“Of course.” I close the door and lead him to our living room. He follows me, his quiet steps heavier. He ducks under Reagan’s million-dollar banner, treads past the sofa and stops smack in the center behind the ottoman.
“Would you like to sit down?” I ask. “Or something to drink?”
He shakes his head and starts to pace. Left, right. Left, right. With each step, he flits in and out of the ray of sun streaming from the window. Unsure what to do, I perch on the arm of the sofa, listening to the rustle of his suit.
He grasps his forehead like he wants to rip it off. I try to think of something to say but instinctively I know I shouldn’t. He is at the edge of a precipice and he will either jump on his own or not. He stops pacing and fixes me with his stare.
“From the moment you fell asleep in my arms on our first night, I’ve been trying to deserve you. Or if not deserve you, at least deserve the thought of you.” The words gush from his mouth.
“I’d touch your hair, your face. You smiled, then started whimpering in terror ‘six-oh-two, six-oh-two’. I had no idea what it meant but I knew you were in trouble and I knew no matter what it was, I’d try to save you. From anything, especially myself.” His teeth clench, and he runs his hand through his hair, grasping his neck.
“You deserve better, Elisa. Someone to heal you, not to drag you down. Gentle, not violent. The best thing for you is to let you go.
“But I’m selfish. I kept telling myself, ‘One more day, just one more day. I’ll be extra careful, always on my guard, never turn my back.’ The trouble was I hadn’t counted on your effect. All my structure, all my rules, they evaporate around you.” He splays his fingers in the air. “It took just holding you for a few minutes and I slipped… Such a simple, elemental mistake, and it could have been deadly.” His voice rises abruptly on the last word, making me jump.
“Deadly?” I gasp. “Why? What mistake?”
His hands turn to fists. “I fell asleep, Elisa… You have no idea how very close you were to getting hurt—” He sucks in a sharp breath and looks away. His eyes lock on the window. His frame shudders like he is seeing something vicious in his head.
But I relax as I finally understand. “You mean your nightmare? Aiden, I was fine. Nothing happened to me.”
Instantly, his jaw clenches. “Yes. By sheer dumb luck.” His voice is harsh, angry. “If you had touched my back instead of my face or had wrapped your arms around me, I would have attacked you and not known what I did until it was too late.” He fixes his eyes unblinking on the scratched hardwood floor.
A chill seeps through my skin to my bones. A gust of fear, if I’m honest. Yes, PTSD has nightmares and flashbacks but this sounds different. “Why would you have attacked me?” I try to put volume in my voice but it’s muted.
He looks up at me for an immeasurable moment. The ever-present tectonic plates slow down until they still. “I have a startle reflex, Elisa. No one can sneak up on me or touch me from behind, whether I’m asleep or awake… If they do, I will rip them apart or crush their bones, much like I did my own mother when I came home from Iraq… All because she tried to wake me one night from a nightmare. Just like you did.” His voice drops to a whisper, and he looks back at the window, beyond the glass pane. His eyes gloss with a liquid film. His right hand closes into a white claw, and his muscle bands quiver under the tailored lines of his jacket. Exactly as they did during his nightmare.
At the sight, my fear scoots to the corner and makes room for something else: for him. What is it about healing the pain of others that liberates us from our own ache? It must be cellular, in our blood, because right now, seeing his anguish, the only thing that matters to me is wiping it away.
I stand to go to him but he steps back, now almost against the wall. He stands tall, in his high-alert posture.
“Don’t!” he says.
I sit back on the sofa to give him the space he needs. “But your mum is okay now?” I ask gently, even though I know she must be if she is traveling to Thailand. But maybe if he starts thinking about the good things, it will help.
He scowls. “Not thanks to me. If my father hadn’t been there to save her, she would have been torn to pieces.” He closes his eyes. Quiver after quiver ripples under his jacket like the flesh of a steed reined close to the bit. My stomach clenches in sync with his shudders. I replay my time with him through this new lens that explains everything. Everything but how this started. What happened to him? Can I ever ask this question without forcing him to relive it?
I have a sudden urge to hold him but his force field is almost tangible. “When did you come back from war?” I ask, hoping this will not trigger any horrors.
“May 31, 2003, at 8:24 p.m.”
“So long ago,” I whisper. A whole epoch away. “And you think because it happened then, it will happen again with me?”
“I don’t think. I know.” His voice is resolute. “Remember what I told you about my memory, Elisa?”