Chapter 7 Aiden
Chapter 7 AIDEN
T he torn page from the magazine, which most inconveniently featured a candid photo of him, weighed against his hoodie pocket. It had been sheer luck to have the opportunity to rip out the page while Nora was in the kitchen fetching milk and sugar.
To compensate for his shyness and social anxiety, Aiden had always hidden behind his on-screen persona. Here, in the house which he had loved so much as a kid, he found it liberating to be himself once again. Perhaps it was a little selfish, but Aiden didn’t want to risk his “other self” spoiling a lovely—if stormy—evening, especially now that he knew how much Nora valued her privacy and despised famous people. Aiden knew it was cowardly not to tell her the truth, but was it too much to ask for a normal night as a regular person?
To take his mind off his dilemma, he moved on to question number five. “Ah, the next question is brilliant. ‘When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?’ We can talk about it while I cook.”
“What will you be cooking tonight, chef Aiden?” She opened a cupboard—which he supposed passed for her pantry—and the fridge. “You have this incredible array of ingredients to work with.”
The shelves were practically empty. For a moment, Aiden reckoned he wouldn’t be able to cook anything, but as he examined the options with care, he had an idea. “Fancy some pasta? I have a quick, hearty recipe, a true crowd-pleaser.”
Nora did a little happy dance. “If I ever say no to pasta, call nine-one-one.”
“I’ll need a bit of help, though.” He lifted his injured hand.
At his request, Nora took all the ingredients he needed—pasta, chicken, cheese, butter, lemon, canned tomatoes, onion, garlic. He asked for oregano and, even being tall, she had to stand on the tips of her toes to reach it on the upper shelf of the cupboard. Who kept the seasonings so out of reach? Someone who didn’t cook much, he supposed.
At last, she handed him a small container.
“Nora . . . this is dill.”
“No, it’s oregano.”
“No, it’s dill. It goes with fish.”
She checked the label with attention. “Holy shit. Maybe that’s why my pizza tastes so funny.”
Aiden let out a guffaw, and it seemed to amuse her.
“I don’t know about you, but I always drink wine while cooking,” she said, taking two empty glasses from the cabinet.
“You just told me you can’t cook,” he shot back, half-joking.
“That’s no reason not to drink, am I right?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she reached for another cabinet, where she appeared to keep some bottles. “Do you prefer red or white?”
“I don’t want to—”
“Aiden, red or white? I really want to know.” She turned to him and crossed her arms in front of her chest, waiting for an answer.
“To be honest, I’m more fond of reds.”
She grinned. “Ha! I knew you had good taste. Problem is: if we are to follow tradition, a meal starts with a glass of white wine, doesn’t it? I read it somewhere.”
“Who says we have to follow tradition?”
“We don’t, but I have an idea.” She widened her eyes as her voice trembled with excitement. She headed to the fridge and brought out a small bottle of fancy Sauvignon Blanc. “Ta da! I’ve been keeping this for a long time; I’m not sure why. It should be enough for a glass for each of us. This way, we can follow the tradition and still move on to our dear red soon. Deal?”
Something in the way she spoke and her excitement over small things made Aiden’s heart beat faster. “Why, of course. Deal.”
Nora poured the small bottle into the glasses and handed him one. They clinked their glasses in a toast, her eyes gazing straight into his. He found himself again a little disconcerted by their color. He moved to place his glass on the marble counter.
“No!”
He almost jumped. “What’s wrong?”
“You need to drink first.”
“Yes, of course. My apologies,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. White was not his favorite, yet he couldn’t deny that this one was quite delicious.
Nora sighed in relief. “If you toast and put your glass down without drinking first, you’ll spend seven years without getting laid. At least that’s what we say in Brazil.” Then she mumbled, as if talking to herself, “It sounds so much better in Portuguese, though.”
God, who is this woman?
“Can’t take that risk now, can we?” Aiden sipped again from his glass, and only then put it on the kitchen counter. “All right. Ready to get to work?”
Under his instruction, they started preparing the meal. True to her claims, Nora had zero knife skills, which was rather inconvenient. Aiden didn’t want to touch anything with his bandaged hand—and he usually wasn’t one to micromanage kitchen tasks—but those uneven pieces of onion would never cook properly.
“I’m doing it all wrong, aren’t I?” She must have noticed the slight worry in his eyes.
“I wouldn’t say all wrong—”
“Geez, Aiden, I’m a grown woman. I can take some criticism.”
Even though most grown people he knew couldn’t take any criticism, Nora seemed like she could. “Right. I can show you how I do it, and then you see if it works for you.”
Trying his best not to invade her personal space too much, Aiden positioned himself by her right side and placed his hands on top of hers.
“What are you doing?” Nora said, as his right hand enclosed hers and the knife.
Shite. Of course he would screw up. “Sorry, I—”
“You’ll cut one of my fingers off if you stand that way, all awkward and skewed. Here.” She disentangled her hands from him and pulled him behind her. “Go ahead, guide my hands.”
Indeed, it was much easier to teach her in that position. But it was also much harder—he had to focus on Nora’s hands while avoiding gluing his body to hers like a lecher. Which proved itself a real challenge, as her scent—a flowery perfume, with a hint of sage and musk—somehow rose above the pungency of freshly cut onions and did things to him he thought best not to dwell on.
Then Nora turned her face to him, licked her lips, and opened her mouth. “Aiden...”
He could barely grunt in response. Was she really going to—
“You’re not a ghost, are you?”
The absurdity of the question made him snort a laugh. “I don’t think so.” Then he realized that she mentioned Ghost , one of his sister’s favorite films. “Are you Demi Moore?”
Nora’s brows furrowed in confusion.
Aiden shook his head, still laughing. “You’re something else. How can you joke about a film and not know its cast?”
“Details, details. Now let’s get back to the onion.”
The onion. Of course. Clearing his throat, Aiden curled Nora’s left hand into a claw. “Be sure to always do this. It protects your fingers from the knife.”
“Yes, chef.”
“Then you move your knife in a rocking motion. Please do not chop-chop-chop as you see in films! It’s dangerous if you’re not sure of your skills.”
First slowly, then swiftly, Aiden guided Nora into cutting passable cubes of onion, their hands dancing in synchrony, brushing against each other as if their skin wanted to know more of one another.
When they finished, Nora turned to him, her face mere inches from his. Aiden’s heart raced.
“I can’t believe we did this. This looks like a chopped onion from a TV cooking show. You’re good with your hands, Aiden.”
If only I could show you. With an effort that took all of his will power, he pulled himself away from her, her perfume still haunting his senses.
“So, coming back to question five,” Aiden said, putting the onions in a pan while Nora zested a lemon, “when was the last time you sang to yourself?”
Nora paused, shaking her head. “I never sing, never. I have the most horrible voice, like a dying pig. When I was a child, my mother made me join the school choir in hopes that I could learn. Get better somehow. After the teacher heard my voice, he told me I should never sing again. I’ve been following his advice ever since.”
He didn’t hold his laughter back. “Rubbish. You can’t be that bad. And who would say anything like that to a child? It’s cruel.”
“Right? Anyway, I know my strengths and singing is not one of them.”
“But you don’t sing at all? Not even in the shower?” Aiden took another sip from his glass, then another. Drinking on an empty stomach, the wine wouldn’t take long to relax him and loosen his tongue.
“Nope,” she said. “Do you sing to yourself?”
“Sometimes, yes, those terrible, terrible songs you just can’t get out of your head. Earworms? I think that’s what they’re called on this side of the pond. And sometimes I sing along when a song I like plays on the radio, or in the car. Truth be told, I’m not very good. I murder most songs. It’s not pretty, but I enjoy it.”
“And what about singing to someone else?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows.
“I would never inflict such torture on a fellow human being! There was the occasional karaoke when I was young, but I soon learned girls would much rather hear my silence.” Aiden averted his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever sung to someone else, though. Except perhaps to annoy my siblings back in the day, with those ridiculous jingles from the telly.”
A hearty, savory aroma rose from the pan, reminding him of times past when that very same house perpetually smelled of Gabe’s mom’s food. Time to taste the seasoning. Aiden used a small spoon to drip a bit of the sauce on the back of his hand.
“Are you trying to burn yourself, chef?” Nora asked, a hint of amusement detectable in her voice.
“Quite the contrary. I do this so as not to burn my tongue.” Aiden then licked the sauce. It was just as he liked it.
“Hm, profesh, aren’t we?” Nora dripped a bit of sauce on the back of her hand and licked it in a slow movement, her alluring eyes fixed deeply on his. “It’s delicious. But something’s missing.”
Definitely. It then occurred to him she was talking about the sauce. “What would you add? More salt? More oregano? Maybe pepper?”
“Yes! It needs more pepper. I like it hot.”
Aiden widened his eyes but chose not to look at Nora right away. When he risked a side glance, he could see that she hid a mischievous smile behind her wine glass. She seemed to be enjoying their banter—and so was he.
Despite the ghostly sound of the wind reminding them of the storm outside, it felt like such a cozy, domestic scene, him leaning against the fridge, Nora perched up on the counter, waving her hands in the air as she spoke. Both of them sipping wine while the pasta cooked. Like they were old acquaintances. Like they knew each other well; had seen the best and the worst of each other.
Her answer about the singing had left him curious. In his experience, people underestimate themselves, and this seemed to be true in her case. She had a pleasant voice while speaking. She was playing coy.
“Nora.” His serious tone made her turn sharply to him. “We don’t know what tomorrow brings. We don’t know if we’ll survive this tornado. Blast, we don’t know if we’ll see each other again after I leave.” That last part was true, yet somehow, he didn’t want it to be. He was surprised at how much he was enjoying the company of a stranger—or this particular stranger, to be precise. “So please indulge me here.”
Her eyes narrowed. Maybe she had an inkling of what he was about to say, or maybe she expected something worse. “Yes?” she asked with caution.
“I have never heard a dying pig sing.”
The horror in her eyes implied she would have preferred any other request. “No. No, no, no, no, absolutely not. I won’t—”
“ Yesterday ...” he interrupted, singing—butchering—one of the most beautiful songs ever written. Thank heavens for the liquid courage. As he sang, her lips pursed, trying to hold back a smile. Her eyes expressed something he couldn’t quite place but dared hope was amusement.
“Not bad.” Nora offered the perfunctory half compliment as he finished the song.
Aiden gave her a sideways glance, raising one eyebrow.
“No, really, it was not—” she started, but a loud guffaw escaped her lips. “What... was... that?” she tried to say in between laughs.
Aiden laughed, too. What else was he supposed to do? “Yes, well. There you have it. Not much of a concert, I’m afraid.”
“You’re so lucky Sir Paul is not here as my dinner guest. He’d be appalled.”
“Why, thank you, fair lady. I guess now it’s your turn.”
Her smile vanished. “Hey, I never agreed to this.”
“Come on, you can’t be worse than me.”
Nora sighed. “Okay. I’ll do it. Just... don’t look at me.”
He nodded, turning to the sizzling chicken and the boiling pasta. “You have my full inattention. Go ahead.”
After taking a deep breath, Nora started to sing. It was a song in a foreign language with a melody he’d never heard. Its tone was sad, perhaps a song about lost love or something. Even hearing it for the first time, though, Aiden could tell her singing was way off key. He found it terrible and endearing at the same time.
“Wow. That was the most beautiful dying pig I’ve ever heard.”
Nora hopped down from the counter, took two long steps, and landed a powerful slap on his arm.
“Ouch! I’m joking!”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not.”
She peeked at him from the corner of her eye, just barely, but the light hit her full in the face. Those eyes—with their intriguing, shifting color—had a striking contrast to the deep red of her cardigan. Aiden looked away, focusing on the food, as she started gathering plates and cutlery.
“What in the bloody hell was that?”
“Portuguese,” Nora answered with a straight face.
“Oh, Nora, I know Brazilian people speak Portuguese.” Did she think he was that daft? “I mean what you were singing. Was that a song or a curse?”
Instead of a slap, he got a smile this time. A beautiful smile indeed.
“This song is called ‘Evidences.’ It’s a classic of the Brazilian best worst songs. It’s about someone reluctant to admit his love and how he suffers from it. Something along the lines of it being madness to deny you want someone when you can hardly conceal the evidence.”
“It is indeed hard to conceal the evidence,” Aiden blurted out. “I mean, when you want someone. There is always evidence.”
“There always is.” Nora stared into his eyes for a second. “Now, to cleanse our poor eardrums, I’ll put some actual music on.”
As soon as Nora left the kitchen the wind seemed to howl louder outside. The pleasant sound of a needle scratching vinyl filled the air and muffled the noise of the wind. It was Abbey Road , his mother’s favorite album; he recognized it as soon as the first notes of “Come Together” played. Aiden smiled but decided not to read too much into the song and its lyrics. He hummed along—no more singing; he had embarrassed himself enough already—when Nora’s phone, left on the kitchen counter, started ringing. Aiden peeked at the name on the screen—Jay—that appeared with the phone of a quite-good-looking Black man.
Her face lit up as she returned to the kitchen and grabbed her phone. “Excuse me for a sec.”
He could still hear her side of the conversation. “Hey. No, everything’s fine. I’m home. I’m safe, don’t worry. Lucy’s with Mom. Thanks for reaching out. You stay safe, too. Yeah, I know, but I’ll be fine. Thanks. Bye.”
The smile on Nora’s face when she got back made Aiden feel like a fool. He had assumed she was single from the lack of typical boyfriend pictures on her mantelpiece. Maybe it was a new relationship? Maybe she kept his pictures by her bed? Because a woman like her just couldn’t be single.
“Your boyfriend must be worried.” Aiden tried not to sound too defeated. Why should he care? He busied himself with finishing and plating their meal. Nora seemed fine with having him in her house—maybe because she knew he was leaving when the storm died down?
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh. No. Jay and I broke up a few months ago.”
That wasn’t the answer he expected. “So... you and your ex are friends?” His curiosity was genuine. The way she spoke with her ex was nothing like how Aiden would sound speaking to one of his former girlfriends. He didn’t have the sort of closeness with his exes that she appeared to have with this Jay.
“Yeah. We were friends to begin with and we rushed into a relationship. I guess that’s why it didn’t work. Had we been more patient, maybe we would’ve seen we were better off not dating, and we could have spared ourselves a lot of drama. But, well...”
Aiden thought back to his last girlfriend, Marcie. Their relationship seemed entirely different from how Nora had described her own. He didn’t want to talk about it, though, and had nothing worthwhile to say, anyway, so he put the plates on the dining table, placing his next to the magazine, as she fetched their wine glasses.
They sat, and Nora was slow—almost suspiciously so—to start on her plate. But after a few moments Aiden was delighted to see how fast she devoured the spaghetti. “Not spicy enough for my taste,” she said in between bites, “but so good! You’re ready to get married.”
Aiden choked on his wine. “I’m sorry?”
She laughed without reservation, and for once he didn’t mind being laughed at. “It’s just a saying. When someone has cooked an excellent meal, we say they’re ready to marry. By that logic, I’ll never get married,” Nora said.
“Or you can get yourself a husband who can cook for you.”
Once again, his big mouth had said something his small brain hadn’t thought through. She’d think he was propositioning her. But Nora casually said, “Yeah, I guess I can,” and added hot sauce to her pasta, the droplets falling from the bottle almost as fiercely as the rain outside.
“Nora, you’re gonna spontaneously combust from all that spice.”
She looked straight into his eyes. “I told you I like it hot, Aiden.”
“Do you really?”
Bloody-bastard-sodding mouth. Aiden wanted to hide under the table, but then he saw the gleam in Nora’s eyes.
“Are we still talking about food?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Yes, I do really like it hot.” Then she added with the smallest voice, almost inaudible, “Other things too.”
Aiden wanted once again to hide under the table, but now because of her words, not his. Were his cheeks as flaming red as they felt? Were his hands visibly shaking? Could Nora hear his breathing speed up? At least the tabletop could somewhat conceal how his body may or may not be reacting.
Deciding it was best to change the subject, he peeked at the next question. “Ready for question six? If you were able to live to the age of ninety and retain either the mind or body of a thirty year old for the last sixty years of your life, which would you want?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Is this a trick question? Like one of those ridiculous moral tests they put in children’s stories to teach proper behavior or something? If you choose the body, you’ll be labeled shallow, vain, I don’t know. The mind still develops after thirty. The body stops improving way before that. I am living proof of that. So I’m sticking with the body of a thirty year old.”
“Fishing for compliments? Seriously?”
“What? Of course not,” Aiden said. “There are things I could do in my early twenties that I can’t do anymore. Like pulling an all-nighter. Now I get knackered if I don’t get a good night’s sleep.” And it was true. Aiden was healthy, sure, just not a young boy anymore. At least his mind was still keen. Sort of.
Nora twisted her fork, fumbling with the spaghetti. “That’s a shame.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing. Do continue.”
He regarded her with skepticism but let it slide. “And you, mind or body?”
“That’s a tricky question, I agree with you,” Nora replied. “I have fibromyalgia, a condition that affects the body but comes from the mind. In short, I have these horrible pain flares, even though there’s no apparent reason for it. I’m okay right now, but I don’t know how I’ll feel tomorrow, or next week, or when I turn thirty, so it’s hard to say if I want to have the mind or the body of a thirty year old. Maybe I’ll want neither.” She grimaced. “But if I have to choose... I guess I’d stick with the body. Not because I love my body so much and I’m afraid to get old, but because our minds are always improving; you’re right on that one. I’m sure in a few years I’ll be smarter than I am today, so why would I want to be stuck with my humble little brain right now?”
“I’m so sorry for that, Nora. Not about your humble-little-brain, of course, but about the fibro... mi...”
“Fibromyalgia.”
“Yes, about that. Pain is such a dreadful thing. It’s an invisible enemy.” Aiden didn’t know what else to say and he hoped Nora could see in his eyes how sorry he was for her suffering. The memory of his mother in pain was still too vivid and gave him gooseflesh.
“It’s not only that. It’s like I become another person when I’m in pain. The agony... I can’t think straight, and I end up lashing out at people, even those who are trying to help me. It’s horrible.”
Yes. Aiden recalled his usually sweet mother yelling insults at the nurses who took care of her. He picked up the magazine to distract him from those memories. “Oh, the next question is somber. If you don’t want to answer—”
“No, I’m good. Let’s hear it.”
“Okay. ‘Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?’ I don’t suppose I have a hunch, but chances are it will be from a heart condition. Most of my family has passed that way. That’s why I’d keep the body of a thirty year old. I’m not an adrenaline junkie; I don’t do drugs, and I’m quite a responsible driver.”
She scoffed. “So boring!” As they had finished their meal, Nora, true to her word, started clearing the table.
“Oh, forgive me if my death is a most unappealing one. Please enlighten me on a better way to die.” Aiden stood up to help her, but she interrupted.
“Please, let me fulfill my part of the deal and make this your perfect day,” Nora said, and something in the way she looked at him made Aiden think she might be implying he could return the favor eventually, and contribute to her perfect day. Then he remembered his question about the breakfast in bed, and his cheeks heated.
God, he would love to take breakfast in bed to this woman.