Chapter 14 #2
“You used to have a happy life, and then you lost your mother at the age of eight. Your father remarried, and you moved in with your new family by the age of ten. The company your parents had succeeded in creating was flourishing, but your father’s health started declining, so he sold it, making your family even richer than before.
But of course, you never truly saw that kind of money again since your stepmother stole it to make her own brand profitable and pay her debts, debts which are, to this day, still as deep as a pit.
You love reading, and you love nothing more than the idea of going back to your studies, which I would be honored help you with.
You’re a hard worker, taking care of your father and not afraid to put in the hours, even at night, taking a bus in the darkest hours, braving danger even…
even if it kills me. You are kind in an honest way, which is why I believe you refuse my help.
Because you…you like me, Ella, you feel this too, and you are not sure if I would deem your interest authentic if you accepted my help, which I could argue against, but also respect.
And I would add, from personal observation, that you are shy and discreet, but still able to speak your mind when you feel safe, which I take as a gift and proof of trust on your part.
And as for this room, it is a credit to your character: tidy, organized, making the best of its assets even if it is not grand or luxurious.
You have managed to turn it into a place that looks exactly like you.
” She represses a smile, and I wonder, would she laugh right now if she could?
And why do I feel like I would do anything to hear that sound?
“That is the top of the iceberg, Tristan. The rest isn’t as pretty.”
“Then tell me everything. Every single thing about you. All of it.”
“Just all of it? Right. That should be easy.” She chuckles silently, her shoulders moving in little jumps.
“We could start with this.” I point at a blanket and cushion under her bed, almost unnoticeable. I remove my jacket, laying it on the back of her chair. It’s a hundred degrees in here despite the cold outside. Or perhaps that's the Ella effect on me everywhere I go.
“No, please. It’s nothing.” I crouch down, noticing the fabric torn, evidence that she was lying right there surely minutes ago.
“Please don’t tell me you have been sleeping on the ground.” I am appalled enough that she is living in this tiny bedroom, but sleeping on the floor would be the last straw.
“It’s just…” She sits on the edge of her bed, and I kneel carefully before her, waiting to see not only her signs, but her expressions.
Even kneeling, I am still face-to-face with my silent princess, and there is something entirely right about her watching me do so, so she can see for herself that we are, despite the external futilities, equals.
“Ever since Mom died, I’ve been…hiding under furniture, sometimes when I want to cry with no one to find out, no one to judge me.
It used to be her desk in her office back home but…
now, well, it’s here. It’s like a little bubble where time stops, and I can let go and cry.
” I blink hard, picturing a small eight-year-old Ella losing her mom, and my heart aches for her.
Ella could have had it all, yet it was taken from her, and still she remained kind, willing to help others, refusing bitterness and cynicism like I did. I have much to learn from her.
“Tell me about her,” I sign, wanting to show her I can listen and understand that she does not have to face life on her own. And perhaps, perhaps she could do the same with me.
“She was like Christmas morning, always smiling and full of energy. She would lock herself in her office for a few hours in the morning, then spend the whole rest of the day with me, baking, painting, writing. She did not want to stop working back then, since they had created their company before I was even born, so she made it work. It was inspiring to see her dedication, but also how much she wanted to show me how happy she was, thriving by working from home while staying close to me when I wasn’t at school.
Dad would work most of the day, but they would always make time for me.
Every week, she would make something special for dinner, unusual recipes or beverages, and the three of us would try it all together, laughing and playing board games.
She was kind and never complained, I mean never.
I didn’t know how successful she was until years later, because she would never speak of it or buy expensive things.
They gave me a normal childhood, with love and time, and that was the best thing she could have ever given me.
And well, I think the one thing she couldn’t stand were bicycles.
She hated them.” She signs with a chuckles, lighting up.
Somehow, I feel like now is a good time to remove the hood, so I slip it off and hold it in my hand.
She looks at me with the weight of a wife greeting her husband after a long day.
I let the fantasy unfold in my head then blink hard.
My temple hurting like a nail has been hammered in it this very second.
“What was that?” she signs.
“Nothing.” I mutter.
“It’s not nothing.”
“I-” I sigh, “I don’t know how to sign it.” I curse under my breath. “Migraine,” I murmur, keeping my voice low enough that no one downstairs will hear.
“Like this.” She lifts both hands to her temples and twists the tips of her fingers. I fight back a grin because, God, how cute is she, patient enough to teach me something I should already know. I really need to get up to her level. And fast. This is embarrassing.
“I get them often,” I sign.
Her brows pull together. “Why?”
“Lack of sleep, probably. My doctor says I have a stressful lifestyle.” She represses a smile.
“That’s an understatement.” She frowns, her fingers brushing my temple. “How can I make it go away?”
“Just being with you makes it better. Thank you for telling me about your mom, I can tell you miss her.”
“Thank you for…listening,” she signs as I keep running my fingers in her hair, then doing slow back and forth to the side of her throat.
“It's actually better when I’m with you–the migraines.” I tap the side of my head. “You are like my personal stress ball.” She giggles silently, and I zero in on her lips. Damn. What I would give to see that every day of my life.
“So, are you like your mom then? Do you hate bicycles too? I sign, trying to lighten the mood.
“Bicycles are the worst. I can’t stand being on one.” She winces, her shoulders shivering.
“Guess what?” I sign. “So do I.” We exchange a light laugh, silent nevertheless, the voices downstairs still echoing, surely her sisters watching a movie late or something.
When the quiet settles again, her gaze drifts toward the blanket beneath the bed, and I follow it, understanding that the subject has not really left us.
“That is how you cope? Hiding underneath?”
“When they are too mean to me…yes.”
“Can I tell you how I cope?”
“Do you have people being mean to you? Is that possible?”
“I have lots of enemies, Ella. Lots of people I displease on a daily basis.”
“Does it affect you? When they say mean things to you ?”
“No, because I found a way to cope.”
“How? I don’t exactly have a tower with my name on it to look down at Mara from above.” She pauses, twisting her mouth, then adds a silent, “Sorry.”
“Touché.” I give the ghost of a smile, unable to hide how much I like seeing another facet of her.
“I picture myself somewhere else. That’s what I do.”
“Dissociating?” she signs quickly, then repeats the word letter by letter.
“Disso...” I stop and shake my head. “No, not really. I know what’s going on. I just leave the room in my head when staying in it serves no purpose.” Her hands slow.
“Do you do that…with me?”
“Never. Never, Ella. I wish I could be with you longer, or that it would never end, actually. It is a business strategy I’m telling you about, a way to never let an opponent get to you.” I explain quietly.
“I don’t have a business.”
“But you have opponents.”
“Could you…teach me?”
“Sure. Just bear with me… I picture myself on a battlefield, standing above their dead bodies, and their words are just a rumble of nonsense I cannot even hear because I have other soldiers to protect and enemies to kill. So I see their words, their attacks, as just…noise, letters floating in the air with no real meaning.”
“How did you learn to do that?”
“A friend taught me. Matt. We were in juvie together. He went into the military after and learned a lot about mental prep, which he then taught me during our weekly sparring sessions.” She seems to absorb that information, that I wasn’t always in a mansion living the one percent lifestyle.
“If I had to picture a place then… I’d love to…to imagine a beach,” she signs after a moment, as if offering me something gentler in return, “and put a chair right in the water so that I could dip my feet in it.”
“Why not swim?”
“Uh…I can’t. I can’t.”
I pause.
“I’d teach you.”
“No. It’s too scary, and people could make fun of me.”
“I’ll teach you, Ella. At home. I have a pool. No one will be there to judge.”
“In…swimsuit?”
“No, in gym clothes.” She pushes my chest with the tip of her finger.
“In a swimsuit, in my house, with no one to bother us, and I would be laser-focused on teaching you. I promise.” And I mean it, because the last thing I want is to make her uncomfortable.
Teaching her how to swim could be a great test of trust for her with me, to see that not only I can control myself, but I can give her time and attention despite running Ashford Holdings.
I do not have time. But I will make time.
“What’s stopped you from swimming ?”