Making love. A little quiver ran through Aila. She, who had never used the word, had used it repeatedly that week. Perhaps she’d be better off now if she hadn’t. “It wisnae only Finn who trembled with the power of it. I did, too. It was more consuming by magnitude than the sum of every guy I ever went to bed with. Combined.”
“So you’re saying it was good,” her friend said by way of understatement. “I don’t see the problem then.”
“It was so good I dinnae give a moment’s thought to protection.”
Brontë blinked. “Wow. That’s…wow. I guess you should make sure you get tested for STDs or whatever then. There’s no chance you could be pregnant?”
“I think ye’re missing my point.” Aila lifted her glass only to find it empty. Rolling it between her hands, she searched for the words. “He took my breath away. My bloody common sense. Nothing mattered besides being with him.”
“There must be more to him than a pretty face to get you this wound up.”
“Nay. Aye, he’s….” Where to begin? Spotting the half-eaten Tunnock’s Teacake Brontë had set aside when Tris found the sword in the medallion, she held it up. “This is Finn.”
“You’re right, he is delicious.”
Aila rolled her eyes. “Eye candy on the outside, and aye, delicious, but dark. Troubled. Inside, he’s soft and sweet and caring —” she indicated the dome of Italian méringue inside the chocolate shell, then the shortbread at the bottom “— but when it comes right down to it, he’s rather…”
“Thick? Crusty?”
“Ye might think ye’re amusing, but ye’re no’. I would say solid. He’s got principles, ideas. And he’s…brilliant and….” Not liking where her thoughts were heading, Aila bit her tongue lest she start singing Finn’s praises.
“Brilliant, huh? Then I guess I’m back to my previous statement. I don’t see the problem.” When Aila didn’t answer immediately, Brontë took the candy from her hand and munched on it.Och, her friend would wait her out. Wait until the truth spilled. As it had with Kyle, as it had about her mother. That saintly patience was bloody annoying.
“The problem is that…well, I think he lo— likes me.”
“And so he should,” her friend chimed in and reached out to pat her knee. “You’re extremely likable.”
She was going to make her say it. Aila fought the urge to cover her face again and deny this whole conversation ever took place. “Could be that he likes me more than he should.”
During those long days in the nursery, Finn would often tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear or touch her arm or shoulder when she passed by him. She’d wondered if he was even aware of his actions. They’d slept in shifts while the children’s fevers raged, but several times she awoke to find him cuddled up behind her in the trundle bed. He was so endlessly affectionate with his children.
It had taken a long while for her to connect those casual gestures to a growth in his feelings for her. Add that to their more intimate conversations and that final night with him…. It could have been no more than her imagination, but he had used the wordadore.
Brontë’s look bespoke complete understanding. “Oh, and how do you feel about him?”
“I was only there for a week.”
“Yikes. That much then?” Herfriendoffered a faux wince before her laughter returned.
Aila hit her with a glower that would have withered spring flowers. Rising, she took her empty glass to the sideboard with the intent of refilling it only to realize it would be pointless. No amount of alcohol could wipe Finn from her mind. Nor could it compel Brontë to cease her questioning.
“My pointis,” Aila stressed meaningfully as she turned to face her confidante, “I cannae be with someone who would want to change me into someone I’m no’. Expect me to be someone I’m no’. Been there, done that. I willnae try it again. I dinnae want to see Finn hurt in the end. That’s why I left.”
“How do you know he would have such expectations?”
“Finn isnae like Tris. He has preconceived notions of a woman’s place in the world.”
“He can learn to know better.”
“And if he could no’?” She went to the window and looked out over the inky garden. “Moreover, what if I find I cannae live in that time?”
“I thought you said you liked it there.” Brontë twisted around to watch her over the back of the sofa.
“Aye. It’s no’ like Tris’s time where there’s a least the prospect of equality. I’d be considered little more than spare baggage back then.”
“Come now, Aila. If this man cares for you, surely he wouldn’t treat you that way.”
Aila stalled with a shrug while she sought a logical argument. “Even if he dinnae, who would I be in a world like that? I have a career here. Ye might be able to translate yers into fashion design but there’s nae place in the past for a makeup artist.”
