“Working late, won’t be home for a while.” Chelsea turned toward him; her elbow rested on the balcony wall. “I know it scared you, Aiden.”
“Everyone keeps saying scared,” Aiden seethed, but somehow he didn’t sound as terrible as he had. He was exhausted, pushing the words from behind his teeth as if they were heavy knives. “I wasn’t scared. I was fucking… lost. I had no sense of direction; I had no control. I was completely and utterly powerless. Do you know that that’s like?”
Chelsea thought of her father. She nodded. “I do.”
“I don’t ever want to feel like I can’t get to him,” he confessed. The hiss and snap was gone. He was smaller, slouching forward to dangle his arms over the edge of the balcony. “I stood there, waiting for you to come out of that room and tell me he was dead.”
“But I didn’t,” Chelsea whispered. “I told you he was going to make it, and it was the truth.”
He looked over the edge of the balcony and then at the horizon. The sun had almost sunk into the ocean, setting the water ablaze. Her fingertips twitched toward his arm, and she braced herself for his reaction when she finally placed her hand on his shoulder. He was warm and solid. Until now he’d seemed like a person immune to comforting.
He didn’t move. His chest heaved, he hung his head, and gathered a shaky breath in through his mouth. Seagulls squawked from high in the sky, a gust of chilly air whipped against them, and Chelsea braved another touch. She rested her chin on the edge of his shoulder just shy of her hand.
“He’s not going anywhere,” Chelsea said.
“I didn’t understand why fate put us together at first and now I get it, I do. But I wouldn’t be surprised if fate was cruel enough to give me something this good just to take it away.”
“Aiden Maar, you are a fool if I’ve ever seen one.”
He blinked.
Chelsea wanted to say that she’d never seen a love like Aiden and Shannon’s, that she feared love that deep, that Daisy was the most terrifying thing in her life and she had no idea what to do. She wanted to look at Aiden and ask him for his openness, his capability to be raw and reckless, wild and gigantic. She wanted to tell him that he was lucky to have an immeasurable love, to be defined by it.
“Will you cut my hair?” Aiden asked suddenly. He pawed at his eyes again, rubbing the side of his hand over his red cheeks.
She retracted her hand, realizing shortly after she’d started nodding that she’d nodded in the first place. “Sure?”
“I don’t… Can we not talk about this? Can we pretend this never happened?”
“If that’s what you want,” Chelsea said. “But I think it’s best if you deal with your feelings, Aiden.”
“Yeah, people have been telling me that for years, Charm School.”
And just like that, sparking like a livewire, Aiden was back to being Aiden.
“I think we should shave the sides and leave the top kind of long. Would that look fucking stupid?” He turned toward her and folded his arm across his chest, tilting his head in the inquisitive way he always did. His lips thinned when he smiled. Chelsea was realizing that Aiden was very good at being what people wanted him to be: cruel, strong, unshakable, poisonous. Chelsea was realizing that Aiden was actually very few of those things. “Charm School?”
She jolted back into her body and snorted. “No, it’ll look fine. Where’s your clippers?”
Chelsea was realizing that Aiden was like her in more ways than she’d thought he could be.
“Can I make my tea first? I was looking for honey when you came in, because I bought this fancy loose leaf tea at a shop in the mall today. It’s supposed to be calming and help with digestion.” She brushed past him into the apartment and stepped into the kitchen. The kettle was cool, so she twisted the knob on the stove until one of the burners flared. “You want a cup?”
“Sure, I’ll have some of your rich-people tea.”
“It’s not rich-people tea!” Chelsea huffed and listened as Aiden threw things around in the bathroom down the hall. “Where’s the damn honey?”
“Fridge!”
“Who in their right mind keeps honey in the fridge?”
“I do,” Aiden called, slamming the cabinet doors under the sink in the bathroom.
The kettle screamed. Aiden screamed back until Chelsea took the kettle off the stove.
They drank their tea while Chelsea shaved the sides of Aiden’s head and trimmed the top with a too-sharp pair of scissors. When they were finished, Aiden looked at himself in the mirror, and Chelsea was brave enough to slide her arms around his shoulders and hug him from behind. Their reflections blinked back at them—Aiden and Chelsea, an unlikely pair aiding each other’s growth in ways Chelsea never imagined.
He reached up and tapped rhythmically on her wrist. “Good?”
“You look handsome,” Chelsea said, arching a fair brow. “In an edgy, weird, punk, I-wouldn’t-have-hung-out-with-you-in-high-school kind of way.”
“That’s perfect then,” he said, flashing his teeth in a vicious grin.
“Shannon’s not goin’ anywhere,” she said.
Aiden’s smile fractured. His nose twitched; the ring in his septum bounced.
“Go home, make sure he takes his antibiotics, all right?”
“This is my house, remember?” He ran his hand over the nape of his neck.
“Mmmhm,” Chelsea said. She squeezed him. He held onto her wrist, urging her not to let go. “Go on, now.”
Aiden sighed and stood, watching her carefully as he grabbed his helmet off the kitchen counter.
“You’re a good doctor, Chelsea,” Aiden said. His voice was low and tender. “I don’t know what… I don’t—”
“I know, Aiden. You don’t have to say it.”
Aiden’s lips creased into a smile, and he left.
Chelsea sank against the wall. Memories were sandbags in her kneecaps, shoulder blades, stacked on top of her ribcage.
Steady those hands, Doctor!
She wrung her hands, cracked her knuckles, rolled her wrists until they popped, and tried to think of anything else. Anything.
00:00
A week went by. Late November came with the wind whipping at tree branches and the cold rolling in off the back of winter waves crashing against misty, fog-ridden beaches.
Shannon sat up on his elbows while Aiden crouched between his legs. Inquisitive brown eyes circled the stain on his stomach, and a cluster of angry black threads punched though sewn-together skin. Shannon noticed that Aiden’s breathing was labored and he took his time enjoying the vulnerable, curious state Aiden had fallen into.
It was selfish for him to be hungry for this Aiden, but Shannon couldn’t help it. This Aiden was the truest version—the Aiden who took him for a drive on their anniversary, who was sitting on the cot in the hospital room when Shannon woke up, and who took him to The Hollow last year for the first time—young and gentle and wild all at once.
“Chelsea should do this,” Aiden said. He eyed the stitches, tilting his head. “I’ll fuck it up.”
Shannon pushed the slender pair of silver scissors toward Aiden’s hand. “You snip one end, then the other, and pull. They’ll slide right out, okay?”
Aiden shook his head. “Not okay.”
Shannon laid back. His shoulders flopped against the comforter, he sighed, and pressed the scissors flat against Aiden’s thigh. “C’mon, sooner than later, sugar.”
Aiden’s feathers were more than ruffled. Blazing eyes pinned to Shannon’s face, he sat on his heels and pouted. His mouth twitched before he said, “Why are you making me do this?” It sounded weak, tortured, the nuance of anger long gone. Thick lashes folded together as he closed his eyes, and Aiden reached out a hesitant hand to touch the center of Shannon’s abdomen, an inch shy of his stitches. “I shouldn’t be the o
ne to do this.”
“You’re the only one who should,” Shannon assured. “Go on.”
Tremors quaked through Aiden’s hands. Shannon felt them on his hips as Aiden grasped the scissors, leaned forward, and positioned them on the left side of the stitches. He chewed on his lip and shoulders hunched up to his ears as he tried to steady the scissors. Aiden’s chest went concave, and, swallowing hard, he wrenched his hand away.
“Call Charm School.”
“Aiden, c’mon.” Shannon touched Aiden’s wrist and felt the curve of his thumb and the lines that crisscrossed his palm. “This isn’t a big deal.”
“To you.” Aiden’s face tightened, and a deep blush painted the tops of his cheeks. Aiden dropped the scissors flat on Shannon’s chest. “If it’s not a big deal, you do it.”
Shannon rolled his eyes. Of course, he thought. There weren’t many things in the world that scared Aiden Maar, but this was one of them. This, and Shannon, and his parents, and his brother, all of which surrounded one monumental experience: loss.
The scissors were warm from Aiden’s hand when Shannon clutched them in his own. He positioned the blade above the first stitch and snipped. Aiden flinched. He moved to the opposite side, snipped, and Aiden held his breath.
“Will you take the stitches out now?” Shannon asked.
Aiden stared at the black thread. His face was a complex playground of different emotions. First anger, because it was always anger. Second sadness, the sweet kind, a sadness that bloomed from wanting more, or not wanting anything at all. Finally, Aiden looked as if he’d decided. He pressed one hand on Shannon’s chest, and the other trembled, inching closer to the thread with every measured breath. At last, his index finger and thumb pinched the end of the thread, and he pulled.
Shannon’s body tensed, and he inhaled, closing his throat around a small, dismissive sound. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t pleasant. It was like being tickled to the point of pain.
Aiden wrenched his hand away. If he could’ve puffed up like a frightened cat, he would’ve. His mouth thinned, and he narrowed his eyes.
“It’s fine. I’m sorry; it just feels weird. Keep going.” Shannon reached for Aiden’s hand and brushed the crown of his bony knuckles. “Almost done.”
Aiden resumed the gentle pull and the last bit of thread slid through Shannon’s skin. Left to decorate his stomach was a scar, riddled with a linear constellation of pinpricks. Shannon glanced down, but the leftover wound was covered by the tips of Aiden’s fingers.
“Thank you,” Shannon said.
Aiden let out a long breath through his nose. His shoulders relaxed, his chest quivered, and he spread out his hand so the palm settled over the scar. Shannon wanted to push his hand away, not because it hurt, but because Aiden was still shaking.
“It’s over,” Shannon said, easing his hand over Aiden’s. “It’s all healed; stitches are out. I’m back to work the day after tomorrow. Everything can go back to normal.”
“I don’t know how normal we were before this, but I don’t think things will ever go back to the way they were.” Aiden’s honesty plowed into Shannon and pummeled him under the weight of it. He spoke clearly, lips opening and closing as he visibly mulled over the rest of what he wanted to say. “I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again.”
“I’m not taking another homicide case,” Shannon said through a laugh. “I’m going back to busting drug dealers and catching thieves, even though I wasn’t very good at the latter.”
“You’re obviously a shitty cop.” Aiden gestured at himself and then at Shannon’s torso. Aiden was making a point, and Shannon smiled, allowing it. “You let a well-known thief slip right past you, you fucking almost killed some drunk guy at a bar, which I mean, yeah, you probably should’ve, but you… You got your dumb ass shot three times by a meth-head murderer. You should probably quit and do something more reasonable, like breed cats.”
Laughter flew past Shannon’s lips. He tried to contain it and gave up. He covered his face with his hands while Aiden cursed at him and he wondered what could possibly get him in more trouble, laughing or being blunt.
He attempted a mixture of the two and dropped his hands to reach for Aiden. “I’m going back to work, Aiden,” Shannon whispered, with his brows raised high on his forehead. “I can’t breed cats for a living, you know that.”
Shannon tugged on his wrists. Aiden glowered, but flopped down on his side of the bed.
“You could file for disability,” Aiden said.
Again, Shannon laughed and slung his arm over Aiden’s waist. He pulled gently until Aiden slid against him, resuming his usual place beneath Shannon’s chin.
“I’m not disabled.” Shannon nosed at the top of Aiden’s head.
“If you go back to work I’m going to steal the Blair Freedom piece they have displayed at Modern Lifestyle.”
“That painting has its own traveling security detail. You’d never get past the front doors.”
“Do you honestly think a security detail could stop me?”
Shannon curled his arm tighter around Aiden’s back. “Wouldn’t that be the point? Get caught, shame me in front of my peers, and force me into quitting my job?”
“No, you idiot. I’d sell it and we’d move to the Caribbean.” Aiden’s voice was muffled by Shannon’s sternum. Tracing the scar and feeling the pinholes where the stitches had been, his fingers played along the edge of the bare skin on Shannon’s stomach. His hand soothed its way from the scar to Shannon’s ribs and around the wing of his shoulder blade to rest on the nape of his neck.
Shannon tensed when Aiden’s fingernails dug into his skin, but he didn’t move. Aiden’s knee slid between his legs, and Shannon sifted through the dusty hair on the back of Aiden’s head.
“It happened,” Shannon said gently.
Aiden leaned back to look at him and said, “Yeah, it did.”
“Still here,” Shannon said matter-of-factly. His eyes slipped closed. He gripped the side of Aiden’s face and thumbed over the cliff of his cheekbone. “You’re not in prison; I’m not dead. It’s a miracle.”
The sun had set a while ago, leaving the loft in a state of pleasant darkness. The television was on, as it almost always was, and credits from an old film scrolled down the screen. A nightlight plugged into the wall next to the bathroom lit the foot of the bed. Shannon stole a glance at Aiden, whose eyes glowed, honeycomb and rich amber. He blinked, leaning his head against the pillow as Shannon touched his face.
A quiet lived inside of Aiden. Sometimes it was quiet like war; sometimes it was quiet like magic. Shannon caught a glimpse of Aiden’s nose and his lashes as he pressed his lips to Shannon’s. Sometimes the quiet that lived inside him wasn’t quiet at all. It caused fissures to crack through Shannon’s resolve, letting light seep in. This, Aiden’s own personal brand of understanding, was what made that quiet seem so loud, so bright.
Hands swept across Shannon’s shoulders. One pushed while the other pulled, and Aiden pawed at him until they were settled the way he wanted them. Shannon pressed his knees on the inside of Aiden’s hips, nudging them apart, and slid his arms around Aiden’s shoulders.
“Am I heavy?” Shannon mumbled, laying his weight atop the dips and curves of Aiden’s body. He pressed his cheek against Aiden’s shoulder.
Warm palms ran down his spine and slid under the back of his shirt. “No.” Aiden said, “not even a little.”
32
“Chelsea, I swear to god.” Daisy stomped down the hall and swung the bathroom door open. “You look fine; would you stop! We’re gonna be late, and that’ll be worse than one hair being out of place, I promise.”
Chelsea pushed and pulled at her freshly curled hair. She picked at her nails, which were painted sleek, muted gray, and frowned at her reflection. “I should redo it, huh?” She ran her fingers through her hair, which looked full a
nd lively, bouncing over her shoulders in sunny ringlets. “It doesn’t look very good. Your Mama’ll think I’m some two-cent nobody.”
“She’s going to think I hired you,” Daisy joked. Chelsea snarled at her. “I’m kidding! Just come on. Get your purse; put on your shoes. We have to go.”
“Fine, fine.” Chelsea adjusted her festive red sweater over the top of black jeans. “Boots or heels?”
“Boots, you’re already tall enough as it is.”
Chelsea frowned. “Do you not like it when I wear heels then, because—”
“Chelsea, oh my god…” She rattled on in Mandarin, asking for strength mostly, but cursing as well. Daisy stopped before she exploded. She snatched her keys off the counter, shoved Chelsea’s purse at her, and swung the front door open. “You look stunning; you look fucking gorgeous. I don’t care if you wear heels or boots, neither will my family. Just get in the car.”
“I want them to like me.” Chelsea lifted her chin and pursed her lips; a quiver of doubt built between her finely arched brows. “Is that such a bad thing?”
Daisy let out an exhausted, long breath. She tapped her pointed black boots impatiently. “No, it’s not a bad thing, and I understand you’re trying to make a good impression, but I swear to you, I promise.” She clasped her hands together and shook them. “They’re going to adore you, unless we’re late.”
Chelsea pulled on a pair of black knee-high boots and walked out the door. Once they were in the car, the questions came, all of them the same thing rearranged in different ways: will they like me?
“Am I too boisterous?” Chelsea checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror. “Should I tone it down? Is there anything I shouldn’t say? My sorority sisters always said I was a little too abrasive, I guess.”
After Daisy told Chelsea everything would be fine at least a dozen times, she pulled into the driveway on her childhood street, ten miles inland, in Rancho Santa Margarita, a quaint town at the base of Saddleback Mountain.
Curved Horizon Page 27
