“Let me check something,” he says. He rolls me back on the bed, and flits to the restroom. He emerges back with a washcloth before I can sigh. Oh no. This will be mortifying. Why do you care, idiot, after everything you’ve just done with him?
“Let me see. Don’t be embarrassed. I just want to make sure you’re okay,” he coaxes gently. I close my eyes, pretend I’m invisible and open my legs. I feel him wipe the warm, wet cloth over me. It doesn’t hurt. It feels good. He shifts on the bed and I open my eyes. He has put the washcloth on the nightstand. I don’t even look at it. I know what I’ll see.
He cups my face, caressing my lips with his thumb. I smile. It’s not like I was waiting for my wedding night. I was waiting for desire to find me. And after all these years, find me it did.
He wraps his arm around my waist and brings me on top of him. I rest my head on his chest, inhaling his scent. Spasms quiver over his body like earthquake aftershocks. His erection presses against my belly but he does not pounce. Perhaps, he wants to give me time to recover. Or perhaps, he does not want to hurt me. Whatever his reasons, he simply runs his fingers through my hair, kissing it and whispering slowly. “‘She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.’”
His voice is soporific, as I listen to Byron’s poem, trying to understand why it reminds Aiden of me, and why he chose it for this night. With every word, my body and mind find a stillness they haven’t known before. Perhaps so does Aiden because the woman in the poem brings hope, reconciling innocence and lust, darkness and light. In her, somehow they coexist without contradiction. Much like they do on our embargo night. I have never spent much time thinking about my beauty. But tonight—part woman, part art—I feel beautiful, inside out. Awake, even as I fall asleep.
Chapter Twenty
Wide Awake
Close your eyes, Elisa, Aiden says.
I do, and he kisses my bare skin. My lips, my throat, my breasts. Suddenly, his lips leave me. I wait for them, but instead arctic air bites my skin. I open my eyes and all I see is blizzard. Heavy snow blinds me, as I stand naked in a white expanse. Ice crystals are blocking my airways. I look at my hands and they turn purple. A disembodied, blue, rigid hand grips mine.
Come back, Elisa, my mum’s voice calls me. At the sound, the blizzard turns into the Portland airport. I’m naked at PDX. Alone. No Aiden. No Javier or Reagan. Last call for Flight 602 to Heathrow, London. Flight 602. Passenger Elisa Snow… Elisa Snow… The disembodied hand grips mine tightly and drags me to the gate.
I jolt awake, gasping for air. I find none. My name is echoing. Elisa. Elisa. Two sapphire eyes meet mine as the world comes into focus.
“Elisa? Elisa! You’re fine. Look at me. Look at me.” Aiden’s voice is urgent, his hands hovering over my face as though he is not sure whether he should touch me.
At the sight, air finds its way into my lungs. It comes out in fast and shallow spurts, and a sheen of sweat gathers on my forehead. I have not moved an inch but even my skin is trembling.
“Elisa, you’re here. You’re safe.” Aiden speaks methodically, as though he is walking me through a survival exercise. “Breathe. Breathe.”
I obey, drawing in a deep breath of sandalwood and cinnamon air. It soothes my throat as my lungs start stabilizing.
“That’s good. Good girl.” Aiden smiles and his fingers brush lightly against my cheek.
I blink to banish the image of my mum’s blue hand and focus only on him. He is sitting up in bed, close to me. His eyes are vigilant, shoulders tense, spine rigid as though he is preparing to fight. The bedroom light is still on. The feather quill is still at the foot of the bed. Everything is the same. Except me.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod, suddenly embarrassed. I want to crawl into a fume hood and stay there at least until after June thirteenth. But since that would require not seeing Aiden, I force a smile.
“I’m fine, don’t worry. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“You didn’t.” He cups my face. “Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want some water? Food?”
“No, I’m okay. It was just a bad dream, that’s all.” I put my hand on top of his.
He leans in and kisses across my cheek to the corner of my lips, back and forth, back and forth. Light like the feather quill, as though anything more might startle me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” I respond a little late, focusing only on his lips. Talking about the dream would breach the embargo to its fullest and ruin every minute of fairy tale left.
“What is six-oh-two?” he asks, his lips still on my skin.
Oh, bloody hell! I was talking? That’s not my usual dreaming style. Reagan says I mostly just whimper. Well, at least this one is somewhat explainable. “Avogadro’s number. My dad’s favorite constant. Apparently my brain borrowed it for the dream.”