NINETY DAYS: CHAPTER 13 – OPEN

Hey gang, new chapter for you! It has one of my favorite scenes in it, wonder if you’ll like it as well.  Thanks as always for reading and writing to me–love hearing from you. I had some questions about whether Aiden & Elisa’s story will be finished in this book. Yes, it will–their love was always going to be two books. I think after you read the ending, you will agree. 🙂 Lots of love, and hope you’re having a great week. xo, Ani

13

Open

Three simultaneous things wake me up: a buzz from a phone, a feeling of electricity on my skin, and a soft chuckle. Aiden. I don’t need to open my eyes to know he is real this time. His smell, his arms caging me protectively on top of his sculpted body still on the floor of his hotel room are more perfect than any dream I can muster.

“Welcome back,” he says, sensing me awake, his fingers trailing along my spine. His deep sultry drawl brings back a deluge of memories about everything that just happened on this floor, and electricity flurries everywhere from my toes to my matted hair.

“Mmm, have I been out long?”

“Just your usual post-orgasm coma. You even snored this time—the cutest little snore.” He chuckles again. A wave of blush must burn even his skin because he brushes his fingertips over my cheek. “I’ve missed your blush, but I don’t see what you have to be embarrassed about. I love that I can knock you fast asleep like your piano piece does with me. It’s good to know we have at least that effect in common.”

Everything inside me opens at his words—arteries, veins, airways—and abruptly I feel like my air, my blood flow, my heartbeat have doubled. Living twice: once for me, once for this dream of sleeping next to him. A dream so powerful, so forbidden that it sings for me like a siren song, always beaconing, never reaching. Until now.

“Are you okay?” He tips up my face to examine me. Can he hear my heart thundering?

“Is it tonight?” The words come out as a whisper, as though my voice already wants us to be asleep.

He understands what I mean immediately. I can tell from the way his eyes move with years of fear and practiced self-denial. “Elisa, love, I . . . can’t bear the idea of hurting you. We haven’t tested it with anyone in bed with me, let alone with anyone who affects me as you do. Can’t we wait the ninety days to see where we land?”

“But Corbin has given us the plan for sleeping. He wouldn’t suggest it if he thought it would be dangerous.”

“Corbin admits he can’t make guarantees. What if he is wrong about the sleep part? I can’t take that chance with you. Do you have the faintest idea of what you mean to me?”

“I know what you mean to me. And you’re not supposed to think of what-ifs. We have to live in the present moment. We have to do the opposite.”

“And we will with everything else. We’ll spend time with Javier and Reagan, we’ll go out, do whatever you want to do while I’m awake and can control myself. But we can’t do the opposite with your safety.”

“You won’t hurt me in your sleep. I don’t think you’re capable of it after what we’ve been through.”

But I’m losing him with arguments. The jaw is starting to flex. “Elisa, do we need a detailed review of everything that happened two weeks ago? I’m still the same man who . . . ” He shudders. “Nothing has changed yet.”

“That was different. I triggered your reflex while you were awake. This time you’ll have your medicine and you’ve never been able to sleep as deeply before Für Elise, you said so yourself.”

“Exactly. We don’t know. It’s too risky for you.” His hands turn into fists at the small of my back.

I give up reasoning and try my best weapon. “Please, Aiden. It’s all I want. I want it so much it hurts.”

I hate the torture that strikes in his eyes at my words. They tear asunder in conflict between never being able to resist what I want and always wanting to save me. But those are not the rules anymore. And he knows it. I watch as the battle slowly resolves and his side loses. He nods once as though he cannot bring himself to say the word, “yes.”

I cannot speak with the way my lungs are bursting; it feels like my ribs are cracking with the purest form of happiness. So I kiss him, pouring all my words into my lips, feeling his warm cinnamon breath washing over my face. He kisses me back just as urgently, as I knew he would. “Isn’t there a small part of you that is happy about this?” I finally manage when I can breathe again.

He brushes his knuckles along my jawline. “You can never know.”

His phone buzzes again, breaking the spell. But I hug this little victory tight in my mind, hide it deep inside my heart where it will beat with me all day until tonight.

“Javier and Reagan are awake. They’re asking for you.”

“Yes!” I bolt up. “Let’s go see them right now. Oh bloody hell, my hair!”

His lips lift in the smile I love best. “It is beyond all description.” And to my surprise, he snaps a photo of it with his phone.

“Aiden, don’t! It’s ridiculous.”

He chuckles. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

As soon as we are vertical, the full extent of the devastation we have caused with our big bang becomes apparent. My old pajamas are in shreds. One of my wellingtons is on the dresser where it has kicked down a crystal vase of spray roses, the other is nowhere to be seen. My torn knickers are dangling from the chandelier. The buttons of his jeans are everywhere, including in his hair. One of his Timberland boots is on the bed, the other on one of his suitcases, which has collapsed open onto the floor. The nightstand has dragged away sideways from the wall exactly where he was pinning down my wrists. The lamp on it is knocked over, my picture frame too.

“Thank heavens this survived,” Aiden says, sauntering in nothing but flawless golden skin to the nightstand and straightening my frame. The sight of him, especially after my victory, makes me want to demolish the room some more, but I have bigger problems.

“Umm, I might have to wear your clothes back to the cottage. It’s going to scandalize the whole town, not to mention Javier.”

His eyes sparkle. “I’d never allow such infamy. I brought you your clothes.”

“My clothes?”

“Yes, all my gifts that you left behind—the dresses, Powell’s books. I couldn’t bear to keep them.”

Really? They’re here?”

He smiles at my obvious delight. “In that big duffel over there.” How could I have ever left them? Abruptly I miss them so much. “I need a woman minute,” I tell him, rushing for the restroom to clean up as soon as possible so I can wear his gifts. His chuckle follows me like a shadow.

The restroom is domed, like the spired roof of the Inn, complete with a console sink, a bidet, and a shower over a claw-foot tub. I try to clean up quickly but it’s a lost battle.

“Are you done with your woman minute yet?” Aiden knocks at the door. “It’s been twelve and I miss you.”

I wrench the door open to let him in. “Look at me! The mud won’t come off.”

He really tries not to laugh but it bursts from his lips. “Here, I’ll help you. Mine is a mess too.”

Under the hot shower stream with him running his fingers through my hair, it’s impossible not to recall that first shower I took in England two weeks ago, trying to wash him and all of America off. But this time, almost fused to each other in the tiny tub, it’s as though we are washing off the last two weeks together. He scrubs my strands gently and I shampoo his hair, rivulets of mud, tears, distance all draining away with the soap bubbles. And although we can’t wash off the terror still lining our insides, I feel lighter, stronger—as if his touch is flooding me with oxytocin. Which it probably is.

“Fuck, it won’t leave your scalp!” Aiden is doing battle with the mountain of foam on my head, the V etched deep between his eyebrows. It takes fifteen minutes and all twenty of our fingers for the water to run completely clear. But at least his hair and skin are glistening with droplets like a million diamonds are trying and failing to outshine him. A few drops peck his lips like kisses, but those lips are mine. I reach on my tiptoes for his mouth. He gives everything to me, like always. The familiar static gathers on my skin as though the water is vaporizing from the heat within. But he pulls away right as he starts to turn into gold-plated titanium in my hands.

“We’re never leaving this bathroom if we don’t stop exactly now.”

“Fine. Tell me about Rostóv again. I need him.”

Rostóv has made it to his Moscow family home by the time I open the giant duffel back of my gifts. And then I don’t need Rostóv anymore. Because inside, rolled so precisely he could only have packed them himself, are all the dresses he gave me except the one that was torn during the attack. And all my lingerie. And my graduation trainers engraved with Byron’s “She Walks In Beauty” line. I put on the gray sheath I wore when we went to the rose garden in Portland during the daytime—that was a good day. Then I slide on the trainers, convinced my toes and the fabric are hugging each other.

“I’m ready,” I say to the Adonis next to me in a fresh white shirt over a pair of jeans. But he is hiding something behind his back with a grin.

“I think something is missing,” he answers.

“What is it?” I try to peek, but he shifts, blocking the mystery from view. “Show me!” I try again but he is too fast.

“You have to solve the clue first: if you gave me all the kisses in the world, they would still be too few.”

“Baci!” I squeal and throw myself at him. It’s the quote the chocolates gave me the very first time I introduced Baci to him on our embargo day. He laughs and hands me a big box of them. “There are exactly ninety,” he says. “I counted them myself.”

“Ninety,” I whisper, caressing the clear lid through which the silver-wrapped chocolates are twinkling. Last time he gave me thirty of them accidentally before he even knew about my thirty days. But this time he knows the deadline. And he didn’t dare to buy one more. D-a-r-e. Keep us together, make us brave.

“Have one,” he says. “Let’s see what they start us with this time.”

I wrestle with the lid but he takes it back from me and opens it lest I die from a paper cut. I reach for one with closed eyes, willing it to be positive, and read the waxy little note:

“If love be rough with you, be rough with love.”

“That sounds inspiring for our fight,” I say, looking up at him. “It says it’s from Shakespeare, but I don’t recognize the line.”

“Romeo and Juliet,” he murmurs.

If he feels the chill that whips through me, he does not say anything. Don’t be silly, I tell myself. It’s just your fear. Make us safe, make us brave. But the goose bumps are not leaving.

“You pick another.” I tell him quickly, my own naked Baci completely forgotten.

He smiles—am I imagining the kiss of melancholy at the corner of his mouth? “You know, it’s probably because we’re not doing your ritual with the apples,” he says as he unwraps his. I hold my breath.

“‘Love that moves the sun and other stars,’” he reads. “Whew! Thank you, Dante.”

As though Dante’s sun leaps straight out of the waxy note to beam down on me, the goose bumps disappear. This is ours. Haven’t I been thinking about stars and constellations?

“Seems more consistent with the big bang.” Aiden winks with that uncanny way he has of guessing my thoughts. I take his chocolate and shove it my mouth.

“I choose this one,” I mumble, my mouth full.

“No contest.” He hurls the Romeo and Juliet one on the paper bin and brings his mouth to mine, melting the chocolate together until it is all gone.

Downstairs in the lobby, James and Benson are playing chess on the sofa. Benson is ahead by two moves but stands when he sees us.

“Where to, sir?” he asks Aiden.

“Just to Elisa’s for now. Did we get the EBIDTA reports?” They start talking about Aiden’s work at the concierge desk that Benson must have transformed into a mobile command center in the last couple of hours. I take advantage of their distance to perch on the armchair next to James. He grins. “Well, look’s who neither drenched nor muddy.”

I smile. “I told him, by the way.”

“I figured. Better you than me.”

“I don’t think I ever thanked you properly. If you hadn’t been there…” I shiver at my recklessness. “Well, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Why didn’t you tell him, James? I’m grateful you didn’t, but I’m curious.” I lower my voice as much as possible to still be audible. He looks at Aiden still at the desk and, above the thick ginger beard, his eyes age in a way Aiden’s do sometimes.

“He’s my brother, Elisa. I know he’s told you about Iraq. Well, he saved my life, he saved all of us except . . . Marshall. And you know what that’s done to him. All of us would give our lives to save him if we could.” His eyes flash back at me, and I see the human sniper Aiden mentioned. “But it sounds like you might be able to. So why didn’t I tell him? Because I couldn’t bring myself to add anymore to the hell he was in. I’ve only seen Storm that fucked up twice. Once after Fallujah, once at the cabin after he had left you. And then he got the call from Benson that you were gone. I don’t know what you were doing that night, but it would have killed my brother if something had happened to you.”

I can’t find the words to respond. They’re lodged with tears I can’t spill here.

“I’ll ask this once,” James whispers so low I can barely hear him, his sniper eyes still on Aiden—he doesn’t seem to need to blink as much as most humans. “Were you trying to hurt yourself, Elisa? Is that why you jumped into the river?”

And I understand then. I understand the deepest, darkest reason why he kept this from his brother. “No, James. I swear to you I was not. I was just stupid and had experimented with a very strong sleeping aid that I concocted myself. I’d never do that to him. I love him.”

I see relief spread over his eyes even though they haven’t left Aiden once. But they zoom on me now and, in that laser gaze, I know he believes me. “Then we’ll never speak of this again.”

Aiden strides to us seconds later. “Plotting how to keep more secrets from me?”

James barks a laugh. “Not this time. After serious consideration, Elisa and I have decided we both value our lives too much to fuck with you again.”

“How long are you staying, James?” I ask, wondering if I have time to know him more and see Aiden around a friend. It must be so good for him.

“Oh, I’m leaving tomorrow. Hendrix and Jazz are flying over and we’ll fish River Spey in Scotland for a while, courtesy of your man.”

“So soon.” I force a smile. “Will you be going?” I ask Aiden, my voice breaking despite my effort to appear calm and collected. He gives me a look that says verbatim “how hard did you hit your head on that floor?”

“No, I’m on partial leave from work and everything else except you,” he says in a tone that confirms the version in my head. “But don’t worry, Cal and the others will stop by before they head stateside. You can meet them all then.”

Yes! That’s brilliant!” I have wanted to meet his friends since the very first time he mentioned them on our second embargo day.

They laugh at my excited tone. I see Benson coming our way though and whisper quickly to James, “Knight to E-3.” His eyes widen, as he traces the chess move that will get him out the checkmate Benson has set up for him.

“Told you,” Aiden says to him with his “this is Gary Kasparov” tone and takes me by the hand. “Let’s go. You can say goodbye to Cal tonight.”

“Actually, I’ll walk with you. I need to pick up some cigars for the trip.”

But all our smiles vanish and we freeze on the inn’s threshold. The shops are now open and people are littering Ivy Lane. Fewer than Portland’s streets, but even one person in danger is too many. Tension snaps back around Aiden’s shoulders, petrifying them into granite slabs under his crisp white shirt. The ripples jolt all way down to his hand clenched around mine. He looks taller, forbidding, indestructible—as he always does when he feels most vulnerable. For a breathless moment, he locks eyes with the narrow alley, memorizing each shop, door, passerby, bench, flowerpot, cobblestone—engraving it in his mind, calculating and anticipating every outcome—all for the simple, beautiful purpose of protecting it.

It lasts only seconds to anyone who might be watching—just a beautiful man holding hands with an awed woman, heading out of their inn. But to the three of us who know what this costs him—know it, yet still not fathom it—it’s endless. With each ripple of his muscles, I want to say, “let’s just stay here in our little bubble, in the bliss of your arms.” But I bite my tongue so hard, I taste blood. Because he needs all my confidence in him right now.

Aiden looks at me then, his eyes searching my jawline that gives him the most calm.

“Let’s go do the opposite,” he says, donning his Raybans. And he takes the first step onto the street.

The next several steps are hard. As the passersby zig-zag to make room for us entering the lane, Aiden’s vigilance sweeps over us like a shield. An elder gentleman brushes past him, and I stifle my gasp. But a fraction of a second before the near-contact, Aiden shifts slightly away, his mind having already anticipated the move. Then a little boy on a green bike shoots toward us but, again, seconds before he enters our radius, Aiden steps fluidly out of the path. “Mum!” a little girl screams, making three of us jump, but not Aiden. He simply tilts his head as though he had expected her cry before being howled. I watch in awe as his impossible mind powers us through in an elegant, nearly invisible dance of hunt and save.

“Damn, Storm!” James says behind us in similar wonder.

Aiden doesn’t respond, but takes my hand and tucks it into his granite arm. I know he means, “stay close.” And I do. I lean my head against the stone of his bicep and feel it soften, mold to my shape, granite giving in to silk.

It gets a little easier then. Not because of my effect, though. Because of his. As we walk further down the lane and the passersby register Aiden’s presence, his beauty is so intense for Burford, so very clearly not from around here, that they instinctively give him a wide, admiring berth, stunned into general paralysis like me. Especially the female of the species, although some men as well.

“That’s interesting,” Aiden says, clearly not having factored the mind-numbing effect of his own beauty in his vast calculations at all. “Must be a Burford thing. People give you a lot more space and move slower, too. That’s good. I didn’t expect that.”

I can’t stop my giggle on time. He looks at me and, even behind the Raybans, I can tell he is thinking I’ve lost my mind to be laughing at such a juncture. “I don’t think it’s Burford, Aiden. I think it’s you. You’ve incapacitated the entire female population on this street. Why, Mrs. Willoughby just walked into that street lamp over there.”

His head flies up toward Mrs. Willoughby as though she might be an incoming missile. Which would be entirely possible if she wasn’t frozen, ogling our direction. Aiden clears his throat. “I don’t think this is the appropriate moment for us to be fucking around, Elisa. Head in the game.”

James chuckles behind us. “I think Elisa’s got a point, Storm. That dude at ten o’clock just tripped. Just come out dick first next time. Problem solved.”

That’s too much for me. Laughter explodes through my lips, drowned by Benson’s and James’ booming barks. Aiden does not dignify our laugh with any response whatsoever. But I know behind the Raybans, his eyes are sweeping the street with this new lens, no doubt noticing every stare, every mouth popped open, every stumble. Noticing it and entirely overwriting it. His Raybans turn on me.

“You find it amusing that the poor unsuspecting folk of your hometown find a violent madman attractive, Elisa?”

“I don’t know the madman you’re referring to, but it’s good to know I’m not the only one you have this effect on.”

Where dick jokes didn’t make him smile, my words do. Or maybe it’s because we have reached the end of Ivy Lane and the field of epiphanies stretches ahead with no passersby or admirers of any kind lurking in the grass.

“Well, I’m off for my cigars. Benson, wanna grab a beer? I don’t think Storm needs us anymore. He’s too pretty.”

Aiden laughs, tension draining out of him now that it’s over. “You’re not my type, Cal. How often do I have to tell you?”

“Why would you say that? Just because I don’t have purple eyes and black hair?”

“That’s exactly why.”

“Come on, Benson, let’s see if Mrs. Willoughby is interested. See you lovebirds later.”

“Thanks you two,” I tell them, and we both watch them stroll easily back up Ivy Lane. Aiden gazes at the road he just walked over blistering torments of torture, coals of capture, and flames of bystander gazes for me. For us. And I think, this is Dante, not Romeo. It has to be.

“What is it?” he asks, noticing my stare or drool.

“Take off your glasses. I miss your eyes.”

He makes a show of removing them dutifully and tucking them in his shirt but I miss it. Because the blue depths are shining with this other victory—so miniscule to everyone else, so significant to us. I take his face in my hands.

“I’m so proud of you,” I tell him and kiss him with the full force of my words. He responds so enthusiastically that we stumble backwards into the field. And his kiss does what it always does—cancels everything but the taste of him, the feel of his mouth that he has only ever shared with me. Each time our tongues dance and our lips brush they tattoo a new memory in his mouth. A memory that is ours alone.

The walk back to the cottage is a breeze after that. Just open space and us. His shoulders sway with his natural grace. His laughter is easier too—cascading over the field of epiphanies, the arched bridge, the trail along the river. Every so often, he snaps a picture of me with his phone. And despite his smile and the high of the day, I don’t understand why the camera click feels like an icy flick against my skin.

“Why do you take pictures of me?” I ask him as he captures me showing him where I camped. “You don’t need them. You never took them before.”

He takes another one of me twirling a blade of grass, and the ice pinches me again, but he doesn’t answer.

“Aiden? Tell me.”

“I want you forever in every way I can have you,” he shrugs, not meeting my eyes.

He doesn’t have to. I know what he means. Forever in paintings, memories, pictures. In case we fail. In case we don’t win. How can I deny him that, no matter how many ice crystals just broke through my skin?

“Present moment, love,” he says, as if he saw every ice pick. “We have to capture it.”

“Present moment,” I repeat.

But the present moment eludes us both when he spies the river boulder that nearly drowned me. He recognizes it immediately from my description. His fists alone could pulverize it into fine sand. How different it looks to me now after James’s words and Aiden’s terror for me. Instead of a foolish stunt, its rounded black curve seems gravelike. A sinister tombstone or the hunchback of an evil sorceress lurking below. It would have killed him, James said. Perhaps it’s the conviction of his voice, or allowing myself to look at this spot that almost ended us both, or perhaps it’s the ice of the camera clicks, but Romeo and Juliet feel closer than Dante now. My life and Aiden’s are entwined by fate and circumstance like two nerves threaded inside a heart chamber. Cut one, and you cut the other. The river laps at the boulder like a dark prophecy. Neither survives if the other dies. Neither dies if the other lives.

Aiden’s hand wraps around my waist, and he leads us away from the boulder toward the cottage. Maybe he needs to get away from this spot as much as I do.

“Do you want to hear four things that will make you smile?” he asks as the boulder’s sickly lapping sound fades.

“Please.”

He tips up my face. “Cal was there, we are here, it’s been a good day, and tonight you get to take my sleep virginity. I hope you’ll be gentle.”

It works immediately. I giggle at the same time that tears spring in my eyes because he is right. Tonight is still coming. Tonight he will be mine exactly as I’ve always wanted.

“I love the giggle but not the tears,” he says. “Now tell me, what kind of dreams do you think we will have on our first night? The only rule is no sleepwalking allowed.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep at all. I’ll probably just watch you the whole time.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure you pass out. The more knocked out you are, the safer.”

I giggle again. Leave it to Aiden to turn even sex into a safety measure. “How will you manage that with Javier and Reagan? Javier might have an aneurism.”

“I’m working on that part.”

“Have you really never slept with anyone before? Even before Iraq?”

He kisses the top of my head. “Of course not. I never kissed on the mouth before you, but you think I stuck around and spent the night?”

“Why not?”

“Because if I have to remember something forever, it better be something I absolutely love.”

Like us. All his other conquests don’t matter, even if he still remembers them perfectly. The most intimate part of Aiden—his sleep—will belong only to the two of us.

By the time the cottage’s rose-covered roof appears, the boulder is far away and Romeo and Juliet’s quote feels like just another poetry line again, as though the cottage is a counter-curse, folding us within the protective charm of its rose magic. I feel abruptly safer, more carefree—like I always felt here as a child. Everything shifts away as I grasp the present moment: Aiden is coming to my home.

“Let’s do this the way I used to when I was little,” I say.

He smiles with the dimple. “Right behind you.”

We creep up to the guard of willows that susurrate as always. “Listen,” I whisper. “What words can you make out?”

He plays along, straining his ear against the trunks with me under the dense emerald canopy of the garlands. Shhhhhh, shhhhhh.

Wishes?” he asks, cupping his ear.

Wishes! “I love that! I’ve never heard that in the leaves before.”

“What do you hear?”

“Oh, I’ve heard all manner of words here over my life. From selfish to licorice. But since I’ve been back, I only hear she’s here and he’s here.”

He kisses me. Right here under the willow garlands, like a secret. “Come,” I tell him, feeling unsteady as his lips always leave me. And, parting the garlands like a curtain, we step between the trunks into Mum’s magic garden.

“Ah!” Aiden murmurs as he sees it in daylight for the first time. Delight molds his fairytale face as his eyes sweep over my little kingdom. And what a show it’s putting up for its prince. The cottage gleams pearl white under the brilliant sun. The shutters are open, the lace of the curtains fluttering hello with the breeze. The ancient beech trees are murmuring their own welcome like dignified sentinels with sun-plated helmets. The river is glistening like an emerald silk ribbon. And like a royal mantle over it all, are the thousands of roses in full bloom. Sparkling with sunlight like rare unknown gems.

Aiden does not move. He is stunned into silence. But his eyes are more luminous than I’ve ever seen them. They alight on each bloom, each detail of my childhood—absorbing everything.

“Come, let me show you the roses I told you about in Portland.” I take his hand and we wind up the garden path covered in petals. And as he did then, he kisses me by each rose when I introduce him.

“And these are the Elisas,” I tell him, remembering that he made poor Benson hunt for a look alike on our first morning together. My roses wink, flutter, and sway for him as though they want nothing more than for him to touch them. And he does. One single caress with the tip of his finger. I’m not a rose bush, but I can’t imagine any living cell being immune to his touch. I’m certain the Elisas look less white and more pink.

“I don’t have words in my memory for this,” Aiden finally speaks. For once, he looks completely past-free. Then I remember with terror.

“Won’t your first memory of this garden be me breaking up with you last night?”

He smiles. “That’s not my first memory of this.”

“Then what is?”

“My first memory of this is exactly what I had planned: your astonished beautiful face seeing Javier and Reagan on your doorstop. That’s why I stayed so far behind. I wanted that first memory to be only of you and your happy moment.”

What can I say to that?

Inside, Reagan and Javier are in the kitchen, Javier sniffing suspiciously the pot of porridge that Reagan is making while she beams at it, already wearing a royal blue feathered hat. As soon as they hear us come in, they bound to us and pull me into a hug.

“There you are! We were about to figure out how to call British search and rescue on you two,” says Javier. Then their eyes fall on Aiden’s and my joined hands.

“Oh, yay! You’re back together!” Reagan squeals, the feathers of her hat bouncing with her excitement.

Aiden smiles—their old cat-and-dragon exchange only a distant memory—but he lets me answer. “Well, I have officially introduced him to the roses. So I think that means yes. At least while we sort out a few things.”

“What things?” they ask in unison, their voice trembling exactly the same way, their eyebrows knitting together identically.

“Are you two okay? Is there anything the family can do to help?” Javier adds.

In those words, in their worried looks, I grasp exactly how much their relationship with Aiden has changed in the last two weeks. Perhaps working together to save Javier and the rest of the Solises bonded them in ways I never could.

It’s there in Aiden’s voice too when he answers this time. “Let me think about that, Javier.”

“Okay, want something to eat? Although I don’t really know if this is edible. What the hell is this mushy stuff, Isa?” He points at the pot of porridge.

“I’ll just show Aiden around first, okay?”

Aiden is watching me with his fiery eyes, so tall for the cottage his wavy hair brushes against the small chandelier. Impossibly, he has gotten more beautiful since he crossed the threshold.

“Welcome to the Rose Cottage!” My voice trembles. I want to say welcome home. But the home part is a dream, an h-o-p-e I cannot allow myself. “This is the foyer, obviously—it’s tiny by your standards but I love it. And over there is the living room . . .”

He takes my hand and starts exploring the cottage in the way only he can. He runs his long-fingered hand over the front door, the rose-shaped brass knob, the rotary phone, the walls—memorizing their feel. He spends a good ten minutes gazing at the photographs lining the foyer in reverse order of my aging.

“Look at you!” He smiles at one of me missing my front teeth. “The cutest kid.”

I watch him with a clenched heart, unable to speak. How many times have I imagined him inside these walls and now here he is. Bewildering in every sense of the word. I realize that in those vague fantasies I always imagined the cottage softening him. But as he winds through the living room, running his fingers through the ivory of Mum’s upright piano in the first few notes of Für Elise, clutching the arm of Dad’s plaid chair in the corner like a handshake, I see a symbiotic cord twinning between the cottage and him. He is shining as much beauty on it as it is pouring on him.

“This is surreal,” he says. “I thought I could envision this so well from your descriptions, but I was wrong. No one can picture this without seeing it.”

“Let me show you my favorite room.” I can barely hear my own voice as I lead him to the library. But I hear his quiet footsteps kissing the hardwood floor.

He whistles as he enters my dad’s bubble, and the tectonic plates shift as he recalls everything I’ve ever told him about it. He weaves through the towers of books and notepads, careful not to jostle anything, and goes straight to the unfinished chess game inside the glass flower box. “Is this the last game?”

I nod.

“Six identical moves to checkmate for each of you. So equal and you were only eighteen.”

“I could never equal him.” I barely mouth the words, but he must read them because he comes back to me.

“I’m sure he would disagree.”

“I wish you could you have met him. And Mum.”

“I do too.” His index finger comes under my chin and he bends down to my height. “I have an idea. I’ll read through all of his books and notes, then maybe I’ll know him more. Would you like that?” His voice, his eyes are so tender they could h-e-a-l the deepest wounds, except his own.

My “yes” sounds more like a sigh. “And maybe you can help me with the protein. Here, look at this.” I open the secret safe in the wall behind the Encyclopedia of Elements. He peers inside—a childish curiosity glinting in his eyes—and sees his war letters with Dad’s clue and everything else valuable I own, “my all” in a sense. Which is not much. “You can have them—”

He stops my hand before it slithers inside the safe. “Let them stay there.” When he closes the safe, I imagine him tucking in my entire life under a blanket.

This kiss is hushed too. So light, each brush like a whispered secret. A secret I can’t even tell myself.

“MUSH IS READY,” Javier bellows from the kitchen. “AND SOME CRUSTY STUFF!”

Around the dining table, Reagan and Javier have made their first British breakfast even though it’s almost noon. Porridge, scones, clotted cream. But I can’t swallow a single bite—everything from my eyes to my belly is overflowing. The three people I most love in this world who are still alive are here. My three brightest stars twinkling in this new constellation that looks like a table to everyone else but to me it’s a million-faceted crystal, gleaming and sparkling—each plane brilliant, fragile, a mirror of the others. Rarely meeting, always reflecting.

“Reg, I know it’s what they eat here. But just between us four, objectively speaking, this porridge thing cannot have been meant for human taste buds. Aiden, back me up as the only other man here. Is this food to you?”

Aiden is looking at me and I know he has read every flicker of emotion I have not been able to hide. He seems to make a decision of sorts because he turns to Javier. “I definitely prefer your mother’s carnitas. But it’s better than MREs.”

A total silence falls over my constellation. Reagan’s fork drops on her plate. My hand tightens on Aiden’s under the table. I’ve never once heard him make a casual reference to the military. And instantly I know whatever he is doing, he is doing it for me. He folds his napkin while Javier’s fork is still in the air.

“Actually, Javier, Reagan.” He addresses them both while I sit here periodic-tabling for oxygen. “May I have a moment? You asked earlier if there is anything the family can do to . . . help Elisa and me.”

Javier’s fork drops too. “Anything,” he says. “We owe you our lives.”

“It’s not as debt collector that I’m asking. You don’t owe me anything. It’s as a . . . friend, I suppose. This is not an easy thing for me to share. I’d appreciate your discretion. But you’re Elisa’s family, I’ve seen that over the last two weeks more than I was able to grasp before. So you should know—” His hand around mine becomes a live grenade. “Why things are complicated with Elisa and me. It’s not because I don’t love her—”

“We know that,” Javier says firmly. “We all can see that now.”

“It’s because there are things in my past and present that make me . . . not the man you would want for your sister.”

“Aiden, don’t,” I cut in, but he silences me with a grasp of his hand.

“What do you mean?” Javier says while Reagan mouths at me in a completely obvious way, “The thing?”

“Well, without getting into the gory details, I was a Marine. In Iraq. And one mission went . . . wrong. More wrong than I’m prepared to discuss. It has stayed with me in every way . . . and it has left me with a . . .” He takes a deep breath as his shoulders flex once. “It has left me with a violent startle reflex. Not your usual car backfiring thing. I cannot be startled from behind in any way without a series of events being triggered which always end with me attacking the person who startled me.”

The silence that follows his words is clamoring. I don’t think Aiden has breathed once since he started. But he meets Javier’s eyes evenly and I see the Marine there—the one who might never have needed a protein of bravery.

“You attacked Isa!” Javier’s somber, grave tone is punctuated by a small whimper from Reagan.

“I did.” The two words, so low, sound almost like “the end.”

“It was my fault,” I jump in, ignoring the clasp of Aiden’s hand. “I knew about it, and I was careless, and I triggered it, and—”

“Elisa,” Aiden’s voice cuts through, even and clear. “You will never take this on yourself ever again. Please. They have a right to know as your family, and now they do. I won’t be the reason for secrets between you anymore.”

I meet Javier’s eyes. They’re on me, stricken with terror. Reagan searches for my hand under the table but both of mine are on Aiden’s grenade.

“I love him, Javier,” I say directly to him. “I will fight with him against this. No matter what.” Tears start burning my eyes, but I don’t blink. Javier’s deep dark eyes are locked on me too for a long moment. He nods at last—a slow bend of the head but his eyes become so endless, as though he heard exactly what I cannot say. No matter how it ends.

“So,” Javier says. “How can we help? We’ll support you both with whatever you need if this is the decision you have made.” He does not say he agrees. How could he?

“I’m with you too.” Reagan’s voice trembles with tears. “Both of you.”

“Thank you,” I tell them, eyes still on Javier because he is the leader for our patch-quilt family. If he gives us his support, it is irrevocable.

“Yes, thank you both.” Aiden’s grenade relaxes a fraction. “Please know I’d never expose Elisa to this again without some hope that we might be able to overcome it.”

“What’s the hope part?” Javier asks.

I’m glad Aiden answers this one because Javier would see how little h-o-p-e I’m allowing myself. “We’re working with some experts at Oxford and University of York, and of course back home. We’re meeting them Monday; they have an entire plan. But the gist of it is that I need to do the opposite of what I’ve been doing. Not push Elisa away or isolate myself, but rather experience what normal life could be like for her and me if we allow it. Their hope is that, with other interventions and hard work on our part, this will begin to correct the startle reflex.”

Javier blows out a gust of breath and I realize now he has not been breathing much either. “That sounds like good news, right?”

“Hopeful.” Aiden corrects while I stare at my cold teacup trying to look like I am nodding sagely. “And this is where you two come in. The hope part. I will never keep Elisa from you. But of course, she refuses to leave me and I refuse to leave her. These last two weeks almost killed us both. So, by necessity, at least for a while, you might have to be around . . . me,” he says the last word like he is the dark boulder.

“Aiden, that’s nothing to ask of us,” Javier says, and I want to grab him over the table and hug him if both my hands were not around my grenade. “We all care about you. Not just as Elisa’s guy but for who you’ve shown us to be. It’s not a burden on us to be around you. We want you to heal. We want you in our life if you two can make this work.”

H-e-a-l. L-i-f-e. “Umm . . . thank you . . . I appreciate that,” Aiden says with a strong emotion. No doubt his deep self-loathing wasn’t expecting such acceptance. The grenade relaxes further.

Javier takes a deep breath and the deep wrinkles in his forehead soften. “We’ll just be careful, all of us. No one will sneak up on you or anything. And we’ll do whatever we can so you two can win this. Right, Reg?” he turns to her.

“Absolutely.”

For the first time since this conversation started, Javier smiles and the entire constellation brightens up with him. I look at Aiden, the Marine who just disclosed his darkest secret to give me this moment of togetherness, to tear down all walls between my family and me. He shakes his head with a small smile. Anything for you, his eyes say.

“Actually, I’m really glad we know now,” Javier says. “This explains so much. I mean, we started suspecting something when you were able to pull off my green card with all those political contacts, but not this. We thought you were some high-level CIA or something.”

Reagan giggles breathlessly. “Honestly, I thought you were an assassin. Really sorry about that.”

At the shaky laughter that follows, the grenade disarms and Aiden’s face softens with relief. “An assassin?” he chuckles. “And you were yay-ing earlier when you thought Elisa was back together with me? Reagan, I thought your common sense was one of your strongest traits.”

“Of course,” she shrugs. “You’re who she loves.” Her bright emerald eyes flit to Javier who is sighing with relief in an identical posture to Aiden’s.

“Javi,” she tells him, and for a mad moment I think she’s going to declare herself but she has other plans. “I think you and I should move to Aiden’s hotel.”

“What the fuck?” is Javier’s response.

“You heard me.”

“No, Javier has a point, Reg. What the bloody hell?” I ask but she kicks me under the table. Hard. I have to pretend to cough to hide my “ouch” while Aiden fusses I might be choking.

“Listen,” she says to us. “You two need privacy if you’re going to try this normal life thing. Javi and I can sleep at the hotel, you two stay here, and we all hang out and be normal adults during the day. And when Isa has to work, we can be tourists.” She stomps on my foot again in case her desire is not clear.

“Elisa, why do you keep coughing, love? Are you okay? Here, have some water.”

“I’m fine. Just a tickle.” But I drink the entire glass he pours for me to give Javier a chance to respond. And he does. Sort of.

“I guess you’re right. How far is your hotel, Aiden?”

“Just across the field,” Aiden answers quietly and I know in that tone how profoundly he wants Reagan to win, but how deeply he hates the reason for Javier’s hesitation: my safety in case I get hurt again. And he’ll side with Javier. That decides it for me. And I know exactly how to solve it.

“Javier, Reg is right. I want to sleep with Aiden.”

It’s Aiden who chokes now at the same time that Javier throws his hands over the ears, saying “Lalalalala.” But over the chaos, Reagan and I wink at each other. And for a moment, it feels like girls can win everything today.

I add this other little victory to my collection. Can a girl deplete her luck? Should I take more chances? Or should I save it all for tonight? No, I don’t need luck to sleep next to Aiden—I refuse to think that way.

“Let’s all go to town,” I decide. “I’ll show you some of my favorite spots. And you can meet my grandparents for all intents and purposes.” I know none of them can resist that. Especially not Aiden, even if his muscles just locked down at the idea of strolling the streets again.

“Your octogenarian bodyguards?” he asks.

“The very same.”

“Yes, this I have to see.”

The town is enshrined in gold under the late afternoon sun when we arrive, and the streets are lazier, sultrier. Plemmons Blooms is only two roads west of the inn, down a cobblestone alley so narrow that James and Benson—who have been strolling with us in their hulking frames—decide to wait at the inn’s terrace over cigars and ale.

Even though I visited the Plemmonses the very next day I returned, as soon as I see the cascade of wisteria draping over the familiar awning, my own memory rewinds the endless days I spent with Mum in this shop as she and Mr. Plemmons experimented with rose breeds. Nothing has changed except the two snow-haired, hunched over octogenarians who are sitting on bright yellow chairs, head to head, sifting through seeds together. The image is so precious that four phone cameras click at the same time, including Aiden’s.

“OMG, they’re so cute,” Reagan whispers.

“Don’t worry, they can’t hear. You have to yell,” I tell her and then shout at the top of my lungs, “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Plemmons!” All three of them jump despite my warning.

“Bless my soul, it’s Rose!” Mr. Plemmons wheezes, wobbling up on his birch-wood cane, and I notice how much it trembles. “Josephine, it’s our Rose. Blimey, she’s brought friends this time.” He wipes his thick-rimmed glasses against his woolen vest—an unnecessary act since they are generously wiped by his bushy eyebrows and even bushier mustache. Little tufts of cotton blossoms spring out of his ears.

“I can hear you, Harold, and I can see them, there’s no need to shout.” Mrs. Plemmons is sprightlier and she shuffles up to me—tiny, barely clearing my shoulder, looking at me with her once-green eyes that have paled to sage—and kisses both my cheeks. “You’re lookin’ fit, luv. It’s the rose air, I told Harold, didn’ I? I said, let that lass smell the roses for a week and she’ll be pink as their petals.” She still hasn’t let go of my cheeks.

“Ha!” Mr. Plemmons teeters closer and grabs my shoulder. His clasp is so frail that I’m not sure if he needs it for support or if he is greeting me. I peck his fluffy hair gently lest he blows away. “Who are yer friends, Rose?” He peers at them through his glasses, brows wafting high in his forehead like pampas grass.

“These are Aiden Hale, Reagan Starr, and Javier Solis,” I yell their names, pointing at each of them. “They’re visiting from Portland.”

“Hmph,” Mr. Plemmons harrumphs, tottering to each of them, squinting at their faces and finally declaring in front of Aiden. “We’re not giving our Rose back! No, sir!”

“Oh, don’ mind the crackpot fool.” Mrs. Plemmons clasps all their hands. “You’re very welcome here, very welcome. Oh, to see our Rose smiling with friends again! Here, luv, sit, sit.” She tries to clear a bench of cyclamen pots, but I beat her to it.

“You sit, Mrs. Plemmons, I’ve got this.” I clear out the bench and the four of us sit cramped together, visiting with them for a while. Mrs. Plemmons frets she doesn’t have tea and biscuits.

“Don’ fuss, Josephine. It’s only our Rose. We’ve changed her nappies, we have.” Aiden, Reagan, and Javier burst out laughing while I turn the color of the cyclamens.

“Your nappies,” Aiden murmurs in my ear, his fingers trailing my spine behind everyone’s back. “I think I prefer your knickers, Rose. Especially the ones you’re wearing right now.”

“Stop or you will die,” I whisper through my teeth, smiling at Josephine for telling Harold off. He chuckles so quietly I can only tell from his cinnamon breath in my cheek.

“What are yeh two bumpin’ yer gums about?” Mr. Plemmons calls to Aiden and me. “Yeh’re not tryin’ to take our Rose away, Anton, are yeh?”

“It’s Aiden, Mr. Plemmons,” I shout, ignoring his question, which keeps my voice from breaking.

“Are yeh sweethearts?”

“Harold, you don’t have to shout every thought that flits in that wooly ‘ead of yours!” Josephine scolds him, but smiles expectantly for an answer.

“Yes, we are,” I whisper before I remember they can’t hear. “Yes, we are,” I raise my decibels again. “And Javier and Reagan are my adoptive brother and sister. They took care of me when I first . . .”

“Ah,” they sigh in unison, abruptly looking one hundred, their heads bobbing at the same time, paled eyes away, and I know we are seeing the funeral day. The only two people left who know every minute of that day, who spoon-fed me until I was taken to the hospital.

“Well, yer Mum and Dad would ‘ave liked yer friends and sweetheart, Rose,” Mr. Plemmons blinks back to the present. “I told Josephine, I said ‘yeh just watch those roses bloom with Clare’s magic now that our Rose is back. They’re glowin’ up there, they are.”

I nod and smile, unable to speak, as Aiden rubs the small of my back gently.

“But no stayin’ at the cottage with Edmund without a chaperone!” Mr. Plemmons stomps the cane on the cobblestone.

“Ha ha ha!” Josephine almost topples off her yellow chair from cackling. “What codswallop you talk, Harold! You never let a chaperone stop you when we met.”

“Tha’ was diffren’. We were older than these two.”

Aiden, towering at thirty-five years old, and Javier, looking even older with his full beard, are shaking with laughter while Reagan is giggling so hard, she twists her legs together in that way she does when she has to pee.

“No, you barmy old fool. We were younger. I had Emma when I was Elisa’s age. That’s your second child.”

“I know who my Emma is!” And they’re off quibbling about the sixty-five years they’ve had together, the decades running together as they should. From the corner of my eye, I see Aiden watch them with something like longing—perhaps wondering whether the years will ever disappear for him. Yet he seems entirely present here in the moment, his fist never clenching, even though he has been sitting in a cramped bench with two other people, albeit in a quiet alley and me in between.

“Wha’ abou’ yeh two? Are yeh sweethearts?” Mr. Plemmons demands of Reagan and Javier.

“No, Mr. Plemmons, we’re friends,” Javier howls while Reagan takes an intense interest in the jasmine bush next to her. At least Javier didn’t say we’re siblings.

“These young ‘uns don’ get married anymore, Josephine. Blimey, there’ll be no more weddings needin’ flowers.”

Eventually, the sun starts setting and we decide to help them close up. I give Mr. Plemmons some new seeds from the garden.

“Yes, yes, they’ll do quite nice, these will. Rose, yeh’ll come to the Rose Festival, won’ yeh? Enter yer Mum’s roses fer the Rose Cup. Willoughby has been twirlin’ his mustache at me fer winning the last one.”

“Of course I will,” I say, even though it will be a day away from Aiden. A crowded festival would be too reckless, too terrorizing. But Mum’s blooms will go to that festival, especially if I don’t know how the ninety days will end.

I buy the American Beauty rose fledgling that’s been waiving at me for the last hour—Aiden carries it gently, earning a smile from Mrs. Plemmons—and say our goodbyes. The Plemmonses shuffle with us half-way through the alley, wishing us and the rose a good night.

“Even yeh, Adam. But keep yer hands to yerself!”

“It’s Aiden, Mr. Plemmons,” I yell again in vain but he just smiles and waves.

We watch them teeter away, arm in arm to their apartment above the flower shop. As the door closes behind them, I wonder how many of these memories I missed and how many there are left. An urgency gathers in my veins and abruptly I want to run, dance, shout, sing, jump, twirl, do everything, live everything, every hour, minute, or second left of our ninety days. Because what if these are the only present moment we have?

“Let’s go!” I tell my three stars. “Let’s find Benson and James and go back to the cottage. We can send James off on his fishing trip with a cheer.”

Javier and Reagan start ahead of us, but Aiden tips up my face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m so glad you met them.”

“Me too, Rose. One of my favorite memories in my entire life.”

“Let’s go make more,” I say and pull him behind me.

Above us, in the twilight sky, the first stars of our first sleep start twinkling.©2021 Ani Keating

NINETY DAYS: CHAPTER 11 – PHENOMENON

All the answers, my friends. Thank you for your response to that last chapter and for continuing to go on this journey with me, Aiden, and Elisa.  Lots of love, xo Ani.

 

11

Phenomenon

There is no question about reality back inside the cottage. If anything, it has never felt more real, more full of life since my parents’ accident. The fire crackles in the fireplace; Mum and Dad are still dancing on the small TV screen. But the most tangible life comes from the two people on each side of me. I’m curled on the sofa with my head on Reagan’s shoulder, soaking her blouse with my tears, while Javier has wrapped both my socked feet in his callused hands. He clutches them every so often, probably at an inner thought he does not speak, while Reagan combs my hair with her fingers.

And yet, even with all this life suddenly flowing within these walls, I feel like I’ve just returned from another funeral. A funeral for the deepest, best part of me—for the brightest star of them all. Aiden, Aiden, Aiden. It’s as though his name has breached through the ramparts and now my mind cannot stop saying it, sighing it, sobbing it. I didn’t even invite him inside the cottage. He would have liked this for me. He would have imprinted every book and teacup in his eternal mind, and they would have lived inside him. But could I have ever let him go if I had let him in? Especially now that Javier and Reagan have told me everything he did to save us, to give me this one moment full of life. Things that recast the final day Aiden and I had together in America under a new, blinding light.

I now know how Javier was arrested by ICE that early May morning. How he called Aiden’s phone because mine was still in the trunk of his old Honda. How Aiden told him he would do what he could to help—yet he never told me. Whether to protect me from the distress or to ensure I hated him more, I will never know. But he kept his word to Javier. It was Aiden who sent Benetto at Javier’s hearing, who paid every dime of Benetto’s fees without telling anyone until Benetto himself told Javier in the end. It was Aiden’s Marines who moved the Solises with his parents so they could be safe from ICE, while Aiden and his military mentor at the CIA, General Sartain, secured a safe, solitary cell for Javier. And at the trial, Aiden himself took the witness stand. He testified that he commissioned Javier for a painting as a family gift—not as illegal work—and that the painting supplies were at his home, never stolen. He anticipated every threat and prepared for it with military precision long before any of us could even see it. And it still didn’t work in the end. Judge Lopez still ruled Javier should be deported but no one expected Aiden’s Plan B.  He had mobilized Senator Kirschner—a name I overheard myself that last day—to campaign for Congress to intervene. Such a rare, historical avenue, with such slim chances of succeeding, no wonder Aiden kept it to himself.  But his stock with the U.S. Government must be high indeed. Senator Kirschner and General Sartain—with their vast political networks—managed to give Aiden this one gift, perhaps as a small repayment for everything his country cost him. The Senator used Congress’s legislative power to abrogate the court’s ruling for humanitarian reasons and grant Javier and his family immediate amnesty. And this congressional act means that ICE can never deport Javier or any of the Solises, that Javier is now a legal resident of the land he wanted so much. A freedom, a new life—all possible in the end because of Aiden’s torture in Iraq.

How small and feeble my own sacrifice now seems compared to his. But for his part, Bob kept his word and attended Javier’s trial. When it was over, he told Javier I had left and released the funds to him. Javier was getting mad while talking about that so he skipped over it quickly to the happy parts. How the Solises reunited with squeals that may have actually cracked a window. And how, after Maria and Antonio learned what I had done, they decided Javier should come with Reagan right away to check on me. How Aiden flew them here in a private jet with advance parole from ICE to get to me as soon as possible. And how none of them will touch my one million dollars so I can still use the money to return to America.

But how could I after all this? I didn’t leave America because of Javier’s fate. I left America because I could not live there a single day without my love. And that has not changed. In fact, it’s stronger now that I know everything he did to save the Solises. And I have never felt more bound. But that does not mean Aiden should remain bound to me. And if I returned, the green card deal requires that I invest my money in his company, that I remain in his life. And I can never do that to him. No matter what it costs me, he must have a chance at freedom, at happiness, away from the obligations and pain I trigger for him. Not to mention that I could never abandon this cottage again or give up on the bravery protein that will help Aiden more than I ever could. I have to work even harder now, day and night, to give him some peace.

These are things I cannot tell Javier and Reagan who have travelled across the world to see me.

“Isa, are you sure about this? I hate to see you so upset.” Reagan breaks the long silence, asking the same question for the sixth time since I ran back in, sobbing.

But Javier stops her now. “Not anymore tonight, Reg. You’re both exhausted. Actually, I think it’s time for bed. Things might look a little better after some sleep.” He lumbers up and sets down his empty bowl of pea soup as though to make it final. Then he douses the fire and checks all the windows and doors like he would do back at his home even though Burford has not had a break-in since 1976.

“Bed!” he says again when he is done, and marches us up the narrow creaky stairs even though he has no idea where he is going. I put him in the guest room I had prepared for Reagan. I guess the roses brought some good news after all. But Reagan refuses to sleep in my old bedroom, saying she’ll stay with me tonight.

Curled up on my parents’ bed, she’s on my dad’s side that has been empty for so long, holding my hand. And she starts again.

“Oh, Isa, why did you let him go? You don’t still think he reported Javi, do you?” she whispers, and I know she has been holding this question in because she never told Javier my suspicions. How can I ever thank her for that?

“No!” I shake my head hard. “No, I was wrong about that! You were right all along. It wasn’t Aiden. It was Feign. Did that not come up at the trial?”

“That fucking little weasel,” she hisses in the dark. “That’s who Javi suspected! And no it didn’t. The tip was anonymous like Benetto said.”

At least the Solises never believed Aiden a monster. At least they always saw him for what he is—a good man.

“So why leave him, Isa? If you know it wasn’t him.”

“Because I want him to be happy. I want him to be happy more than I want happiness for myself. And I can’t give him that.”

“But why? I’ve seen you two together and it’s like seeing your parents in the videos. Same look, same love. I don’t get it.”

Same love, same end. I can’t speak. How can I tell Reagan about Aiden’s eidetic memory that holds him prisoner, about his PTSD that will never allow him to give us a life together? How can I tell her he attacked me and now with his memory every time he sees me, he will see bruises and pain, not peace and calm like I used to give him? How can I tell her that Aiden’s love is forever but only from a distance and always at the cost of himself? These are his secrets that I will protect until my last breath.

“Is it because of that thing you can’t tell me?” Reagan guesses.

I nod. “It is, Reg. It’s exactly that thing.”

“I KNOW YOU’RE STILL TALKING OVER THERE!” Javier shouts down the tiny hall. “STOP IT AND GO TO SLEEP. DON’T MAKE ME COME OVER AND PUT YOU BOTH IN DIFFERENT BEDS.”

Reg giggles and, to my surprise, I giggle too. It feels nice, like a soft blanket or rosewater on parched skin. “He’s such a big brother,” I say, reveling in the sound of his free voice reverberating through the cottage.

“Yeah, he is,” Reagan agrees but her smiles fades away. And now that I’m not sobbing, I hear a sadness in her tone, a sadness that has nothing to do with me. I sit up and switch on the side lamp.

“Reg, what’s the matter? What’s wrong?” I touch her cheek, trying to lift up her lips back into a smile. She does it but it’s forced. Her heart-shaped face is pale, her eyes tearful.

“It’s nothing,” she says. “So small compared to what you’re dealing with.”

“Nothing is small to me if it makes you feel this way. Tell me.”

She traces the rose applique on the comforter with her pinky, not meeting my eyes. “I’m an idiot,” she says. My kindest, smartest, strongest friend in the whole word who has been carrying so much weight on her delicate shoulders thinks she is an idiot.

“What lunacy is this? Why would you say such a thing?”

“FINAL WARNING!” Javier howls again, and I see it then. I see the way she closes her eyes as her breath catches at his voice. The way her cheeks flush crimson. I throw my hand over my mouth to stifle my gasp. Her wide eyes match mine, except mine are happy for once and hers are terrified.

“You and Javier!” I mouth the words in case he’s stomping down the hall.

Shhhhh,” Reagan bolts up right, clamping her hand over my mouth. I try to grin with my eyes. “There’s no me and Javier,” she whispers so low I see the words more than I hear them. “There’s just me and . . . me.”

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” is all I can manage before Reagan throws the comforter over both our heads. “He doesn’t know?” I confirm though it’s obvious from the way she looks toward the door even under the blankets.

“Of course not. And he cannot. Isa, swear it!”

“Why ever not?”

She freaks out—that’s the only way to describe it even though it’s entirely silent. Head shaking, hands in fists . “No, no, no! He… he . . . he just sees me a sister, Isa, just like you.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know.”

The bedroom door bangs open and the lights switch on as the source of all of Reagan’s suffering bursts in. “I warned you,” Javier says while under the covers Reagan turns about five shades redder than her curls. “Are you under the covers? What are you, Anamelia’s age?” He rips off the comforter, glowering at us in his long underwear and a white T-shirt. I see him now with new eyes—not as a brother, but as a man who apparently can turn my best friend into rubidium-hued puddle on the floor. He is rugged and toughened in every way from his worker hands and arms to his full beard. Except his artist’s eyes. Javier has always had the softest eyes. Bloody hell, my big brother is kind of good-looking! How did I not notice this before?

“What are you looking at?” he demands and I giggle again to keep his eyes on me rather than Reagan whose hand is trembling in mine.

“Sorry, Javier, we’ve just missed each other, that’s all,” I mumble in my best little-sister voice. It works. His already-lined forehead relaxes and he perches on my side of the bed. From his weight, the mattress shifts and I can swear Reagan almost tips over.

“I know you have,” he pats my head, and looks at Reagan for the first time. She’s staring at the rose appliques like they’ve come alive and are crawling on her hands.            “Come here,” he says softly, wrapping his arms around us both like a bundle. Reagan’s hand grips mine, and I know in that clasp exactly how she feels about him.

“Listen.” Javier pulls back, clueless about the havoc he is wreaking. “It’s almost light out. Please try to get some sleep. And if you do, I promise to make carnitas for dinner instead of whatever that thing is you Brits call food. Hm?” He smiles and we both grin at him, for entirely different reasons I’m sure.

“Now go to sleep,” he says and tucks us in, kisses the tops of our heads, and turns off the lights. “Dulces sueños.”

When the door closes, I wrap my arms around Reagan as she hides her face in my neck. I see her predicament now. Being a brother is so embedded in Javier’s DNA he can’t see himself as anything else. “We’ll figure it out,” I tell her. She nods but doesn’t speak. At length, as the sky lightens on this endless night, her breathing slows and her faint little snores blow warm gusts of air on my skin. I think about her love story, about how it must have started when she was visiting Javier in jail every day, how Javier could not possibly resist her if he could only see, how easy and perfect it would be, and how it should have a happy ending unlike mine. I’m not guarding my thoughts as carefully as I do so I don’t see where they lead me until the pain stuns me again, pinning me to the mattress until I can’t breathe. I try to match my breath to Reagan’s but it doesn’t work. She stirs, probably reacting to my body that has gone rigid with agony. Hydrogen, I think habitually without hope because I know tricks like that are futile against this kind of pain. It’s worth it for him, I tell myself over and over again. And I can help him from far away without him knowing. It will not be the life I wanted, but it will be life.

My body isn’t buying any of it. Pain radiates in shockwaves until my fingertips tingle. I know the pain is in my mind, but it doesn’t make it less real. I slip out of bed carefully and tiptoe out not to wake Reagan. Down the hall, I listen at Javier’s door, at his deep, rhythmic breathing. The hell he has lived through eclipses all of ours combined and yet he is still here, worrying about me. I kiss his door—I hope he sleeps for days. I hope he never frowns again. Thank you, God, thank you for saving him. I tiptoe down the stairs, skipping over the creaky ones, throw on Mum’s parka over my pajamas, grab my muddy wellingtons, and slip out into the garden. The crisp rose-scented air immediately fills my lungs, jolting them back into a rhythm. It’s staccato but at least I’m breathing.

“Morning,” I tell the roses. “How did you sleep? What a night, eh?” The blooms sway lazily, as though not ready to welcome any visitors, butterflies, or bees.

The spot where Aiden stood is still there, but there are no footprints anywhere, except my heart. I stuff my hands in my pockets and start walking the trail I used to walk with him in my dreams, sensing a routine in the making.

The sun is peeking over the horizon, its heat turning yesterday’s rain into mist. It rises like steam from the earth, a shallow sea of clouds instead of grass. I can’t see James’s tent anywhere but across the field of epiphanies, the town’s nightlights are still blinking. Which of those lights is Aiden’s? I hope none of them—I hope he is sleeping. I love you, I tell every window I can see in case it’s his. For a moment, I wish I had thought to give him back his letters. Perhaps I still should but now I want to keep them. I want that little paper universe where he and his love had a happy ending.

Elysium starts shimmering as the early sun varnishes the willows’ garlands and the river’s crests. The steam rising from the earth is sultry, but I’m still cold. I start pacing to warm up and then halt on the spot. Because there, in the middle of Elysium, Aiden’s unmistakable frame emerges from the mist with his precise, fluid stride. He must see me too, shaking where I am in my wellingtons, because he is coming straight toward me. I will my feet to move but they’re sunk dead in the muddy grass. I rub my eyes—am I always going to worry he was only ever a dream? But the closer he gets to me, the clearer I can see his face, there is no doubt he is real. Because my mind would never dream up the agony in that face. My psyche could never have fathomed it. My body erupts in chills like every pore is a counterpoint to his pain.

He comes to me at last, the first rays of sun glimmering like fingers on his face, as though the sun itself cannot resist caressing him. And I finally see his Aiden eyes. Bottomless, dark as though someone has doused the fire that burned underneath. But then they alight on my jawline as used to be their habit, tracing it slowly down to my throat, along every line of me he first saw in my painting. And the tectonic plates that always tell me the truth start shifting, jolting my heart with them. With a blink, the darkness recedes until all that’s left is the brilliant turquoise that belonged only to me. A single neuron registers with shock that apparently all the subsequent pain I caused him didn’t extinguish this light. All the other one hundred billion neurons are utterly absorbed with him and the fact that—somehow, against all reason—he is still here before me. Ashen, burning, but real.

“I couldn’t sleep or make it a good dream,” he speaks first.

“Nor could I,” I manage, wrapping my arms tightly around my ribcage. That way my heart might actually stay inside of me.

“I had to see you again. See you in daylight.”

“Why?” I whisper. Whisper is good too—it hides how my voice is shuddering with me.

“Sit with me for a minute?” he asks in his husky timbre. I glance back at the cottage where Reagan and Javier are sleeping wondering if my legs can make it that far.

“Here,” he says, his eyes missing nothing. And he takes off his rain jacket—it’s a monumental tribute to his beauty that I only now notice what he is wearing, a simple black T-shirt and jeans—and sets it down on the soggy grass. Then he sinks down gracefully, as though his legs might be having a similar problem.

I sit as far as I can, almost on the jacket collar, folding my legs under me, not trusting myself to be this close and not touch him, not forget all the reasons why I had to let him go. He watches the distance between us and then slowly rests his palm there. If it’s an invitation, I’m utterly frozen—unable to move, breathe, or blink.

“You didn’t answer my questions earlier,” he starts, eyes boring into mine.

“Which ones?” Still a whisper.

“First, if this is really what you want.”

I break the connection with his eyes, knowing my resolve will dissipate like the mist around us if I gaze there much longer. I look instead at the wildflowers that are peeking through the ground fog. Keep him safe, keep him free. “It is,” I force out the words in another whisper, twisting a blade of grass between my fingers. Maybe he couldn’t even hear them. I’m not sure the air could carry such a lie.

“Why is that?”

A blue forget-me-not, similar to the color of his irises is rising above the daisies, lifting its face toward the sun. Make him happy, give him light.

“Please look at me,” he says, his voice as soft as the flower’s petals. “I have crossed the ocean just to see your face even though it’s seared in my memory forever.”

I meet his eyes then; I can’t resist. I would have swam the ocean if I had known I could make them lighten again. “That’s better,” he smiles but there is no dimple in sight. “Now, please tell me. Do you want this because I’ve hurt you so much that you’ve decided to move on? Because you can’t trust me with your happiness? Or is this all for my benefit?”

Each word like a magnifying lens straight into my soul. “What difference does it make if it leads to the same end?”

“It makes all the difference in the world to me. All the other answers in the dichotomous key, all the other reasons I’m here—none of them matter without this.”

How can I not answer if he needs it so badly? How can I not give him everything? Make me brave, make me strong. “I’m doing this because I want you to be happy so much it hurts right here.” I press my index finger in the very center of my chest where the wound is festering. He looks at it with tenderness.

“Does it feel like a dull, jagged knife has cut a huge chunk out of your lungs and you can’t breathe?”

“Yes!” I marvel. “Exactly like that!”

“I’m familiar with the feeling.” He takes a shuddering breath, wincing as though he is testing his own lungs.

“And that’s exactly my point,” I say, seeing the proof of his pain right here. “I want you to be happy and free from having to save me, from all the pain I’ve caused you.”

He opens his beautiful sculpted mouth as though to protest. “But,” I add and he stills. “I also think losing you again would finish me. I can’t always live in fear of when you’ll push me away next. Always worried I’ll step on a live wire that will electrocute us both. Never trusting that you won’t decide to banish me for my own good again if you think it’s the right thing to do to save me.”

It’s all out now—all my truth. His face is burning again, like each of my words was a branding iron. But he reigns it back in, masterful as always. “Yes, I understand all that. But if there was a world where those things didn’t happen, would you want to be with me then?”

I gaze at this little meadow Dad named after me, sparkling with all my childhood memories and my future emptiness. But, look, there we are, Aiden and I, grey and old like the Plemmonses, like my parents should have been, waddling together, arm in arm. The vision stuns me with longing.

“Elisa?” Aiden prompts.

I glance at the blue forget-me-not like his eyes and the truth comes out again. Even if I can only manage it as a faint “yes.” He must hear it because from the corner of my eye I see the palm of his hand close into a tight fist on his jacket.

“Yes you would want me or yes you heard me?”

“Yes, in another world, I’d be with you.” I modify because I want him in every world.

“And what does that other world like to you? What would you want to be happy?”

Old Aiden and Elisa are down by the river now. He’s snow-haired and still so tall, although a little hunched over, and his shoulders are finally at rest.

The real Aiden’s index finger hovers under my chin as he used to do when he wanted to tip up my face. He doesn’t touch me—perhaps he knows I couldn’t handle it or perhaps he too cannot—but it has the same visceral effect. I lift up my eyes to meet his and blurt out the truth again.

“I want the man and the woman from your letters.”

The V forms between his eyebrows and another brain cell wonders if he knew I have them. “Tell Benson thanks by the way. He only gave them to me to help and they did. Please don’t be mad at him. I’ll give them back to you.”

He shakes his head, waving his hand. “Don’t worry about that. They were always yours.  Please explain what you mean though.”

And suddenly my words tumble out fast like the river. Like they sense this might be the only time I’ll ever voice my dreams since I lost them all. “I want to wake up in the morning with your face next to mine. I want us to have breakfast tea over there in the garden with my mum’s roses. And then we’d go to work, to a job we love that gives us a purpose, that helps people. Then we’d come back and walk to our little cottage arm in arm along the river. And maybe tango or garden like we did in Portland that one time. You looked so happy and carefree in that moment. And then night would come, and we would fall asleep together in the same cozy bed. And then with birthdays or anniversaries, or when we’d visit the Solises or your parents, you’d come with me because nothing else would matter if you weren’t there. Maybe we would even have a little Peter or a little Clare. And we’d grow old together like that, you and I. And whichever one of us goes first—and I hope it’s me—would be holding the other’s hand.” I stop abruptly, sensing tears. And he cannot see them.

But for once his eyes are far away, toward the cottage, as though he is trying to see the same dream. Then they’re back to me. “Elisa, I want all those things too. Whether in England or America is logistics, but the point is, I want every single thing with you.”

“But you can’t give them. You told me so when we were at your Alone Place, and I didn’t listen. Another mistake . . .”

Another truth like a grenade on the peaceful meadow. Old Aiden and Elisa disappear with the very last molecules of mist. “But what if there was a way?” he asks then. “If there was a way—even if uncertain—that we could have that life, would you give me another chance? And not because you feel indebted to me for Javier or anything else, but because you would want it—me—for yourself? He looks abruptly intense, the V etched deep between his eyebrows, eyes burning into mine as though trying to see through my skull.

What a ridiculous question. I want him for myself most of all. But can I fault him for wondering after what I said last night? “Of course,” I shrug. “But there isn’t such a way. You’ve said so yourself.”

He smiles the first real dimpled smile I’ve seen in so long. It knocks me breathless even if it barely touches his still-ravaged eyes. “That’s all I needed to hear. Because, as it turns out, there might be.”

“What do you mean?”

“First, please know I had no idea about any of this. Zero. I couldn’t have even dared to imagine it, let alone do it. Corbin only realized it after you had left.” He winces at the last word.

“Realized what?”

“Something that might change everything. That might give us a chance.”

The morning falls silent—I can’t hear a single chirp, babble, or flutter. “What did he discover?”

“It’ll take a moment to explain, but please bear with me. Now, you know how my memory works: every time I see someone or something, my memory will summon with perfect clarity the very first time I encountered that person or thing from the details of their appearance to the depths of my emotions.”

“Yes, and everything else that followed after that first time.” Even though I try, my voice breaks. This is why I now cause him both pain and peace.

He shakes his head, surprising me. “Not exactly. That’s what Corbin realized.”

“I’m . . . confused.”

“Picture a computer file for a minute. Every time you open it, read it, and then close it, the file changes: all the metadata, when last viewed, for how long, etc., right?”

“Right.”

“Well that’s how memory at large—not just mine—works. Each memory is a computer file. Every time we recall a memory and revisit it, it changes. So most people’s memories become faint and false with time. Mine is different in one crucial way: it doesn’t become false, it becomes more potent. When I revisit a memory, for example Marshall’s execution—” his shoulders ripple at the mere word—“I retrieve not just the torture of the moment, but also the pain of every single time I have replayed that memory in my head, in the thousands, snowballing into a massive network of pain in my brain.”

My hands plop to my sides as air leaves my lungs. I can’t understand why he thinks this gives us a chance, it sounds even more terrible. As if he can hear my thoughts, he changes. He turns to face me, crossing his legs, his palms up like he is holding the idea there for me to see. “That snowball has been growing constantly until my attack on you.” Another shoulder ripple, another wince. “But then something changed. You remember Corbin sedated me with Versed—that was standard procedure for my attacks. But when I woke up, the very first thing I saw was you sitting by my side—and that was new. Something showed itself to Corbin then. In essence, he observed that in the minutes, hours, days, and weeks that followed, I was able to speak and move and function in some form. Remember that?”

In some form? He implemented an entire defense strategy for Javier even as broken as he was. “I remember. But I can’t imagine how you were able to do so. You were so broken.”

“That’s precisely it. But it had nothing to do with me. It was because of you.”

“I’m not following.”

“After Marshall, or after I attacked my mom, I couldn’t do anything, and Corbin had seen that. I couldn’t move or speak or eat. I was catatonic for weeks. But not this time. And that’s not because I love you less.”

“Then why is it?”

He smiles another lopsided, dimpled smile that this time lights up his eyes. “It’s because at a deep cognitive level, you have changed my brain. Technically, psychiatrists call it interfering with my memory’s reconsolidation process.”

Umm, what?”

“When I opened my eyes and recalled that unspeakable moment of hurting you—you, my entire universe—at the same moment I was literally covered in you. You were holding me with all of your body, your voice, your smell, your touch, your taste flooding all of my senses, telling me all those loving things that only you and I know what they mean. And your calming effect—of course, my memory retrieved that too at the same time as I was relieving all the terror. Except you won out! Eventually, but sooner than any other time in my life, I became calmer. Remember?” he asks urgently, hands closing in fists like everything depends on me grasping this.

“I remember. I remember Corbin saying it was extraordinary.”

“Yes!” Aiden says the word with force. “Yes, exactly. Extraordinary. Your calming effect cancelled out the new layer of horror that would have been added to the snowball if I was left to my own devices without you there. So, in essence, the snowball shrunk. By just one layer, but it shrunk, Elisa! For the first time in known history, my memory changed by one tiny fraction. It bowed to you.”

Elysium disappears as my own memory replays that excruciating moment in Aiden’s bedroom under this light. How little I cared what Corbin thought. Every part of me focused on the first tear I had seen in Aiden’s eyes. He says his memory bowed to me but all I can think is I bowed to that one tear. “Aiden, are you sure? How does that even work?”

“None of this is sure. But Corbin and I contacted some memory experts at The University of York and Oxford ironically. They had mapped my brain initially when I was seven and we first discovered my memory, and periodically every five years since. They agree something is different. They’re theorizing now that my memory works a little like phobias, which tend to get stronger with time. Every time I was replaying all the horror of Marshall and my mom in efforts to desensitize myself and prevent it from happening around you, in fact I was only making my memory stronger and making me more deadly. I was a ticking time bomb even more than usual.”

“But now?”

“I still am, there is no question about that. But there is hope.”

And here is another heavy four-letter word. Hope. A word I cannot afford to hear. Because if I hear it and let it in, I will never survive losing it. “I don’t see the hope part.”

“Yes, it’s there, faint but it is.” His voice breaks as it would in my dreams when I refused to see what was on the field of epiphanies. “The hope is this: next time I recall a horrific moment, instead of replaying it and wallowing, I would flood myself in you. Your calming effect should erase the dread I feel while I’m remembering—as it did after your attack—and, with time, the layers will keep melting off the snowball, shrinking it until it becomes more manageable and, if we dare to dream, disappears.”

I don’t dare to dream anymore, I want to say. Dreams kill you more painfully than all other murderers combined. So I try to stay clinical, skeptic, focusing on something that hurts only a little less. “But I’ve caused you pain too. What about your memories of that? Won’t your brain summon those too and add them to the snowball?”

He shakes his head, smiling but I’ve made the dimple disappear. “Never forget the first principle about my memory: my initial impression is always dominant. And when it comes it to you, you will always give me peace first and foremost. You could pick up a knife right now and dig it into my chest and the first thing I’d feel is calm.”

I shudder at the image of hurting him even in a hypothetical. “That’s wrong.”

“No, it’s exactly right. And it’s my best hope to give us the life we want.”

That four-letter word again. I was wrong a moment ago. Hope is a more brutal killer than even dreams. I focus on logistics instead. “Flood you in me how? I’m here, you’re in Portland or will be . . .” I can’t finish. He will leave soon. In an hour, a day, a week, but someday because he always pushes me away in the end. My calming effect only dulls terrors; it doesn’t give self-worth, it doesn’t make him accept love. And I will be here alone on this idyllic meadow, looking for the forget-me-nots among the roses—never forgetting him, always missing him in my heart. When it comes to him, I might as well have eidetic memory myself.

He must sense the finality in my thoughts because anguish enters his eyes again, slowing down the tectonic plates to a grind. I give him time to work through it because I need a moment too. At length, with another shuddering breath, he begins. “This is why I am here, Elisa. Not just to see you or bring you your family. I’m here to ask you this one last thing. Flooding me in you can happen in two ways: I can do it on my own back in Portland, using your pictures and paintings after I replay a horror. I’m sure Reagan will give me more pictures of you now. It might work, it might not. Or we could do it together. Fight for it together. Have the real you with me. Not because it might work better for me or because you feel obligated. But because, from what you said earlier, we both want the same thing in the end. Will you fight with me?”

In his flawless face, the Dream Aiden, the Old Aiden, and the Real Aiden merge. The triple beauty is blinding, and I have to close my eyes. I would fight for all these Aidens until that one last heartbeat. But fighting with Aiden is a whole other different plane of existence, one I don’t know if either of us can survive. “What would fighting with you look like? In practice, I mean.”

“We have to break my rules, except the startle reflex. We still have to be religious about that until we know if this works. But other than that, we have to do the exact opposite of what we were doing, of what I was forcing us to do.”

Another four-letter word. Rule. Rule his mind, rule my heart, break a rule, rule us out.  “But your rules are everything to you. They give you the structure you need.”

“No. You’re everything to me. And the rules have to go anyway. Going by those rules, anticipating how I might hurt you every hour of every day while distancing myself from you was apparently very dangerous. Layer after layer of snow added to the snowball every single time. So, if you were to fight with me, we would do it the experts’ way. We would guard against my startle reflex. But other than that, we would live.”

L-i-v-e. “How?”

“Here is what the experts recommend but we could find another way if you feel more comfortable. In the morning when I wake up, I will intentionally recall a painful memory, top to bottom, but only once—probably Marshall because that’s where it all started. Then as soon as I finish, I’ll open my eyes and, if you do this with me, you would just be close by so that you’d be the very first thing I’d see, smell, hear, feel. And, if the experts’ theory is right, your calming magic will do what it does to my brain on its own, melting that fresh layer of deadly snow each time. We would just get on with our day. Do what we want for once, as best we can with me still so limited. And, during the day, I would have the very hard job of not letting my mind go to the negatives, the terror, the what-ifs. I’d have to use everything I have to stay there in the moment with you.”

S-t-a-y. “And what about during the night, when you’re asleep—wouldn’t the nightmares undo all your day’s hard work?” I want to ask another question. Would he sleep with me if I were to do this? But that question is too hard, too close to h-o-p-e.

He may hear my unspoken question anyway because a blue flame flashes in his eyes. Like the fire that burned there when we were together alone, bodies tangled so close I didn’t know where I ended and he started. “We have a solution for that,” he says, and his voice is huskier. “I still think it’s risky but Corbin and the experts think it might help.”

“What solution?” I try to keep my voice calm, scientific—in an effort to douse the f-i-r-e that now has caught in me.

“First, I’d take a medication against nightmares—it’s called prazosin. Then, while I’m asleep, we would need to do something that I associate strongly with you. They think this should help me stay asleep. We’ve tested it in the last two weeks and it works, but of course, I didn’t have anyone in bed with me.”

The flame in his eyes is now wildfire. He looks at me as though he is seeing past my coat and pajamas, through my skin—straight into those deepest parts of me that respond only to him. S-k-i-n. Another logistical question to extinguish these thoughts. “I don’t understand. How can you do something in your sleep that you associate with me?”

He smiles and the dimple appears now. “That part is easy. We play Für Elise.”

The answer is so unexpected I forget everything else for a moment. “You’re serious? Trying to shrink the snowball with my song while you’re unconscious?”

“Especially while I’m unconscious when I can’t interfere with it and make it bigger. I have to use every minute I can. I’m thirty-five years behind.”

“And Für Elise works to keep you asleep?”

“Like a charm.”

“How did you discover that?”

The dimple vanishes. “That’s a very long story, for another day, if you will give it to me. For now, let’s just say that whatever neural association my brain has built between you and that melody—maybe because we played it on our first morning when I was happier than I’d ever been—it works. Just like you’ve changed my brain, you can keep me asleep. And I didn’t even know it.”

A long silence falls between us then. I don’t know if he has said everything he had to say or if he is lost in another place, another time I cannot see. But the silence is good. It gives me time to think, to breathe into these new feelings and points of fire he has lit in me. To sort through all my questions for the most important. And to see a way through the fear. Make me brave, give him life.

“Please tell me what you’re thinking,” he says when minutes pass and I’m still unable to speak.

“Just taking it all in.”

His index finger hovers under my chin and my eyes meet his instantly, helplessly as always. The blue flame is gone. There is nothing but an achy tenderness there. “I know it’s a lot. I know I’m asking you to give me a chance based entirely on a theory that may not work when the pain I’ve caused you is very much real. I can see it here with my own eyes, the way you hug yourself, the way your hands shake, the way you can’t look at me anymore. And it’s tearing my heart out. So don’t say yes because you think you have to do this. You don’t. At all. You have changed my internal landscape permanently, and I can never go back to who I was before you. That’s just a scientific fact. My only option is to go forward and I will. Even if you don’t do this with me, I will keep trying with all my memories and pictures of you. So you’re not hostage to this. All you have to do is say the word “no”—no explanations, nothing, you don’t even have to look me in the eye as you say it. Whisper it if you need to. Or just give me a signal—raise your index finger for example if you don’t have the strength. And I promise I will leave. I will let you go on with the life you’re trying so hard to rebuild. I will never interfere. I will never ask anything of you again except to be happy. Like you asked me. And then some day, if I ever become safe, I promise I will call. Even if we are old and withered. It might not be as fun then, but it would be worth it if I could die next to you, just as you said. And if you have met someone by then—” his breath hitches and, for the second time in my life, I see a single tear tricking down his cheek. He smiles as his eyes become oceans. “Well then, won’t he be so very lucky to always have my heart with him?”

“Don’t!” I say as my own tears spill over at the same time that my fingers fly to his face to wipe his. “Don’t say that! I don’t want anyone else. I’m just afraid. Afraid I’ll screw up again. Afraid it won’t work. Afraid it will kill us both if it doesn’t. Afraid I’ll lose you again.” Why couldn’t I have figured out the bravery protein already? To make us both strong and fearless. Help us, Dad, help us please.

“I know, my love.” L-o-v-e. He takes my fingers in his strong hand and brings them to his lips, kissing the very tips that are wet with his own tears. “I wish I could tell you there is nothing to fear. I wish I could promise you this will work. But I can promise you this: you will never lose me, even if I’m not with you. I’ll always be yours even when you’re not mine as you said last night. And you could never screw up.” He kisses the tips of my fingers again and then gently places my own hand back on my lap.

“I screw up all the time,” I sniffle, missing his touch already.

As if his entire system is hardwired to my needs, he wipes my tears. Gently like butterfly wings. “Elisa, didn’t you listen to anything I said? Even these screw-ups as you call them have given us—me—a chance. If you had listened to me and had left after I attacked you or even before, we would have never discovered this. If you hadn’t believed me about Javier, I would have never found Für Elise. I’ll admit I wish you hadn’t abandoned your green card but you had to face England, I see that now. And it might be easier for us here at first if you do this. I have no memories of this village other than the ones I’d make with you. You might have given us a blank slate, and you didn’t even know it.”

His hands leave my face slowly. More l-o-s-s. He watches me as though he is extracting every pixel from this moment, every eyelash, every pore, every blink. Like he is lifting all thirty trillions of my cells to store forever in his impossible mind, to help him carry all the burdens of its terrors. And I see in that look the force with which he wants this to work. How he has cashed in all his hopes, all his dreams into this one small theory that my mysterious effect on his brain will be strong enough to undo the horrors. A shudder runs through me, and another, and another. What if this doesn’t work for him? What if my calming effect as he calls it is not strong enough to overcome decades of trauma? What will happen to my three Aidens then?

“Love? What is it? Is that a shiver from the breeze or from the storm I’ve put in your head?”

“How would we know if this works?” I ask.

His eyebrows knit at my change of direction but he answers. “That part is straightforward enough. We trigger my startle reflex in a controlled laboratory—away from you or anyone else who could get hurt—and see what happens. If it has worked, we should notice a change. Maybe it will be slower, or shorter, or less violent, we don’t know. But the hope is that there would be some reduction.”

I don’t ask what happens if it doesn’t work. I will need to have my bravery protein first before I can do that. Because I know then I will lose him forever. But as much as that rips the wound in my chest wide open, it’s not as paralyzing as my terror for him. That then he will lose himself, not just me, once and for all. Another shudder runs through me. “When would you do the test?”

“In ninety days.”

“Why ninety days?”

“Because that’s about how long it takes for my memory to shift from short-term to long-term. My memories of you are still new and need time to get cemented into the same brain areas that the old horrors live. At the crux of it, I have ninety days to tattoo you in every single part of my brain. If it doesn’t work by then, it never will.”

Ninety days. Nine million heartbeats. Will our love always be measured by deadlines and clocks? Tic toc, tic toc. Racing constantly against laws, governments, wars, and now against ourselves.

“Are you scared?” I ask him.

“Terrified.”

Trembling, I take his hand in both of mine and bring it to my lips. “Well then,” I say, looking up at him. “Let’s fight.”

Shock flashes through his beautiful face, changing his breath to a loud gasp. It lingers in his open mouth for a second and then it becomes my name. “Elisa!” he says, and brings his mouth to mine.

The moment our lips touch, an electric pulse courses through my body, as though his kiss is jolting it back to life. His lips mold with mine like they are speaking an ancient language to each other, “hey you, I’ve missed you, you’re mine”— words he first wrote on me with the quill on our very first night. The heat of his mouth stills my shivers and spreads over my skin like wildfire. His perfumed breath steals inside my lungs, healing them, filling them with him until my breathing sprints into a strong, healthy, jagged rhythm. At the sound, he moans and his kiss changes. It becomes urgent now, hands fisting in my hair, soldering me to him and yet it’s not close enough for me. I throw my arms around his neck, my fingers knotting in his hair as a frenzy ignites inside me. He responds with such force that I fall back on the grass. His weight pins me against the meadow, each hard line of his against every soft line of mine. His hands memorize my face, my throat, my shoulders, my waist, the entire length of me. With each grip, the ache in my chest disappears. With each stroke of his tongue, the wound heals shut. With each brush of his lips, the last two weeks blow away. And when he frees my mouth briefly to trail kisses along my jawline and my throat, my voice speaks only one word, freed and clear: “Aiden!”

His glorious face is right above me then, smiling—an exultant light in his incandescent eyes. And in this pin dot in time, there is no ache or sadness or fear there. Nor in mine. Only love. With a stunned gasp of my own, my mind—freed too—cracks the code. I smile at the brilliant blue sky beyond Aiden’s luminous face. Thank you, Dad, I think at him. I know now.

©2021 Ani Keating

Ninety Days: Chapter 4 – HOME (and a note)

Hello! Is this thing still on? It has been a long time, my friends; four years and two months to be exact. And what years they have been! I know that many, if not most, of you have faced tough, dark times this last year and maybe even before. I hope you and all your loved ones are safe, healthy, and finding joy and hope in whatever form it comes. As for me, we would need chapters, maybe a whole book, to cover the last few years. I will not do that. They have tested me in ways I did not know I could be tested, from the state of our world to my own health and that of my beloved husband. Every week or month has felt, and still feels, like a new war, some days for myself, other days for those I love. A couple wars on the health front are still raging. To be honest, I don’t know how or if we will come out of it. But I know that, slowly, my creative world went dark. The more I fought to be there for those who needed me in real life, the less my art, my characters, my joy, and eventually my self spoke back. And then for a long time, there was only fighting and silence, fighting and silence. Then today, for the first time in very long while, Elisa spoke right as I was in the middle of an ugly sob, the kind that I need two days in bed to recover from. “Hi,” she said. I almost didn’t hear it over my crying. But there it was again, the way she used to sound in my head back when I was writing. I lay there on the floor, by the window where I was supposed to watch the first snow Portland has had in a while, but was choking for air instead. And then I crawled over to this laptop, opened a file I had last accessed on February 2017–a whole different woman back then, full of joy, dreams, life. And it was like looking at a stranger. I sobbed some more–for a whole different Ani that feels now gone, maybe forever. For a whole different life. But through the tears, eventually I started reading the words that old me had written. It felt like I was reading someone else’s book. And I realized why Elisa’s voice came at such a dark, hopeless moment: because she too was left locked in her own hell. And I thought, maybe I can at least get her out. Maybe she can get me out too. So I started typing the last sentences of this chapter that old me had left unfinished. It took all day, instead of the ten minutes it would have taken the girl I used to be. And then I came here on this blog: forgotten passwords, forgotten how-to, forgotten file names, everything. That took hours too. I read through some of the comments you had left–again feeling like they were to someone who no longer exists. But then a sense of gratitude broke through. And I thought I’d give you this chapter. Maybe you still remember the story and will like it. Maybe you have moved on. That’s totally understandable. But if you read it, it might help to refresh the first three chapters in the last post I blogged. I hope this new chapter brings you a smile or some happiness. I don’t know if I can keep it up. If I can, I will be back and post more. If not, sending you lots of love and gratitude for every time you have read, commented, waited, messaged, liked, shared, tweeted, posted, wondered, hoped, laughed, cried, and lived with me and my characters. – xoxo, Ani

4

HOME

They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but that has never been true for me. In fact, as I trudge back down the hill toward Burford, I feel more fragile than ever, as though the flap of a butterfly’s wings will shatter me.  But my senses are sharper, ranging out in hyper-vigilance for any potential trigger of pain.  So perhaps what doesn’t kill you doesn’t make you stronger. Perhaps it only makes you wiser. I cannot endure more hurt, but I know my rules of survival.

Rule Number One: I will not think about him.

Rule Number Two: I will not think about the past.

Rule Number Three: I will not dream about future.  

I will think only about the present—here and now. Practicalities really. Things like, will the Internet be reactivated at the cottage by the time I get there if I called the utility company from Heathrow eight hours ago? Will the food I bought at the airport last me a few days before I have to face town?  What will I say to Mr. Plemmons who has taken care of the cottage these last four years when it should have been me? Should I email Oxford to look for a job in Dad’s chemistry department? If I do email, how will I explain my sudden reappearance? What will I say to my father’s colleagues? 

I spend the rest of the trek down the hill, rehearsing my lines in my head.

My name is Elisa Snow. My father was Peter Snow; he was the Chair of the Science Department—you may remember him. I am a chemist, too. I just graduated from Reed College in the United States. Yes, a very long way away.  I have invented only one nutrient component, which I do not own any more, but I am a fast learner. I will dedicate every hour of my day, and every day of my life, to your department’s research. To continue my father’s work. Please give me a job.  I have nothing else to do.  No one else left to save. 

It’s impossible to ignore the swipe of déjà vu, rehearsing a very similar speech for ICE thirty days ago.  But that breaches Rule Number Two so I force all my senses on the path ahead. At the end of the trail, a welcome sign boasts, “Cotswolds. Area of outstanding natural beauty.”  Even in my state, I cannot deny its truth.  Soft hills roll endlessly around me in every shade of green imaginable. Mint, moss, shamrock, jade. Their crowns are gilded orange from the setting sun, and River Windrush glistens between them like a silk ribbon. Beyond the welcome sign, the ancient road stretches for about a mile, framed by Burford’s medieval cottages, tucked closely together like fairytale books on a shelf.  The native nightingales are just starting their mating night song. And a sultry breeze swirls in the air, laced with the perfume of freshly mowed grass and sweet clover.  I inhale deeply, as though emerging from underwater.  And what felt forced a few seconds ago now feels like hunger.  I cannot widen my eyes enough to trace every thatched rooftop and swaying tree.  With a tight grip in my throat, I realize a very simple truth: I have missed this place.  Despite all my efforts to banish it into oblivion, it has lived in my blood. 

Abruptly, I feel late, very late—impatient to see my cottage while there is still some daylight. Worried that it has changed. That it is no longer the perfect nest of my childhood. No longer mine.  I throw my scarf over my head and scurry the opposite direction of the sign, taking a shortcut across the clover field under the protective tunnel of the primordial yews and oaks. The blisters on my feet rub against the canvass of my sneakers, slowing me down. I slip them off, and traipse along the grass.  The cool, dewy blades soak my socks and soothe the soles of my feet, like the moist air does with my chapped lips and parched throat.  Now and then, a leaf or branch brushes softly against my hair or cheek, and I can’t help but imagine that England is welcoming me back. Like the prodigal, even though I don’t deserve it. The sun is dipping lower in the horizon now, and I walk faster, wincing at the ache of my muscles. But I don’t want the first sight of my cottage to be in the dark. 

 Finally the town is behind and the hill ends, sloping into a tiny valley like a child’s cupped hand. I pause at the edge, my throat tightening at the sight. This is the valley of my childhood. From the moment I could walk, I was lurking in this grass so constantly that Dad named it Elysium.

My eyes skate over the meadow urgently, fixing on the grove of weeping willows at the far end, right on the riverbank. At the sight of their swaying garlands, I start running toward them, rolling like a pebble down Elysium’s bowl, not caring about the blisters in my feet or the spasms in my legs.

The willows have grown. Their branches drip down like a thick curtain, the tips brushing over the grass. I can’t see anything through the leaves, except a glimmer of river here and there, but the air is heavy, redolent with the smell of roses, and I know my cottage is right behind the leafy drapes.  My heart—so silent until now—starts pounding.  I pause and listen, cupping my ear, like I used to do when I was a child.

            Shhhhhhhh, the river babbles behind the branches. Shhhhhhhhh, whisper the willows. I try to find words in their murmur. Shhhhh…sssss….hhhh… I repeat the sound until it rings in English. She’s here. She’s here. I sweep aside the branches and step between the thick trunks into the most magical place I have ever seen. 

My Rose Cottage.

It stands there, gleaming silver under the twilight sky, swaddled between the river and the two ancient beech trees with my swing still hanging on the lowest branch. A third beech tree that Dad planted the day I was born has grown close to the huge trunks—healthy and strong, so very unlike me. But despite their vast heights, the trees seem dwarfed, overshadowed by the thousands of roses blooming underneath. Miniature pink blossoms have taken over the whitewashed stone walls, lacing around the black shuttered windows, covering every centimeter of the peaked rooftop with their vines. Bigger, fuller blooms shoot up from grassy beds, so many that the tiny handkerchief yard is blanketed with a petal-woven quilt, hiding the grass and path underneath.  Over the arched front door, a garland of magenta blooms has climbed like a crown. And the small reading bench by the river is braided with garden roses the color of ballet slippers. The rose fragrance infuses everything—there is no trace of river, grass, willow, or dirt in the air. Only roses as though the whole earth is soaked in their oil. It’s surreal—as though Mum never passed, as though her soul gives magic to the blooms. 

I don’t realize I’m crying until the cottage blurs in my vision. I wipe off the tears, resisting even a blink. Isn’t a blink too much to miss for something you suddenly realize you’ve missed for a long time?

I pad in a trance down the cobblestoned path covered in petals—it is soft, comforting under my socked feet, as though it knew I’d come back with blisters.  Trembling, I reach the ivory blooms below my bedroom window. TheElisa hybrid that Mum cultivated for me. I caress one of them, teardrops falling over the petals like dew.  Brutally, the memory of showing him a similar rose in the Portland Rose Garden on our first night together intrudes on this perfect moment.  “No!” I snarl, shaking my head forcefully to dispel the image.  But another memory—him waking me up with that same rose the next morning—breaks through with its force.  “No!” I  shout louder, pressing the tip of my thumb intentionally against a real Elisa thorn. It works.  A small bead of blood drips on an ivory petal, and I become absorbed with wiping it away, not wanting to taint any part of my cottage with him.  Then with shaking hands, I dig up my old key, slide it in the lock, and hold my breath as I turn the rose-shaped brass knob and open the door.   I’m home.

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A big thank you!

Happy Sunday everyone! Two years ago, many of you helped Thirty Nights (back then Master’s Muse) become a loved story, a finished story, and now a published book (Nov. 17, 2015). For all that support, here is my thank-you in the official Acknowledgements page. Told you I’d try. 🙂 Unfortunately, listing everyone by name would be impossible with the publisher’s word limits. But I hope with this, you will know how much every click, review, and comment helped! And that I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you (and I hope you enjoy the new website and material)!  I’ll be back soon with more fun stuff (teasers, excerpts, oh my!)Acknowledgements

It’s coming! It’s coming!

For all of you who have wondered when exactly the release date is, you have an answer.  🙂 And for a bit of trivia, what’s in this release date?

  1. Almost three years to the day when the Thirty Nights idea was born
  2. Almost two years to the day when Thirty Nights started the publishing quest
  3. Almost one year to the day when Thirty Nights was officially submitted to publishers

Sometimes, coincidences happen. And sometimes it was meant to be.  I can’t wait for all you to read it.

xo, Ani

Release Date Announcement

Blurb and Tagline for THIRTY NIGHTS are here!

Happy Saturday everyone!

Hope you all have fabulous plans for the weekend. It’s raining in Portland, Oregon—which means it’s a perfect day for snuggling up with Baci chocolates and a good book (“Far From The Madding Crowd.” Thomas Hardy, Matthias Schoenaerts, and strong women—what can I say.)

It’s also a perfect day to post the blurb and tagline for THIRTY NIGHTS.  Just got them from the publisher and I’M IN LOVE!  Hope you enjoy them.  Here is the full blurb and an image of it below. Feel free to share them—I know some of you have already included THIRTY NIGHTS in your book club list. You rock! Thank you!

xx

Ani

AMERICAN BEAUTY SERIES, BOOK 1

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Thirty nights. Two hearts. One fate.mia-maid-rose_0

After her parents’ tragic deaths, Elisa Snow wanted nothing more than to escape her past. Eighteen and alone, she fled her quaint English village and moved to the United States. A starving science student by day and an artist’s muse by night, Elisa has slowly built a new life. She never dreamed she would lose everything again.

She is one week from graduation when her visa is unexpectedly denied. Given thirty days to leave the country, she must face the one thing she cannot survive again—saying goodbye and leaving her home. Yet within minutes of her world shattering, she meets a man with the power to piece it back together.

After finishing his tour of duty in Iraq, Aiden Hale traded battlefields for boardrooms, becoming one of the most successful venture capitalists in the nation. But all his wealth can’t buy him reprieve from the horrific memories of war. The only thing that gives him peace is a painting of Elisa.

Drawn together by their invisible wounds, they begin a passionate affair as they race against the clock to defy their pasts—and fight for their future.

Warning: Contains a blistering exploration of desire, sacrifice, and redemption…and love’s power to equalize us in ways laws cannot.

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