Vacant Heart

Chapter Thirty-One

His body is tense.

Every definition, every curve and shape has discovered a way to come to a complete stand-still. Aidan's hands remain on my own body, but make no effort to move, glued to the skin he's touching. He's consumed our air, all of it, leaving us both gasping for some kind of release, some moment where we'll be able to move past the wrenching tale he's just spoken into existence.

His chest, hidden beneath thick material, noticeably expands and falls, the agony that erupted within him moments ago...not far away. His cheeks are still stained with tears, his dark lashes damp with the remains of them.

Even when my hands gently conform to his neck and then each side of his cheeks, the gray irises remain hidden to me, downcast to the floor. His sculpted profile gleams against the firelight, highlighting the sharp angles, the thick, furrowed brows.

He's the very image of pain.

I don't think there's anything that's fit the emotion so perfectly.

Aidan has witnessed more grief, more pain than five people combined should in a lifetime.

His parents. Nora. Lily. The loss of his life, which he lost long before they were dead.

It's frightening the way my mind works, trying to comprehend everything he's said. Because in reality, I'm not sure I could handle it. I'm not sure I could have taken months—let alone years—living in what he's living in.

I have so many questions, questions I will keep at bay because he's said enough.

He's said more than enough.

No doubt he feels my gaze, my desire to behold his eyes. He doesn't oblige me. I don't think he has the strength to yet. The pads of my fingers lightly trace the corners of his face, providing what little I can until he can pull himself out of this—if he can.

How badly does he want to leave? I wonder.

How much does my touch pain him?

Now that I know, does he regret telling me? Does he feel different?

The tears still slide down his cheeks, dropping from his eyes without him having to move them at all. They are traumatizing and silent as he sits like a statue, a man trapped beneath solid rock.

Within weeks, this man has managed to force my very small, very insignificant body to feel. And feel I do. At this moment, I wish I could feel less. I wish the faraway look in his eyes didn't affect me so deeply.

"She was mine though," he finally says, his voice no more than a whisper. "Is mine," he corrects, nodding.

"Who?"

"Lily." I wait for more, confused. His eyes flicker to my face, reluctantly. "DNA. A test done on her remains...she was mine. Nora had lied."

Why would she do that?

"I'm...I'm not sure why she did it," he says, reading my mind. "Maybe she really did believe it was someone else's, maybe she really did sleep with someone else." He pulls back from me, and I resist tightening my grip, not wanting to frustrate him with my desire to help. Maybe he needs the space. He stands up slowly, like every bone in his body is hurting, and shifts around me to give us some distance. I raise myself from the ground and sit on his chair. He rubs his mouth with his hand, stopping by the window. "Or maybe she was angry. Maybe it was a result of the episode...of wanting to hurt me."

He shakes his head, wrapping his arms around himself with an inhale. His voice comes out shaky. "I don't know. It doesn't really matter now, does it?"