwood. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. He shudders and his breathing picks up. Like mine.
From somewhere outside our bubble, I hear another bloody buzz. I tighten my hold on Aiden but it’s too late. The spell is broken.
He drops his arms—my skin throbs at his absence—and picks up the phone from the grass. I’m about to rip it off his hand and toss it in the blackberry bushes but Aiden’s face derails me. The V appears between his eyebrows. Aiden doesn’t frown when he sees numbers—he always remembers them. I glare at the screen. A 253 area code.
“Who’s that?” I hiss.
“Not sure.” He picks up with his usual “Aiden Hale” and darts across the yard toward the house. Without a word. Without a touch.
The chills return, and tears I didn’t know I was holding spill over. Every cell misses substance. With every hour his hands are not on me, I turn ghostly. After all, isn’t this what makes ghosts, ghosts? Inability to touch them?