by Tahereh Mafi
“Then leave.”
Winston only shakes his head, crossing his arms against his chest. “I can’t. And I can’t tell you what’s going on, because it’s supposed to be a surprise.”
The fight leaves my body in a single gust, leaving me light-headed. “A surprise?”
“Can you please go take a shower? I’ll wait for you outside the MT. Just—just show up with your clothes on. Please.”
I let the door slam shut between us, then stare at it, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. There’s a wave of relief from Winston, then a flicker of happiness.
He seems—excited.
I finally walk away, stepping out of my underwear and tossing it into a nearby laundry bin before entering the quickly steaming bathroom. I catch my reflection in the floor-length mirror affixed to the wall, my face and body being devoured slowly by steam.
It’s supposed to be a surprise.
For a protracted moment, I can’t seem to move. My eyes, I notice, are dilated in this dim light—darker. I look slightly different to myself, my body hardening by degrees every day. I’ve always been toned, but this is different. My face has lost any lingering softness. My chest is broader, my legs more firmly planted. These slight changes in muscle definition, in vascularity—
I can see myself getting older.
Our research for The Reestablishment indicated that there was once a time when the twenties were considered the prime years of youth. I always struggled to visualize this world, one wherein teenagers were treated like children, where those in their twenties felt young and carefree, their futures boundless.
It sounded like fiction.
And yet—I have often played this game in the privacy of my mind. In another world, I might live in a house with my parents. In another world, I might not even be expected to have a job. In another world, I might not know the weight of death, might never have held a gun, shot a bullet, killed so many. The thoughts register as absurd even as I think them: that in an alternate universe I might be considered some kind of adolescent, free from responsibility.
Strange.
Was there ever truly a world wherein parents did the job expected of them? Was there ever a reality in which the adults were not murdered merely for resisting fascism, leaving their young children behind to raise themselves?
Here, we are nearly all of us a contingent of orphans roaming—then running—this broken planet.
I often imagine what it would be like to step into such an alternate reality. I wonder what it would be like to set down the weight of darkness in exchange for a family, a home, a refuge.
I abandon my reflection to step under the hot water.
I never thought I’d come close to touching such a dream; I never thought I’d be able to trust, or love, or find peace. I’ve been searching for so long for a pocket of quiet to inhabit, a place to exist unencumbered. I always wanted a door I might close—for even a moment—against the violence of the world. I didn’t understand then that a home is not always a place. Sometimes, it’s a person.
I would sleep on the cold floor of our hospital room for the rest of my life if it meant staying by Ella’s side. I can forgo quiet. I can compartmentalize my need for space. My desire for privacy.
But to lose her—
I close my eyes against the water pressure, the jet forging tributaries against my face, my body. The heat is a balm, welcome against my skin. I want to burn off the residue of yesterday. I want an explanation for all that happened—or even to forget it altogether. When things are out of alignment between myself and Ella, I can’t focus. The world seems colorless; my bones too large for my body. All I want, more than anything else, is to bridge the distance between us.
I want this uncertainty gone.
I turn my face up toward the jet, closing my eyes as the water pelts my face. I breathe deep, drawing in water and steam, trying to steady my heartbeat.
I know better than to be optimistic, but even as I forbid myself to think it, I cannot help but reflect that the word surprise is seldom associated with something negative.
It might’ve been a poor choice of words on Winston’s part, but his moment of excitement seemed to confirm this choice; he might’ve chosen a more pejorative term had he wished to manage my expectations of disappointment.
Despite my every silent protest, hope takes hold of me, forces from me the dregs of my composure. I lean my forehead against the cool tile, the water beating the scars on my back. I can hardly feel it, the sensations there dulled from nerve damage. Scar tissue.
I straighten at a sudden sound.
I turn, heart racing, at the soft shudder of the bathroom door opening. I already know it’s her. I always feel her before I can see her, and when I see her—when she opens the bathroom door and stands there, smiling at me—
My relief is so acute I reach for the wall, bracing myself against the cold tile. Ella is holding two mugs of coffee, dressed the way she often is: in a soft sweater and jeans, her dark brown hair so long now it skims her elbows. She grins at me, then disappears into the outer room, and I start to follow her, nearly slipping in my haste. I catch the doorframe to steady myself, watching as she rests the coffee mugs on a nearby table. She slips off her tennis shoes. Tugs off her socks.
When she pulls her sweater over her head, I have a minor heart attack. She’s facing away from me, but her back is bare. She’s not wearing a bra.
“You were sound asleep this morning,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at me as she unbuttons her jeans. “I was afraid to wake you up. I went out to get us some coffee, but the line at breakfast was really long. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
She shimmies out of her jeans then, tugging them down over her hips. She’s wearing a scrap of lace masquerading as underwear, and I watch, immobilized, as she bends over to yank off the last of the jeans, pulling her feet free.
When she turns around, I’m struggling to breathe.
She’s so beautiful I can hardly look at her; I feel as if I’ve stepped into some strange dream, the debilitating fears that gripped me yesterday somehow forgotten in a moment. Heat courses through me at a dangerous speed, my mind unable to grasp what my body clearly understands. There’s so much I still need to say to her—so much I remember wanting to ask her. But when she steps out of her underwear and walks through the open bathroom door, into the shower, and then directly into my arms, I remember nothing.
My brain shuts down.
Her soft, naked body is pressed against every hard inch of mine, and suddenly I want nothing, nothing but this. The need is so great it actually feels like it might break me.
“Hey, handsome,” she says, peering up at me. She runs her hands down my back, then lower. I can hear her smile. “You look too good in here to be all by yourself.”
I can’t speak.
She takes my hand, still smiling, and rests it against her breast before slowly guiding it down her body; she’s showing me exactly what she wants from me. How she wants it.
But I already know.
I know where she wants my hands. I know where she wants my mouth. I know where she wants me most of all.
I take her into my arms, hitching her leg around my thigh before I kiss her, breaking her open. She’s so soft, slick, and eager in my arms, kissing me back with an urgency that drives me wild. I tilt her head back as I break away, kissing her neck, then lower; slowly, carefully, replacing my hands with my mouth everywhere on her body. Her desperate, anguished sounds send shock waves of pleasure through me, setting me on fire. She reaches behind her, searching for purchase against the tile wall, her back arching with pleasure.
I love the way she loses herself with me, the way she lets go, trusting me completely with her needs, her pleasure. I never feel closer to her than when we’re so entwined, when there’s nothing but openness and love between us.
She touches me then, gently wraps her hand around me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, hardly able to contain the sound I make, low in my throat
. All I can think in this moment is that I don’t want this to be over; I want to be trapped in here for hours, her slick body against mine, her voice in my ear begging me, as she is now, to make love to her.
“Please,” she says, still touching me. “Aaron—”
I sink down, without warning, onto my knees. Ella steps back, confused for all of a second before her eyes widen with understanding.
“Come here, love.”
Ella is hesitant at first. I feel her sudden shyness, desire, and self-consciousness colliding, and I study her as she stands there, the sheen of her wet curves in this light, her long dark hair painted to her skin. Hot drops of water race down her breasts, skim her navel. She’s dripping wet, so gorgeous I hardly know what to do with myself.
She makes her way over to me slowly, her cheeks pink with heat, her eyes dark with need. I intercept her once she’s standing in front of me, planting my hands around her hips. I look up at her in time to see her blush, a moment of self-consciousness gone in seconds. She’s soon gasping my name, her hands in my hair, at the back of my neck. She’s already so wet, so ready for me; the sight of her—the taste of her—it’s too much. I feel like I’m detaching from my mind as I watch her lose herself. I can feel her legs shaking as she cries out for more, for me, and when she comes she stifles her scream in my hair. I’m on my feet a moment later, capturing the last of her cries with my mouth, kissing her as she trembles in my arms, her harsh breaths slowing down. Ella reaches for me even then, touches me until I’m blind with pleasure. She pushes me, gently, up against the wall, kissing my throat, running her hands down my chest, my torso, and then she sinks to her knees in front of me, taking me into her mouth—
I make a tortured sound, grasping at the wall, hardly able to breathe. The pleasure is white-hot; all-encompassing. I can’t think around it. I can hardly see straight. And for a moment I think I’ve actually lost my mind, separated from my body.
“Ella,” I gasp.
“I want you,” she says, breaking away, her words hot against my skin. “Please—now—”
My heart still pounding in my chest, I step aside.
Turn off the shower.
Ella startles, surprised even as she gets to her feet. I step past her to grab a towel for each of us and she accepts hers with some confusion, refusing to dry herself off.
“But—”
I scoop her up without a word and she squeaks, half laughing as I carry her over to the single bed in our room. I lay her down carefully, and she looks up at me, eyes wide with wonder, her wet hair plastered to her skin, water dripping everywhere. I couldn’t care less if we flooded this room.
I join her on the bed, carefully straddling her damp, gleaming body before leaning down to kiss her, this need so brutal it’s almost indistinguishable from anguish. I touch her while I kiss her, stroking her slowly at first, then deeper, more urgent. She whimpers against my mouth, urging me closer, lifting her hips.
I move inside her with painstaking slowness, the pleasure so profound it seems to sever my connection to reality.
“God, you feel so good,” I say, hardly recognizing the ragged sound of my own voice. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”
She only moans my name in response, her arms wrapped tight around my neck as she pulls me closer.
I can feel her growing torment, her need for release as great as my own. We find a rhythm as we move. Ella hooks her legs around my waist, and she doesn’t stop kissing me; my mouth, my cheeks, my jaw—any part of me she can reach—her feverish touches interrupted only by desperate pleas begging me for more—faster, harder—
“I love you,” she says desperately.
“I love you so much—” I let go when I feel her come apart, losing myself in the moment with a stifled cry, my body seizing as it succumbs to this, the most acute form of pleasure.
I bury my face in her chest, listening to the sound of her racing heart for only a moment before disengaging myself, for fear of crushing her. Somehow the two of us manage, just barely, to squeeze in together on the narrow bed.
Ella tucks herself into my side, pressing her face against my neck, and I reach for the insubstantial covers, drawing them up around us. She grazes my chest with the tips of her fingers, drawing patterns, and this single action ignites a low heat deep inside me.
I could do this all day.
I don’t care what happened yesterday. I don’t need an explanation. None of it seems to matter anymore, not when she’s here with me. Not when her naked body is wrapped up in mine, not when she draws her hands along my skin, touching me with a tenderness that tells me everything I need to know.
All I want is this. Her.
Us.
I don’t even realize I’ve fallen asleep until her voice startles me awake.
“Aaron,” she whispers.
It takes me a moment to open my eyes, to find my voice. I turn toward her as if in a dream, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Yes, love?”
“There’s something I want to show you.”
NINE
The morning is cool and serene, everything limned in golden light. Touches of dew dot leaves and grass, the sun still stretching itself into the sky. The air is fresh with scents I cannot adequately describe; it’s an amalgam of early morning fragrances, the familiar smell of the world shuddering awake. That I notice these things at all is unusual; it is clear, even to me, that my mood is greatly improved.
Ella is holding my hand.
She’s been buoyant this morning. She got dressed even more quickly than I did, tugging me out the door with an enthusiasm that almost made me laugh.
Winston, who we discover waiting for us just outside the medical tent, possesses a range of emotions diametrically opposed. He says nothing when Ella and I approach, first taking in the two of us, then glancing at his watch.
“Hey, Winston,” Ella says, still beaming. “What are you doing here?”
“Who, me?” He points at himself, feigning shock. “Oh, nothing. Just waiting out here for this jackass”—he shoots me a dark look—“for over an hour.”
“What? Why?” Ella frowns. “And don’t call him a jackass.”
I process this exchange with some confusion. I’d not realized until just that moment how much I’d been hoping Winston’s appearance at my door had something to do with Ella.
I see now that it does not.
“Winston came to our room this morning,” I explain to her. “He told me he had . . . a surprise for me.”
Ella’s frown deepens. “A surprise?”
“An hour ago,” Winston adds angrily.
“Yes,” I say, meeting his eyes. “An hour ago.”
He visibly clenches his jaw. “You really are the worst, you know that? I mean, everyone is always telling me that you’re the worst—not that I’ve ever doubted it—but wow, this morning has just proven to me how completely self-absorbed you are. I can’t believe I even offered to come get—”
“Winston.” Ella’s voice is quiet, carefully controlled, but her anger is loud. I turn to look at her, not surprised, exactly, but—
Yes, surprised.
I’m still unfamiliar with this dynamic. I’m still not used to someone taking my side.
“Look,” she says. “Warner might be too nice to say anything when you talk to him like that—”
Winston sounds for a moment like he’s choking.
“—but I’m not. So don’t. Not only because it’s awful, but because you’re wrong.”
Winston is still staring at Ella, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry— You think he’s too nice to say anything? You think the reason Warner gets all quiet and gives people death stares is because he’s too nice? To say anything?” Winston glances at me. “Him?”
I am smiling.
Ella is indignant, Winston is furious, and I am smiling. Very nearly laughing.
“Yes,” Ella says, refusing to back down. “You guys are too comfortable bullying him.”
Winston looks aroun
d himself a moment, for all the world as if he’s entered some alternate universe. He opens his mouth to say something, looks at me, looks away, and then crosses his arms.
“You heard what he was like, right?” he finally says to Ella. “When you were gone? You heard all the stories about how h—”
“Yes,” she says, her voice darker now. “I heard exactly what happened.”
“And? So you know about all the people he murdered and how horrible he was to everyone and how he made a ton of people here cry and how Nouria nearly shot him for it—and you think we are the ones bullying him? That’s what you think is happening here?”
“Clearly.”
“And you,” Winston says, turning to face me, his eyes narrowing with barely suppressed anger. “You agree with this assessment of your character?”
I smile wider. “Yes.”
“Wow, you really are an asshole.”
“Winston—”
“He made me wait out here for an hour! And this was after I told him I had a surprise for him, and after he slammed the door in my face—multiple times.” Winston shakes his head. “You should’ve heard him. He’s so scathing—so rude—”
“Hey, what the hell is going on over here?” Kenji is stalking toward us. “And where have you been?” he says to Ella. “We’re all waiting for you guys!”
“Waiting for us?” I ask. “For what?”
Kenji throws up his arms in frustration. “Oh my God. You haven’t told him yet?” he says to Ella. “What are you waiting for? Listen, I thought this idea was dumb to begin with, but now it’s just getting ridiculous—”
“I was going to tell him this morning,” she says, tensing. “I just haven’t had a chance yet. We’ve been busy—”
“I bet you were, princess,” Kenji says, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Why is your hair wet?”
“I took a shower.”
“You took a shower,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Really.”
“Okay— What is going on?” I ask, glancing between Ella and the others as a familiar dread moves up my spine. “Is this about the surprise?”