Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1) (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Last Rites

I half-sit, half-stretch in the only armchair in our living room, staring at the mess before me. Reagan is passed out on the couch in her K
EEP
C
ALM
AND
M
ARRY
H
ARRY
pajamas and emerald-green pillbox hat. Two wine bottles, leftover pizza, crumpled Kleenex tissues and dirty dishes litter the coffee table. Lana Del Rey is singing quietly in the background—“This Is What Makes Us Girls”. On the floor, there is a crude voodoo doll Reagan made out of old socks. The name
Aiden Hale
and a litany of words that range from
sex god
to
pervy wanker
are written in black Sharpie across its body. Now, even though it’s only 8:00 p.m., my faithful guardian is down for the count, having emptied the wine bottles herself.

In the silence—without Reagan’s voice crooning “it will be okay” or screeching “that evil tosser”—all the questions resurface. Louder, as though furious at being ignored. How could I have let this happen? Why did he change?
Did
he change? Or is this his true nature? Why? Does he need saving even more than I do? What the hell do I do about that? What the hell do I do about anything?

I clench my teeth together and shove back every question. I focus only on the answer I know: I have to get over him, and soon. If it hurts this much after two nights, I can’t imagine what it would have been like if we had kept going.

I move for the first time in the last several hours. My joints creak at the sudden motion but I welcome it. At least this pain I can understand. I stumble to Reagan and take off her hat, brushing her red curls away from her face.

“Fuckin’ asshole,” she mumbles and goes back to snoring.

“I brought it on myself,” I whisper, throwing her favorite shearling blanket over her. My eyes flit to the clock on the wall, as they have done every hour or so. Not waiting for Aiden to call but for Javier to get off work. He will be worried about me. And my news—my
good
news—will make him happy. At 8:05, I amble to the kitchen and dial.

“Hello?” Javier answers on the first ring.

“Hey, Javier, it’s me.” My voice is hoarse.

“Isa? What’s wrong?”

I clear my throat. He doesn’t need any more worries after a sixteen-hour day. Or ever. “Actually, something is right for once,” I say, evading the question. “Well,
maybe. I don’t want to jinx it.” I knock on the wooden kitchen table as I say the words.

“Oh yeah? What?” He sounds like he is smiling.

“I think I may have found a way to stay.” I smile too.

There is a short moment of silence, and then a loud gasp. “Holy crap! What? How?” He is shouting now. I bet he is pacing as far as the phone cord in the kitchen will let him.

“I have a deal to sell my supplement,” I answer.

The line goes quiet except his breathing.

“He’s going to buy it from you?” Javier sounds awed.

“Yes.”

More silence. Then a low whistle. “I can’t say that I understand the dude. But for this, I’ll always owe him,” Javier says. I have a sudden urge to run across town and hug him. No matter what his feelings are about the world, they always come second to his family’s happiness.

“Yes, we’ll both owe him. But don’t jinx me, Javier, please. The lawyers can’t guarantee it and they say I may still have to go back.”

Javier laughs. “Okay, okay. Aren’t you supposed to be a scientist—rational and all that?” I can hear him knocking on wood, probably the kitchen cabinets.

“Not for this,” I say firmly, finding nothing funny and rubbing my knuckles raw against the kitchen table. He laughs again, and I hear him talking to Maria. He speaks Spanish but after four years with them, I understand.
Mom, it’s Isa. She thinks she’s figured out a way to stay.
Maria squeals, drowned in seconds by a chorus of the girls. Antonio supplies the baritone to the cacophony. They all get on the line and talk at the same time.

“Isa,
amorcita
, happy, happy—”

“Oh, how? Who?—”

“When?—”

“Come over here,
linda
—”

“Mom’s making carnitas—”

“Carnitas? Forget carnitas. I’m making
tres leches
cake. Javier, go get her. Dora, put on some music.”

“Mom, Anamelia is up.”

“Oh, that’s okay, she likes the music.”

Finally, Javier’s deep voice rises above the rest in English. “Will you all stop? It’s not for sure yet. Don’t jinx it for her.”

In unison, I hear more knocking on wood and more laughter. The girls break into a song that has only one line.
She’s staying, she’s staying, la la la, she’s staying.

“
¡Basta!
” Javier yells and it’s finally quiet. I choke at their joy.

“So, everything else okay?” Javier tries to sound casual but I know what he is really asking: how did it go with Aiden? I swallow a few times. How many answers are there to
this
question in a dichotomous key?

“Oh, you know, the usual. ICE chasing me, rich men wanting to buy my invention, dwindling supply of chocolate.” I try to joke as convincingly as I can.

“Isa, cut the crap. What happened?” he demands.

But I cannot tell him. He will worry himself bald. That’s bad enough. But he will also hate Aiden. And somehow, that’s even worse. I swallow hard again and give him another explanation, which is still true and saves everyone.

“You were right all along, Javier. It’s better not to get attached. Especially since I still don’t know if I’m staying or going.”

He cannot argue with me. But he stays on the line, sensing that I’m hurting.

“Can I come to work with you tomorrow?” I ask. This is how I was planning on spending my last days before Aiden turned everything upside down. One day with Javier, one day with Reagan.

He chuckles. “Isa, sweetheart, I’m painting a house tomorrow. I have to be there at six in the morning. It won’t be fun for you. Sleep in. I’ll come over after work, okay?”

“I don’t mind getting up early. I’ll be up anyway. And I can help with the yard stuff.”

We’ve done this before. He works so much that sometimes, he takes me to work with him or we would never see each other.

He sighs. “All right, you win. I’ll come get you at five forty-five. You’re so nuts, Isa. Go, get some sleep.”

“Yay,” I squeal and clap my hands.

He laughs his deep throaty laugh. “
Noches,
” he says but waits for me to hang up. He never hangs up first.

“Good night, Javier.”

The moment I’m plunged into silence, Aiden invades all my senses. I can still smell him on my skin and feel him when I move. The burn of his stubble on my neck, the sting of his bites on my breasts, the ache of his thrusts between my legs. And the void of his absence between my lungs.

Hydrogen
, I think instinctively, then stop. Strangely, I don’t want to numb any part of this. That’s why I didn’t help Reagan drain the wine bottles tonight. I want to know the full extent of the damage. My dad had this theory. When I was running a low fever, he wouldn’t give me drugs right away. He’d say,
let your immune system fight it, it will make you stronger.
Same thing now. If I can live through tonight, then I can make it. Irrevocably altered but, in substance, still me.

I leave a glass of water and some Advil for Reagan and trudge to my room. I take off my mum’s dress, trying not to think of how Aiden slipped it off last night. It seems like it happened a hundred years ago. When I unclasp my bra, his shirt button falls out and rolls dismally on the floor. I chase it under my desk, pick it up and put in on the nightstand. But it calls to me in a pea-in-the-mattress way so I tuck in my knickers drawer. Fresh sobs build in my chest, and I make a decision: I have to wash him off. It’s healthier this way even though my skin contracts at the mere thought, as if to hold on to his scent a little longer.

It’s the longest shower I have taken. The loofah stings, as does the hot water. With each scrub, Aiden’s lips, his tongue, his fingers go down the drain. When I am rinsed clean, despite using Reagan’s blueberry scrub, I don’t glow. All the light has gone out of my skin. I think wildly of a dying firefly. Suddenly, I’m afraid. What if I never work right again? What if I never respond to another man? Losing it now, after knowing what it feels like, would be cruel.

No matter how scientifically I try to dispel the theory, the terror is so strong that my knees give out and I sit in the bathtub for a while. I’m not crying. It’s one of those numbing pains that freeze your tear ducts. I’ve had another pain similar to this. It took weeks then before I could cry. My mind is idle, which is worse than empty. Emptiness is where a mind can sit still for hours. Idleness is a meddler. It looks for things to do, images to conjure, feelings to dredge up, questions to ask. Tonight, I can’t afford idleness. I try to focus only on the good things until the water runs cold. I stand up, turn off the shower and dry myself, ignoring the way the towel smarts against Aiden’s love bites.

In my room, I put on my soft flannel PJs, turn off the light and let the night have me. I don’t have dreams exactly. Instead, I see images thrown together by a crazed mind. Aiden, the flickering lights, the vicious tension of his shoulders, the way they relaxed when I touched them, his memory, his nightmare, his issues with doors and walls, the meeting with the lawyers, over and over again. Like a song stuck to the brain or a word on the tip of my tongue. Is my mind reliving or discovering? I’m just not sure.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Long Night

My day with Javier was easier. And harder. It was easier because I worked for fifteen hours straight and came up with a formula for nontoxic paint. So now I’m finally exhausted, and exhaustion is what I need tonight to be able to sleep.

But it was harder because no matter what I did, a small voice repeated in the back of my head like a broken vinyl record,
Aiden Hale. Aiden Hale. Aiden Hale
. He called Feign to cancel the painting—which made it final—but he still paid Feign his full commission, which made it worse. How can I get over a man who keeps saving me in every way?

“So the sale is supposed to be tomorrow?” Javier confirms as he pulls up in front of my apartment to drop me off.

“I think so. We’ll see if he has called.” My stomach starts knotting. I had the brilliant idea of leaving my phone behind to avoid conversation. So, of course, all day I’ve been nervous about what sort of message is waiting for me at home, or worse, that there will be no message at all.

Javier clutches my shoulder. “It’ll be fine. You’re doing the right thing.”

I nod, envious of his conviction. “I’ll let you know what happens. Thanks for today.”

I give him a hug and get out of the car. Calico is lounging in his spot on the sidewalk, waiting for his daily scratch. I wave at Javier and snap a picture of his Honda Civic as it clunks away past a shiny, black sedan.

Inside, Reagan is on the couch watching Chatty Man in her K
ISS
M
E
, I’
M
B
RITISH
T-shirt. She is absorbed in Alan Carr’s Britishisms for
drunk
, giggling and trying to imitate them.

“Pissed up and off the face,” she annunciates at the TV but when she sees me, she mutes her phonetics practice. “Hey, luv. How was your day with Javier?”

“It was good. We worked a lot. Hopefully I won’t get him fired with my painting job.” I yawn. Yes, physical labor is working.

“Did you tell Denton about your million-dollar sale?”

“Yes, I called him from Javier’s phone. He’s beside himself. He demanded to come with me to the sale.”

“That’s great!” Reagan claps. “You’ll have a buffer from the dragon. Speaking of which, I’ve been fielding calls from that asshole all afternoon. Thanks so much for leaving your cell behind.”

I hate the relief and terror I feel at her words. “Sorry, Reg. What did he say?” I wheeze.

Reagan snorts. “Well, the first time was around two, and he asked for you to give him a call. I said ‘fine, whatever’ and hung up.” She sounds disgusted that Aiden had the nerve to call our apartment. “The second time was in the middle of dinner and when I said you weren’t here, he demanded to know when you would be back. I told him I had no idea when your date would be over.” Her green eyes glow in a way that rivals Calico’s.

I sink in the couch, my hand flying to my mouth. “You told him I was on a date?” I whisper through my fingers, horrified.

“Yes. And don’t give me that look. If you ask me, you deserve a real date after that stunt Aiden Hale pulled yesterday.” She looks like she is ready for the boxing ring. The only things missing are the gloves.

“Reagan, why did you do that?” I wail, but my voice is drowned by our phone ringing. I whimper and jump up.

“I bet that’s him again.” Reagan purses her lips like she is eating a lemon. “You want me to get it and say you’re spending the night?”

“No. I’ll get it,” I call as I sprint to the kitchen.

She is right behind me, looking very much like a bodyguard. I open the recipe drawer and turn it inside out digging for a paperclip.
I find two.
Ring, ring, ring. Ring, ring, ring
. Deep breath.
Oxygen, 15.999.

“Hello?” I answer. Thanks to the paperclip and a massive internal effort, I sound normal even though I’m a bigger mess than the immigration system. Reagan gives me the thumbs-up.

“Elisa.” Aiden’s voice is quiet, yet every cell in my body responds instantly. I’m ready to run to him and from him at the same time. I sink on the kitchen chair.

“Hello, Mr. Hale.” The formal address burns my tongue but
Aiden
would be more painful.

Reagan gives me another thumbs-up.

There is a long pause. My paperclip is now a straight wire.

“How was your day?” he asks after a few moments, his deep voice even.

“It was good, thank you. Reagan said you called.” My voice is even too. I should get an Oscar for this. Reagan’s raising-the-roof gesture confirms that my performance is solid.

He pauses again and clears his throat once. “Yes, I drafted the agreement with standard terms, but we can change it if you wish. Does tomorrow still work for you?” For the first time, his voice wavers but it’s so brief that I can’t be sure if it’s bad reception, static or something else.

“Yes, it does. By the way, Professor Denton is beyond himself with excitement and has asked, or rather begged, that he comes tomorrow. He has been there from the beginning, and I’d like to give him that opportunity. Is that all right with you?”

Another pause.

“Yes, that’s fine.” His voice is clipped. The dragon is alive and well and it’s taking aim at poor Denton.

The longer I’m on the line, the more my knees tremble. It’s a matter of time before my voice starts to shake. I have to quit while I’m ahead.

“So what time tomorrow, Mr. Hale?” Reagan hands me a pen and notepad as if there is any chance I would forget.

“How about ten at my office? I can send Benson to pick you up.” His tone is softer.

“Ten works but I don’t need a ride. Professor Denton will feel very slighted if I ride with anyone but him. But thank you for the offer.” I stick to British gentility, which is going to be my theme tomorrow.

“My pleasure, Elisa.” It sounds like he wants to say something else. He stays on the line.

“Thank you for putting this together so quickly for my benefit. I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.” Reagan breaks into a cheerleader dance, using napkins as pom-poms.

“It was…cathartic. I’ll see you tomorrow, Elisa.” He hangs up.

Cathartic?
Does this man ever speak in plain, transparent English? I stare at the receiver, amazed that it survived the commotion. Reagan takes it from my hand and places it back on the wall.

“You were brilliant,” she says. “A total pro. If Aiden thought you were going to pine for him all day, he’s sorely disappointed. Now the real question is, what are you going to wear?”

She sprints to her closet mumbling to herself while I call Denton. When I finish, I have no time to take in what happened because Reagan is bombarding me with possible outfits. She thinks I should go for sexy and has four dresses that belong in a bar, not a boardroom.

“Reagan, no way. These are too obvious. I’m not going there looking like I’m begging for him to notice me. I just need to get through tomorrow with as much dignity as possible and deal with the rest of this mess on my own.”

Reagan pouts. “Okay, I see your point. It’s not that I think you should lure him. I just think you need to remind him of what he’s missing.”

Remind Aiden?
Aiden doesn’t need reminders. He will remember every part of me—every flawed, inadequate part that couldn’t keep up with the fantasy—forever in his eternal mind.

“Do you want to see what I’m going to wear tomorrow?” I ask gently.

She smiles and lets it go. “Yes! Although I think it should involve a hat. Or at the very least a fascinator.”

She follows me into my room, discussing the merits of a birdcage hat. I dig in my microscopic closet for a garment bag in the back. This is one of my most precious treasures. My mum’s dress that she wore on her first interview at the Ashmolean. It’s one of those timeless pieces that look like something Jackie O. would wear. Lilac, three-quarter length sleeves and tailored. I’ve never had a chance to wear it. When I show it to Reagan, she whistles.

“Elisa Cecilia Snow, this is an amazing dress! Yes, forget everything else.
That’s
what you’re wearing.” She does not touch the silky fabric but looks at it with reverence.

“But you have to wear my lucky Louboutins,” she orders, her eyes still on the dress.

“Lucky? How are they lucky?” I’m all for luck these days.

“No man has ever turned me down when I was wearing them.” She shrugs.

“Reagan, that’s because you’re you. It has nothing to do with your shoes.”

She ignores me, bolts out of my room and comes back before I can blink, carrying the nude Lucky Shoes with their signature red soles.

“If I click the heels together three times, will they return me home?”

“Only if home is here, luv.” She throws her arm around my shoulders. “You’re really into him, aren’t you? I’ve never seen anyone’s knees give out from the sound of a voice alone,” she says with feeling.

“Yes, I guess I am. But that’s how it is for every woman after her first time, isn’t it?”

Reagan perches on my bed, shaking her head. “Not always, Isa. I was head over heels after my first time, but we had dated for a whole year. And I didn’t tremble at the sound of Jason’s voice. But you have it harder than I did because Jason was not a dragon in the morning. And he didn’t pay a million dollars to get me out of his life.”

“He’s also saving me, Reg,” I mumble.

“Yeah, out of guilt.”

I pick at the blanket that Maria knitted for my last birthday. “It’s my own fault anyway. I knew it was going to end and I still let it get here.”

She grips my hand. “You listen to me right now,” she says, squeezing my fingers on each word. “This was not your fault. You thought you’d get hurt because you had to leave. Not because you opened up to a man who treated you like a hooker in the morning.”

I sigh. The feeling is strange, empty—the way the wind may blow through a vacant crypt.

“You should get some rest,” Reagan says. “Big day tomorrow.” She pecks me on the cheek and leaves the room.

After she closes the door, I sit on the bed a little longer. Oddly, even though she listed all the reasons to be angry with Aiden, anger leaves me like smoke from a fume hood.

I take a deep breath and start organizing my ammunition for tomorrow. Terms of sale? Check. Supply of paperclips? Check. Dad’s picture so he can come too? Check. Baci chocolates for after? Check. Frantic heartbeat? Check and check.

The preparation takes only twenty minutes. The rest of the night is a different matter. I plug in my dinosaur stereo—a garage sale find—curl in bed and turn off the light. Lana croons quietly about million-dollar men with dangerous flaws.

I can’t be with you… Start living
your own life.

His husky voice echoes in my head. I turn up the volume to drown it, afraid of another nightmare. But my heart pumps faster as if its beats are numbered. I recite the periodic table over the music to calm it. It doesn’t work and I know why. Because these aren’t nerves. It’s terror. Terror that he woke me up so I can feel too much. That he is saving me from ghosts only to haunt me. That he is giving me freedom, yet I’ve never felt more bound.

That this is still the end, not the beginning.