Page 40 of Serpentine
“I always do.”
When the door shuts, my brother and I momentarily eye one another.
“I know you’re angry, but I did not know.”
“You didn’t know you were being followed? That’s so unlike you, Miles. The state she was in…” I trail off, looking to the corner where cobwebs live unattended as I think of rocking Aella in my arms to calm her down.
“Fuck, this is so fucked!” Miles picks up an old landline phone for clubhouse calls and throws it. It hits the wall and shatters into bits. “She’s got her hooks into me. I don’t know which way is up anymore. I didn’t even notice I was being tailed.”
I look at him. I notice something about his face that no longer looks like him. Could it be the slight change she’s made in the both of us? If I look in the mirror, will I see the minute changes in myself?
“It can’t happen again, man. If she leaves the house, she’s going with me,” I say simply.
He nods. “I understand.”
It’s the first and only time I’ve given my brother, my president, an order, but I wouldn’t have taken less than the answer he’s given in reply.
“This shit needs clearing up, and soon,” I say as I stand, and Miles only nods.
“Is she alright?” he asks.
I’m still angry at him, but I know he cares for her, too. In the short time we’ve known her, she’s burrowed into us like a fucking rabbit seeking shelter.
I really should call her Thumper.
“No, she’s not alright, Miles. But I hope she will be there in time. I think something like this lingers with a person, don’t you?”
“The fear of the moment will stick with her, yes. Haunt her, even.”
We let it happen to her.
I’m spun too tight when I leave his office, and I use my phone to order comfort food—Chinese—and steal a bottle of bourbon from the clubhouse kitchen.
When I return to my room with the food and booze, Aella sits on my bed. She’s got Outlander in her hand again, but she’s not reading it. Instead, she’s staring off into space.
I let her be for the moment as I spread a picnic of Chinese food on the bed before pouring each of us a glass of bourbon.
When I sit beside her, she turns as if she’s just awakened from a dream. “What is all this?”
“A little picnic.” I hand her the glass of booze, and she thanks me with her eyes. Her hair is askew from sleep, and she looks more beautiful than ever. She reaches down, grabs a Crab Rangoon—my favorite, too—and takes a bite.
At least she’s going to eat.
We eat in near silence, and then I clean it all up. She and I have two glasses of bourbon before I put it away. She turns on her side, facing the wall, and I get into bed behind her. I’m close enough for comfort, but not too close. I don’t want to crowd her.
I softly rub her arm in slow strokes, and we just are.
I admire this about Aella. I’ve never had a person who doesn’t seek to fill every moment with words. For long periods, neither do I. There are days I don’t want to speak to a soul. She gets that.
But tonight, I wish she’d say something because her silence slowly kills me.
“Hold me,” she finally says, and I spoon into her from behind, wrapping around her tightly.
Her proximity seeps into me, and I close my own eyes.
“You’re my home,” she says softly before drifting off to sleep, and I’m left with three words that feel as though they’re the most important ones I’ll ever hear.
Ever.