The last time I stood in Aiden's room, I had held him in my arms until his panic attack subsided. Remembering him like that, his broken, pleading words as if it happened just yesterday, weighed heavily on my chest. I never wanted to see him so shattered again. I don't think I could bear it.
As I stepped into his room once more, other thoughts intruded on my mind. Mark's words replayed in my head like a nightmare. In exchange for money to pay for your college and apartment, she told your father you wanted to see him.
Immediately after, I called my mother to confirm it.
"Emma... I had to. The money I'd been making wasn't enough to pay for anything. We could barely afford the house as it is. You must understand. I didn't have any other choice."
Her admission only disturbed me further. She had lied to me. My father had lied to me. I felt betrayed. I felt angry. And those feelings only simmered as my day went on. I couldn't get it out of my head, even when Kate told me about her day or when Arthur came around, and even when Aiden drove me to the frat house.
But that had only scratched the surface. My mother had continued to pull back the curtain to the theatre of lies she'd been feeding me my whole life.
"I told you that your father had never cared to get in contact with you. I wasn't completely truthful. In my pain, in my anger, I lied to you so that he could feel the hurt he caused me. The truth is, he did look for you. Every holiday and every birthday."
"Those books you gave me when I was little... Were they really from you, or were they from him?"
There had been silence for such a long time before she answered.
"Those books were from your father."
At that moment, tears sprung to my eyes. For eight years, I believed my father abandoned me. I hated him for it. I resented him and his life when in reality, he had always been there.
"Emma?" Aiden's voice was a whisper beside me as I sat on the edge of his bed. "What's going on?"
I couldn't bring myself to voice my thoughts. Every part of me wanted to tell him, to let him comfort me, but I could barely swallow the lump that had sat in my throat.
With my hands settled on my lap, I tried to organise my thoughts. Every one of them seemed to tangle with another. My heart was pounding in my ears, and I could barely see through the blur of tears.
"Emma, talk to me. What happened?" Aiden sat beside me, his voice sounding too far away.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. No words, no sounds. However, my thoughts were too loud, each one blaring at me until I could no longer hear Aiden's voice calling my name, trying to bring me back to him.
I was used. I went through all my childhood believing my father hated me so much that I drove him away – that it was my fault. I was left so alone that I was left broken.
Then, I began recalling Aiden's words.
"You are a stupid, naïve girl."
"You are idiotic and worthless."
His words brought on a thicker onslaught of tears that brimmed my eyes, begging to fall on the redness of my cheeks.
I could barely catch my breath as I met Aiden's gaze. His eyes searched my face, desperately trying to understand. But how could he? How could he even begin to understand? He was right, after all. I was a stupid, naïve girl. I was idiotic, and I was worthless.
"Emma, you're scaring me." His voice came out uneven. "Please, just talk to me."
My fists scrunched into tiny balls on my lap. I was trying to breathe through the anger I felt. I was trying to understand, to reason with my mother. But each was a failed attempt.
"Is it something I did?" His voice began to shake. "Is this about last night?"
Still, I remained silent.
"Talk to me. I can fix it. Whatever I've done, I'll fix it." He kneeled in front of me, scanning my teary eyes and swallowing hard. "Please, don't push me away."
Perhaps I was pushing him away. And maybe I was pushing everyone else away, too.
Aiden ran his fingers through his messy hair and over his face in distress. Finally, he got up from his knees and paced to his desk. He rummaged through papers, searching for something.
He finally picked up a black leather book hidden in one of his drawers and flicked through it. He turned to me, resuming his position in front of me. He pushed the book onto my lap, opening the front page.
"Look." He pointed to a sketch on the small white page. It was a drawing of a lamp, shaded to such fine detail you could reach out and pull it from the page.
He flicked to the following drawing. This one was an array of sketches of different pens and pencils. The following one was a statue of an angel weeping over a stone. Each crack, each ray of light was perfectly captured on paper, bringing the drawing to life. I looked as he flipped through the book slowly, observing my reactions.
Each page had a date written at the bottom right corner with fancy handwriting.
"I drew these," He said softly. "I like to draw. I've been doing it since I was young." He paused. "Do you like them?"
The bile in my throat loosened as I nodded my head once. The smile that appeared on the corners of his mouth eased me further.
My fingers latched to the corner of the page and turned it, looking over every drawing. The book started as simple pencil sketches with fine lines, but they gradually became more detailed.
"I haven't filled it up yet." He said as my eyes settled on a coffee cup. It looked like the mug from the coffee shop Will and I frequently visited to study.
Aiden stiffened as I turned the page once more.
I gasped.
It was a sketch of me. My head was leaning on my palm as I clutched a pencil in the other hand. My hair was tied up but the tips sprawled over my shoulder. There was a cup of coffee beside me; The soft steam shadowed with a pencil. He captured every detail of my figure on the page.
I blinked a few times as my gaze rose to Aiden. He was already staring at me with wide eyes and brows softly narrowed.
I looked at the date on the drawing. It was the week after we met.
A soft tug at my heart caused my stomach to twist and my skin to warm. Aiden had hated me then. We barely tolerated each other, and yet, he had drawn me in his notebook.
"You were far too beautiful not to draw." His voice was barely a whisper as his fingers latched and moved to the following sketch. My eyes followed, finding another drawing of me. This one was the week of the first party I attended with Myra and Lars. We had played Never Have I Ever, which had resulted in disaster. This sketch was of me sitting on the couch with my legs crossed in my white floral dress.
I wondered when he had found the time to draw it. Had he drawn it when I wasn't looking? Had he drawn it after the party? Was his memory truly so great he remembered every detail?
"Don't look at the next one. It's not-"
It was too late. I had already seen the sketch, and it was another one of me. It was the same day as the previous one; I was in my bed, my head between the pillows as I slept. So it was when he arrived and took care of me as I threw up.
"I shouldn't have drawn that one...." He admitted in a whisper. "I was worried about you, so I stayed and kept you company and made sure you didn't hurt yourself." He rose and sat on the bed next to me, eyeing the drawing as if it was the first time he'd seen it. "I never intended to show you this until now... I'll throw it out if you don't like it."
I exhaled softly and leaned my head against his shoulder, viewing the book.
"Don't throw it out," I voiced quietly. "I never knew you could draw."
He let out a breathy chuckle. "There's a lot of things you don't know about me."
"Like what?"
He hummed to himself as if deciding what other thing – out of the many he had – he could share with me.
"I know how to play the piano."
I pulled away from him, staring at him through my lashes. "You what?"
I must have looked strange because he shifted on the bed and grinned.
"You know how to play my favourite instrument, and you never told me?" I glanced at his long fingers – pianist's fingers. "I feel betrayed."
He frowned. "I... I'm sorry."
I returned my head to his shoulder, studying his fingers further. I imagined what it would be like to close my eyes and hear him play each key, creating a symphony. Then, I imagined what it would be like to hold his hand. To feel the warmth stretch over my palm and hold me.
"Could you play the piano for me someday?" I asked him.
"Someday," He echoed. "I promise."
There was a long minute of silence as we sat together on his bed. The warmth of his hard shoulder was a cloud of comfort for me.
"Will you tell me what happened today?" He turned his head, perching his cheek on my hair. "Was it something I did wrong?"
"No," I muttered lowly. "It was about my family."
A sound of acknowledgement left his lips.
And so I went on to tell him what had happened. I started with the phone call to Mark and explained what my mother confirmed. Then, I told him my thoughts, how loud they were in my head and how angry I felt. I wasn't sure at first, but I told him about recalling his words and how hurt I felt.
He lifted my chin with his finger, catching my gaze.
"You are beautiful and strong. You have the biggest heart that matches with the biggest smile. You are worth every moment, Emma. Do you understand me?"
I nodded, leaning into him further. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, to feel his touch all around me, but I was satisfied with just having him at my side. Because I knew that I didn't have to have his touch to realise he was in my heart.