Page 92 of Vicious Arrangement
Sure, I look slightly daze, but fuck… I’m smiling.
Aria listened to me last night. And it’s with a slow dawning, I realize she’s the only person I’ve told.
Asher doesn’t count. He’s been there from the beginning, seen things, and worked out things, and stood by me. If I talk to him about events, it’s like talking about them to myself.
He was there. He understands.
But Aria wasn’t. I know she also lost her parents young, but our experiences are so different there’s no comparison. She clearly has a great relationship with her grandfather. Like Asher, she was loved.
She said something, though, as I go through sets with the weights. She told me I’d be a great father. She pointed to Joshy.
And I think it’s the first time I want to believe someone from outside my tight circle.
I frown as I move to my Peloton. That’s not exactly right, because somehow, she’s become part of that circle, no matter how hard I’ve tried to barricade the door.
Maybe that’s okay. Maybe she belongs there, even if she both centers me and shakes the ground I’m on.
Fuck. I push it all away and throw myself into my workout.
I shower in the guest room, not wanting to disturb her sleep, and then I pull on the clothes I grabbed.
In my study, I order from the best French bistro that does incredible breakfasts—I’m a New Yorker, I don’t cook—and end up ordering one of everything I think she might like, from a pastry selection to eggs, bacon and sausage. I order pancakes, too; the banana ones, the buttermilk and their French chocolate.
As I work, my phone buzzes. I frown at it. The number isn’t one I know so I don’t answer.
The food arrives and I put a selection on a tray and I’m about to take it up, along with juice and the toasted rice tea I’ve seenher drink, I note the phone buzzing again. Same number. And there’s a voicemail from earlier.
I hit play, and it’s some guy I don’t know. “Noah, I emailed you recently concerning your father. Call me back immediately.”
“Fucking vultures.” Of course, it could be a scammer. I really don’t care if the dude’s media or a scam artist, I just delete it. Even if it’s neither of those things I really don’t want anything to do with anyone who has ties to my father, so I shove it out of the way.
I take the tray up.
Aria isn’t in the bed, from the retching sounds, she’s throwing up in the bathroom.
Normally, I’d turn and back away, to return when she’s done.
But this isn’t just anyone.
This is Aria.
I set the tray down and go into the bathroom, where she mutters, “Go away,” before throwing up again.
“Not doing that.” I kneel next to her, gathering her hair and holding it back for her, and I rub her back in slow circles, like I vaguely remember my mom once doing when I was small and sick with some bug.
When she’s done, she’s a shaking mess, and I whisper soothing words, getting her water to rinse with, and some mouthwash when she asks.
She sits on the tile, hugging the toilet after I flush, cheeks pale and gaze miserable. I have a bathtub in my room, and I turn on the taps, adding some Epsom salts that I don’t think I’ve everused and a few drops of lavender oil from a selection of oils that also sit there, unused.
It smells nice, and she starts to calm. “Is your floor heated?”
“Of course. Not going to let your ass get a chill.”
“That’s the most superhero thing you’ve said.”
I help her up. “I ran you a bath.” And I pull off the T-shirt I think she must have stolen from me at some point last night. “What about that?”
“The most superhero thing you’ve done.”
