Chapter 15 Elena
ELENA
Ikeep my head down. It's easier to deal with life when your gaze is fixed on things like a crumb or a slight crack in a table.
Adrian is silent across from me, and the quiet stretches, filling every corner of the kitchen until it presses down on me.
I should say something, shouldn't I?
Thank him for the food. Ask him a question. Tell him I appreciate what he did.
But Maxim preferred me quiet. He used to say that my voice got on his nerves, that the sound of me speaking ruined his day.
But sitting here now, with Adrian, my thoughts are starting to flow freely for the first time in eighteen months, and I feel like I have so much to say and nothing at all.
My fingers curl against the edge of the table.
How could that even be possible? To be full of words, to have them pile up in my throat, even, but I can't seem to push any of them out.
What would I even say after everything?
Thank you for coming.
Why did it take you so long?
Do you know what they did to me?
Do you still want me now that I'm this?
My stomach twists.
The clashing thoughts in my head suddenly turn violent, churning everything I just ate into something heavy and acidic.
Cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck and then across my entire body.
My mouth fills with excess saliva, and I swallow, trying to force it back down, but it doesn't help.
The nausea rises fast, climbing up my throat.
Shit, I'm going to throw up.
I clap my hand over my mouth as the chair scratches across the floor when I shove it back and stand.
"Elena, are you okay?"
Adrian's voice cuts through the ringing in my ears, but I don't stop.
I bolt down the hallway, my free hand gliding against the wall to keep me from stumbling as I race toward the bedroom I was put in.
Bursting into the bedroom, I try to shut the door, but my hand misses. I don't stop. It's not worth the risk.
My shoulder slams into the doorframe of the bathroom as I throw myself inside and slam the door behind me, my shaking fingers flipping the lock just as the first wave hits.
I collapse in front of the toilet, my knees hitting the tile hard, and I barely get my head over the bowl before I'm violently sick.
My entire body convulses as I grip the sides of the toilet.
My throat burns, and my eyes water.
I gasp for air between heaves, my lungs screaming as I try to breathe through the nausea.
I feel like I'm a teenager again, and I've drank too much, and now I'm paying for it. Though the thoughts are not, "I swear I'll never drink again," it's, "This is because of the pill."
The withdrawals, the lack of it in my system, are making my body reject everything.
Another wave hits, and this time I don't stop until I'm dry heaving.
My stomach clenches, my ribs aching as I kneel here, frantically flushing.
He can't see this.
Girls who got sick became "broken addicts," Maxim said, and those girls were discarded and sent off to worse places.
I feel sick again, and I try to muffle my sounds.
I take deep breaths, trying to stop it all, and I realize it's not just Maxim's voice in my head telling me I'm worthless if I'm broken.
It's something deeper.
Something that's been growing inside me for months, the overwhelming thought that Maxim was right.
Even if Adrian came, he wouldn't want a broken, drug-addicted whore.
He rationally abandoned me because I allowed myself to be nothing worthy of saving.
Even though I was forced. Even though I fought at first, and even though I screamed and cried and begged, Maxim somehow made me think otherwise.
Made me believe everything he said.
And the scary part is, I don't know if he was right.
I lean back slightly, my body trembling as another dry heave wracks through me.
What if Adrian sees me like this and realizes I'm ruined? Or if he looks at me with disgust and sends me back?
Panic floods my veins. No, just be quiet, be perfect, and you'll be...
A knock on the door.
"Leni?"
I try to stay still, like he'll just go away.
"Leni, open the door."
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Go away. Please, just go away.
Another knock, harder this time.
"Elena."
My name sounds different when he says it. It always has.
"I'm coming in."
No.
I flush again to make sure and scramble backward, my back hitting the edge of the bathtub, but it's too late.
The door lock splinters with a sharp crack as Adrian forces his way in.
The door swings open, and he stands still, his dark eyes scanning the bathroom before landing on me.
I pull my knees up to my chest, bracing my muscles for the inevitable strike or the disgusted screaming.
He's going to hit me, yell even.
He's going to tell me I'm disgusting and weak.
But he doesn't do any of those things.
Instead, he moves to the sink, turns on the faucet, and runs a washcloth under cool water.
I watch him as he wrings it out, the water dripping into the sink, and then he turns to me, and instead of standing over me like Maxim used to, towering and threatening, Adrian lowers himself.
He sits directly on the cold, hard bathroom tiles right beside me and dabs the wash cloth on my mouth.
"I didn't think my cooking was that bad," he says softly with a slight smile.
I look up at him, searching his face for disgust, pity, or anger, and find none of it. He’s actually trying to joke with me.
"Do you remember when Romania was playing Turkey and they put the match on the big TVs in Pia?a Sfatului?"
He looks at me and then continues.
"Yeah, and I got so drunk because I thought it would be a good idea to try absinthe, and you and Matei held me up against the wall so I could throw up.
" He stops and laughs. "God, I was so hungover the next morning, and you told me that true love was getting vomit on your arm and not caring because the person you care about most in this world needed you. "
He looks at me and gives me that look that I've only seen in my dreams over the last year and a half.
"So, do you need me to hold your hair back or what?" he asks.
I blink, and warm tears I didn't realize were there stream down my face.
This is all wrong. He's not looking at me like I'm broken or ruined.
He's just... looking at me like I'm still his Elena.
Another wave of nausea hits, and I lurch forward, my hand gripping the edge of the toilet as I heave again.
This time, I feel his hand gently gather my hair, pulling it back and holding it away from my face.
His touch is careful, his fingers light against my scalp, and he doesn't say anything.
He just sits there holding my hair.
When I'm done, I lean backward and sit on the floor, coughing.
Adrian grabs the washcloth again then gently presses it against the back of my neck.
The coolness feels like heaven against my burning skin, and I close my eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks.
After a few moments, Adrian releases my hair and takes the washcloth and wets it again under the faucet before handing it to me.
This time, I take it.
I press it against my face, wiping away the sweat and tears, and take a shaky breath.
"Thank you," I say.
Adrian nods and sits beside me, his shoulder brushing against mine, and for the first time since he found me, I don't flinch away.
We sit in silence for a long time, and eventually Adrian speaks.
“Are you feeling better? Do you want to rest?”
I shake my head.
"I don't want to be alone."
The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret it.
"Okay," he says simply.
He stands and holds out his hand.
I stare at it for a moment, my heart pounding in my chest.
Then, slowly, I reach up and take it.
His hand is warm and steady, and he pulls me to my feet gently, his other hand steadying me when I sway.
"Easy," he says.
I nod, and I let him guide me out of the bathroom.
We walk slowly down the hallway, Adrian's arm around my waist to keep me upright, and he leads me to the living room.
He settles me onto the couch, draping a soft blanket over my legs, and then sits beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth but far enough that I don't feel trapped.
"You need to rest," he says.
I nod, too exhausted to argue.
Adrian reaches for a glass of water on the side table and hands it to me.
"Drink this, my love.”
I look at him for a long moment, shocked that this is my reality, and take the glass and sip slowly, the cool liquid soothing my raw throat.
When I'm done, I set the glass down and lean back against the couch, my eyes drifting closed.
"Adi?" I whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Don't leave."
There's a pause, and then I feel his hand gently cover mine.
"I'm not going anywhere, Leni," he says, his voice soft. "I promise."
And for the first time in eighteen months, I feel the slightest sense of comfort.