by Jenna Mills
And I did.
I wanted to run. I wanted to see as much as I could. I wanted to touch and pick up. To hold. My uncle told me not to go too far too fast. That the tide could come back, and if I wasn't careful, I'd get caught.
I, of course, didn't listen.
I think of that trip now, of the power of the ocean pulling back, the surprises waiting beneath, suddenly bared to me and the sun, unprotected and vulnerable, exposed, and the past seven days play like slow-motion movie through my mind. Each day with Aidan Cross is like standing on the edge of the ocean, waiting for the tide to fall back and bare another secrete hidden deep beneath.
And yet...
And. Yet.
With Aidan Cross, there is always an and yet.
Chance does not exist in his world. He won't let it. He plots and he crafts and he dictates. He creates. He molds. Everything. Not only words into stories, but the simple into the complex, every breath rushing into the next, crashing like waves against the shorelines, a relentless onslaught that leaves you both breathless and eager for more. Everything that has happened since my arrival—maybe the water is gradually pulling back to reveal the hidden facets of the man...or maybe he is the one deliberately placing those facets for me to find, leading me one careful step at a time, like a child first learning to walk, at his pace, to exactly what it is he wants me to see. The locked doors of his house. The doll in the 9th Ward, and again at the cemetery. The black fingernail polish. The disturbing old mansion. The intimacy of the boat. And this morning, finally, the key....
Maybe all the crumbs are real—maybe they are pretend.
Maybe they are leading me somewhere I want to go—or maybe they are leading me where he wants to to take me.
Maybe the two are the same.
Or maybe that is only a fantasy.
Maybe they aren't crumbs at all. Maybe the tide really is pulling back, revealing the man I came to find.
That's the thing I'm learning about Aidan Cross. It's not just the stories he writes. It's the dreams he weaves. The reality he blurs. Like a fire that burns hot and bright, you know you shouldn't step too close. You know it's dangerous. And yet you step closer anyway. Because you can't help yourself. Can't stop yourself.
Can't pull back.
Can't stop craving more.
Three days.
To step closer.
Or pull back.
Three days.
Is the tide simply pulling back—or am I the one being pulled?
With only a few days left in his world, or the dreams he weaves, the fantasies he creates. It's the reality he blurs. The stories he lives.
That's the thing I'm learning about Aidan Cross. It's not just the stories he writes or the dreams he weaves, the fantasies he creates. It's the reality he blues. The stories he lives.
With only a few days left in his world, I'm not sure he can still see the difference.
Penthouse follows this scene. Don't want her too angry with him. She needs to be reflective. She's not sure what's going on.