Before I can open my mouth, he slides a white short-sleeved T-shirt over my head, then a long-sleeved one, then a navy hooded sweatshirt. They all fall to my knees. He kneels in front of me and guides my legs into a pair of gray sweatpants.
“Aiden, do you think this is going a little overboard? Considering that it’s May in Portland, Oregon, not winter in the Arctic tundra?”
“Not at all,” he says, lifting my right foot. He kisses my toe and slides a woolen sock over it. He repeats the process with my left foot and tops off the preparation for the Ice Age by sliding a knit hat over my head until it covers my eyebrows. He steps back, regarding his handiwork with solemn deliberation.
“Are you sure we don’t need a scarf and gloves? Or a biohazard suit?”
“Don’t tempt me.” He smiles and swats my behind. “You’ll do. Come, let’s go fend off the elements.”
“I look ridiculous.”
“I’d still fuck you.”
“That’s rude.”
“But true.”
“I’m sweating.”
“Even better.”
“Aiden, honestly, can I at least take off the hat? I can barely see. I’ll trip.”
“No, you won’t,” he says, picking me up like I weigh as much as the hat, not twice my normal pounds from all the fabric layered over me.
I wrap my arms around his neck. His ever-present tension relaxes and he marches out of the bedroom with purpose.
The moment the night air whips my skin, I’m grateful for my Eskimo attire. The wind is sharper up here than in town. Aiden sets me down by the Aston Martin and opens my door. For the first time since the accident, I wish I had my own car so I could drive instead of giving directions. Hmm, on second thought, then I couldn’t stare at him.
Aiden folds gracefully into the driver seat despite his tall frame, and turns on the ignition. He presses a button on the steering wheel and “Für Elise” fills the car.
My eyes fly to his. He smiles. “It seems appropriate.”
“My mum named me after this,” I volunteer, surprised at how easily the words leave my mouth.
“It suits you. It has a calming quality, I think.”
“Calming? You mean soporific?”
He laughs. “We’ve already established you keep me up at night. So, no, soporific is not appropriate. Where to, Elisa?”
“Down the hill, to the left.”
I listen to the melody as the Aston Martin curves smoothly, its light beams piercing the thick darkness. Every few seconds, my eyes flit to Aiden’s face. There is a different kind of beauty about him now—something that glows underneath. The music changes to the “Moonlight Sonata” as we take the final curve. The closer we get, the louder my heart beats until it drowns even the angelic piano. I keep my eyes ahead where in a few meters, the tall, rose hedges will appear.
“Ah!” Aiden smiles. “The Rose Garden.”
I nod, rolling down the window. The moist May air steals inside, heavy with the scent of early blooms. Aiden parks the car and scans the night with sharp vigilance. It’s so intense that I follow his gaze, half expecting shadows to morph from the darkness. But there is nothing.
He gets out and comes to my window. He brushes his knuckles along my cheek. “Sure you want to be here?”
“Yes. You?”
“Yes.” He frowns as though the answer is a surprise. He opens my door, wraps his arm around me and pulls me to his side. I expect the permanent tension that strains his muscles, but they are half-relaxed, like violin strings after a long concert.
We start strolling to one of the oldest public gardens in the United States. Ten thousand roses and counting. But that’s not the only reason why I come here. I stop under the enormous trellis at the entrance, the way I always do. Christmas lights and soft halogens light up the paths. The rest of the blooms are tucked in the darkness, their petals humming with critters. There is a whoosh of hilly wind, almost like a whisper. I lock my knees, bracing for the crater that ruptures in my chest when I come here. But tonight, it is contained. Not like it does not exist, but like the ember that glows at Aiden’s presence fills it with light, not void.
“You come here alone.” Aiden’s voice is low—a statement, not a question.
“Yes. I grew up with a rose garden. Not as grand as this one, of course. But it smelled the same.”
I take a deep breath, wondering if my lungs know the difference. Aiden breathes in the air, too, as his eyes assimilate the garden. There is something unique about the way he perceives things—as though he is consuming them with all his senses.
“So you come here when you miss home,” he states quietly.
“No. I don’t miss England. I come here when I miss them.”
“Your parents?”
I nod. “This is the only spot I’ve found here that suits them. Come. This way.” I take his hand and start on the mossy, cobblestoned path.
“The path to our cottage in England looks exactly like this except it’s barely two feet wide,” I say, having the odd sense that I am inviting Aiden not to my home, but to my origin.
His sentient eyes scan the path. Then he pulls me to his chest and caresses my lower lip with his thumb.