I’m frozen not sure what’s happening or what caused this outburst. Maybe he’s bipolar or has some other head-problem thing? Could explain his hot and cold behavior. Yep, that must be it. But strangely, I’m not scared … not at all. More just heartbroken and I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes.
Enrique looks at me with an unreadable face before he gags again, swallowing it back. He covers his mouth with his hand and rushes to his … eh our room and I can hear him throwing up a few times.
I start shaking, my legs feel like blubber and I slowly sink down to the floor, sitting in a shocked heap, while tears stream silently down my face. I’m in love with an unstable man … yeah … leave it to me to lose my heart on an impossible relationship.
Maybe I’m attracted to a certain type egotistically crazy. Take Allen for instance … my first crush I was just 17 and ended up with self-pity and a lost virginity. And even after that my relationships never ended well. But, I must admit that I’ve never felt about anyone like I feel for this man. It’s as if I would do anything to keep him from suffering, even shatter my own heart. I glare at the mess around me; a mixture of blood, glass, and Bolognese sauce.
Fuck … this man clearly doesn’t like spaghetti.
I slowly get up and take off my dirty top, leaving me in the thin strap shirt I have on underneath. Then I make my way to the bedroom, careful not to step on the broken glass with my bare feet. I secretly peek around the door frame, not sure what I’ll find inside, and in case some other object comes flying towards me. But my heart urges me on. If Mel could heal Damion, I can at least try to do the same with this robot.
“Aria, I’m sorry.” It’s barely a whisper. He’s sitting on the bottom edge of the bed, his T-shirt removed and wrapped around his hand, his head slummed down.
“So you understandably don’t like spaghetti bolognese,” I’m trying to lighten the mood a little cause it feels as if I’m stuck in a cardboard box without ventilation.
He seems lost, his eyes dull and I’m starting to realize that a dislike of bolognese is not the only reason for his outburst. I retrieve the emergency kit from the bathroom cabinet and settle down next to him. I take his hand and remove the bloody shirt. There’s a really deep cut running over the back of his hand and a few minor ones on his fingers. I start cleaning it with disinfectant and watch him flinch. The movement ripples the muscles on his perfect chest and I force myself to concentrate on bandaging his hand, so as not to touch the holy grail.
“There,” I say when I’m finished and I look up, just to find him staring at me with a strange longing in his eyes. He averts them to look at his hand as if caught doing something illegal.
“Thanks,” he mumbles and I know he’s rebuilding those walls. But not this time … this time I’m gonna go in like a wrecking ball.
“Is that it … don’t you think you owe me an explanation at least?” I’m trying to sound less pissed off than I indeed am. His eyes shoot up to find mine but he quickly turns his head to the side, as if it hurts to look at me.
“It’s nothing … just let it go! I just …” he says firmly, but it’s not nothing and I want to know … I need to know!
“Nothing? Throwing me with a bowl of food … that’s nothing? Come on, Sport, we’re not five,” I interrupt him and I notice the conflicting emotions on his face. He tries to look in any direction that’s not me, but I push my chin out and face him head-on.
“Aria, I’m sorry, I really am, but … ” I hold up my hand to stop him mid-sentence. I close my eyes in a short prayer for self-restraint and then I look at him again.
“Look, I’m here for you, and I want to help you. So, please tell me, Sport … please,” I’m begging but I don’t care. I take his hand in both of mine, waiting and hoping that he will open up to me. And just as I start thinking that this will never happen … not in a million years, he throws his head back and looks up at the ceiling.
“Um, let’s just say it was your punishment … you owe me remember?” So he’s going to try and duck it that way … okay Mr. Blackburn … but I’m not giving up so easily.
“Okay … so I’ve been punished … great … AND now tell me what the fuck is going on with you! What happened to you that you’re so broken?” I’m not giving him any space for retraction … not this time. He blinks a few times as if he’s trying to grasp what I mean … and then his eyes change … the blue one is a stormy sea that reminds me of Jackson … the other one a raging warm fire. It’s as if his eyes reflect the inner turmoil warring inside him. And at last, he slowly starts talking.
“You see … the day my mom was murdered,” then he swallows before he continues, “that day she was busy making bolognese. The sauce … eh,” he bites his lip and his eyes drift to look through the window at the ocean, “… it was spilled everywhere, mixed with her blood. The smell … it smelled …” his voice disappears and I can see the pain clearly on his face.
He pulls his hand from mine and pushes it through his hair, “Um, let’s just say I haven’t eaten the stuff since then.” He quickly wipes the top of his hand over his cheek and I smile deeply moved. Even robots can cry.
My heart feels as if it’s breaking for him. I move forward and pull him into a hug. His arms move around my body and then I feel him shake and I know he’s crying on my shoulder. He lets out a few soft sobs, his arms tightening as he pulls me even closer.
After a while, his grip on me relaxes, but he doesn’t let me go so I softly scratch my nails in a slow comforting movement up and down the side of his torso, my head buried on his chest. Then he lets me go.
He takes my head into his hands and a shiver runs down my spine forming goosebumps on my skin as far as it goes.
“Um, are you cold?”
I nod BUT it’s downright a big fat lie. He is the reason for my chills. He pulls the small blanket from the bed and wraps it around my shoulders.
I bite my lower lip to suppress the need that’s slowly burning up from my core.
“Fuck girl, don’t tease me right now,” his eyes are filled with questions – longing, wanting – and I succumb to a power bigger than me, so I lean over to put my lips against his.