Unbound (15 page)

Thoughts
drifting back to our kiss, my fingertips lifted to my lips and tracing them
lightly a small tremor tingled down my spine. If nothing else, tonight had
convinced me that any lingering nervousness I harboured about getting more
physical with Eaden would lessen with practice. And I wanted to keep practising.
 

Rolling
over with a sigh, I tried not to think about how I would fill the next 48 hours
that stretched in front of me. Alone. Despite my objections, Eaden had refused
to make plans with me for tomorrow night. He had the absurd impression that I
needed time and distance from him to ‘think things over.’ Stubborn man. Why
couldn’t he understand that I wanted to be with him as much as he seemed to
want to be with me?

My
lips curled into a slow smile in the darkness. That part was
still
surprising. That he cared for
me too, that he’d said he loved me, or near enough. Stomach flipping
enthusiastically, my smile broadened until I knew that I was grinning like an
idiot. It was almost beyond comprehension that for as long as I had fantasized
about him, reality was turning out even better than my dream. Surreal. Who was
I, that somehow Eaden had been drawn into my life?

Shaking
my head, I rolled the other way and glanced at the clock. 12:03. Flipping onto
my stomach with a low moan, I covered my head with my pillow again and
attempted to block the images of Eaden on horseback that taunted me behind
closed eyes.

It
was a very long night.

Jane
was back at work on Monday, eager to share the new colour scheme they had
decided on while decorating the baby’s room. Trying very hard to be more
considerate, I asked questions I hoped were relevant. My enthusiasm must not
have seemed very genuine, however, because she smiled and shook her head.

“Just
you wait until it’s your turn; you’ll be obsessed by strollers and diaper pails
too.”

My turn?
I
hadn’t put much thought into having a turn. For several years, my energy had
been spent battening down the hatches, preparing for the storm I sensed was
always brewing. Having children had never figured prominently into my future, mostly
because I didn’t think I’d have one. Yet everything had changed with Eaden in
my life. I could actually envision a future and although the details were
unclear, like a fresh Polaroid, the images were gradually resolving into
something more defined. There was so much space left over when I was with him
– to think, to breathe, to live. Would that involve children? Was it even
possible for Eaden to conceive a child? Did he want them?
 
Did I?
 
I was only eighteen. My chest ached and
tiny stars appeared in my peripheral vision. Realizing I was holding my breath,
I let it out with a whoosh.

“Hey
relax!” Jane teased. “You look pale. Did I scare you?”

Yes.

“It
was a late night,” I said, instead.

She
raised her eyebrows. “Anyone I know?”

Rolling
my eyes and hiding my trembling fingers, I busied myself with opening the mail.

“I’ve
got my eyes on you, kiddo. It’s always the quiet girls who have the biggest
secrets.” She patted me affectionately on the shoulder and chuckling, waddled
out of the room.
 

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Irritated,
I threw my hair up into a loose ponytail and continued scanning the nineteenth
century legal documents that were piled haphazardly around my work station. For
the fifth time that afternoon, I’d had to reopen the online catalogue and
double-check that my numbers matched.

I
couldn’t seem to stop thinking about Eaden. It wasn’t just the memory of his
kisses that distracted me, although I’d found my cheeks hot more than once.
Rather, it was my curiosity about his life – his first life I reminded
myself – that was killing me. Having given up the pretence of real work
sometime before lunch, I took advantage of my access to historical archives to
begin some detective work. But after hours of reading, I was still less than
satisfied. Although I knew that the
Dál
Riata
was
a kingdom that would become central to Scottish history, I knew nothing of what
life would have been like for a young man living there. What little information
existed about sixth century Scotland had mainly to do with specific tribes,
lineages, and traditional farming practice. Frustrated, I had scoured the
international archives database in hopes of finding other records that might
exist from that period.
 
But the
sources I consulted agreed on one thing and one thing only: very little was
known about the lives of the people of the
Dál
Riata
,
and
what was known was mostly conjecture. Disgusted, I forced myself back to work. What
did I expect? Love letters? A biography?

Frowning
at the documents in my hands, I set them aside and grabbed my coat. Sitting on
the cold steps of the entrance of the library, I shivered in the weak light of
the afternoon sun and wrapped my arms around myself, watching the people on the
sidewalk below. A middle aged man with a yellow windbreaker and a hip sack
squinted as he tried to read the street sign across the road. Hesitating, he
turned back the way he came.
That was
an easy one.
Tourist. A young Asian
woman with a bright yellow mini-skirt walked by, mouthing the words to the song
playing on her iPod. Student. The middle-aged woman with the floral print
blouse and sneakers stumped me for a second, until I saw the badge that hung
from her neck on a lanyard. Nurse.

Staring
down at my own shoes, I wondered what someone would make of me. What category
would I fall into? The silence that filled my head was deafening. Stomach
churning, it occurred to me that I really didn’t know. Who was I? What was I?
Trying to think of what defined me, I
came up empty until one thought bubbled up to the surface. Someone Eaden loved.

That
was all I had.

It
was a start.

It
suddenly dawned on me that each and every one of the people below me would be
loved by someone, too. Just as each and every person walking by would likely
love someone else in turn. Are we defined by who we love? Or does their love
define us?
Understanding lapped at me
like a slow tide. I didn’t know these people, couldn’t know them, not just by
looking at them. And a book on urban living would make their lives no clearer
to me. It would be just as impossible to know Eaden by reading historical
records. What I was looking for was a connection to him, clues that would help
me understand his regrets, his dreams, his fears – the things in his life
that had made him who he was. Had he cried when his mother died? Had he ever
had his heart broken? Did he have a best friend? I had thought that finding
facts about Eaden’s first life would help me feel closer to him. But no matter
how long I searched, I would never understand the sheer enormity of his
experiences. Not without context.

What
I needed was to keep asking Eaden the questions that I knew he didn’t want to
answer. I needed to know who he was, as he seemed to know me. I was no longer a
child and it wasn’t enough that he had shared my life. I wanted to share his.
To do that, I had to know his heart and mind. Those inscrutable expressions
that flitted across his features time and time again were infuriating because I
didn’t know what he was thinking. If this was going to work, I needed to know
all of it. Even the parts he didn’t want me to know, and he would need to tell
me. No more evasions. Determined, I stood; ready to return to the library.
Ready to ask for what I needed.

My
walk home was colder than I had expected and my light coat felt insufficient in
the sharp evening air. In the short time since my life had been upended, the
leaves had completed their transformation and, exhausted by their efforts, had
swiftly tumbled to the ground. It was getting darker much earlier now. My feet
swished through the dry, crumpled piles as I ambled home, in no particular
hurry. Eaden wouldn’t be a part of my evening plans.

Pensive,
my thoughts ambled between Eaden and whether or not I should stop at the
grocery store on my way home. Thinking of the shrivelled celery and yogurt in the
fridge made the decision easier. It would be busy at this time of the day, and
I usually avoided crowds, but I noticed belatedly that I was pretty relaxed.
Less irritable than I had felt all day, in fact.

Listening
to the wind as it rushed through the bare branches of the trees, I felt my
scalp prickle suddenly and turned to look over my shoulder, more than half
expecting to see Eaden standing behind me. Only garbage blew across the empty
sidewalk. My ready smile fading from my lips, I turned back and continued home.

Yet
the feeling that I wasn’t alone was hard to shake. My ears tuned intently to
the noises around me, I quickened my pace. Was I imagining that I heard
footsteps echoing my own? If it was Eaden, why didn’t he walk with me? Was he
that stubborn? Irritable again, I realized it would be just like him to follow
me until he could be sure I was safe and sound, locked up in my apartment. Two
can play that game, I thought sourly, and I walked the rest of the way home
without a single backwards glance.

Hanging
up my jacket, I placed my keys on the ring by the door, and then checked the
locks again. I sighed, realizing that I hadn’t stopped at the store, after all.
Grabbing the peanut butter and a spoon, I headed for my room.

I
pulled my phone from my bag, frowning. No point in prolonging the inevitable.
Leaving the jar and spoon on the dresser, I choose Adam first, greatly relieved
when he didn’t answer.

My
message was brief. “Hi Adam. It’s Rachel. Give me a call so we can talk.”

My
luck ran out with Lacey. She answered on the first ring.

“It’s
about time.”

It
was pointless. “You got me,” I said. Go ahead.”

“Who
is he?”

Eaden’s
story was as good as any. At this point, any story was easier than the truth.

Making
sure my admission sounded reluctant, I said, “We met at the library. He’s a
historian.”

“Ha!
I knew it. I knew there was a guy.” She sounded triumphant. “So? More details
please.”

This
was the easy part. “I don’t know... he’s tall, he likes to read... oh, and he
plays guitar.” She would love that.

“Nerdy
and talented,” she laughed. “Sounds perfect for you.”

Thinking
of his grey eyes and the charming way his hair refused to lie flat, the smile
in my voice was unmistakeable. “He is.”

“Ray-bell!
You sound all girl-like,” she said wonderingly. “Are you in love?”

Damn
Lacey. Taking a deep breath, I forced the words from my mouth. “Uh, yeah, I
think I am.” That wasn’t so bad, was it?

Her
laugh was incredulous. “Wait! Are you serious? Does he know that? Did he say he
loves you too?”

I
hated to admit to my cowardice. “I haven’t told him yet,” I admitted quickly
before she could cut me off. “But I’m going to. And I’m pretty sure he feels
the same way.” Eaden had said love in reference to me. Granted he had yet to
say ‘I love you’ as a declarative statement, but seeing as I hadn’t even gotten
around to admitting my own feelings, I couldn’t really point fingers.

“Unbelievable!
I go on a million dates with a million losers and you find love at the
library.” She snorted. “When do I get to meet him?”

This
was the hard part. She would not take this well. “It’s complicated, Lacey.”

Silence.
“Complicated, how?”

Scrambling,
I tried to find an excuse she might find plausible.

I
shouldn’t have bothered. She came up with her own. “Rachel Leah! Are you having
an affair with a married man?” She sounded delightfully scandalized. “You hussy.”

“No,
it’s not like that.” My denial was adamant, but I paused. I didn’t think it was
like that, but we actually hadn’t gotten around to discussing Eaden’s romantic
history. For all I knew, he may have been married at some point, maybe more
than once. I tried to swallow past the lump that had suddenly formed in my
throat. Maybe there were things I didn’t want to know.

“Then
what is it? Why can’t I meet him?”

“Well,
it’s just that he’s older.”

“God,
Rachel, what’s wrong with that? I’ve dated tons of older guys. Remember Paul?”

Paul
had been a bartender/writer/angst-ridden philosopher that she had briefly been
involved with last year. He was 28.
 

“Wait,
do you mean old, as in really old? Is he like, 40?” She sounded appalled.

I
couldn’t help but laugh. “No, he’s not 40.” The truth was more and less
preposterous than that.

 
“Well, no excuses then.”

 
“Look, I can’t explain everything right
now, but I promise you will get to meet him. Just not right now, okay?” This
wasn’t exactly a lie. If Eaden was going to be part of my future, he would have
to meet Lacey eventually. She was the closest thing I had to a sister. My life
wouldn’t be complete without her. “I’m really happy right now,” I added. There
was little more I would need to say. Not to Lacey.

There
was a moment of silence. “Well, tell Prince Charming that he’d better treat you
right or he’ll have to deal with me.” Despite her tough words, she sounded
relieved.

Satisfied
that she had gotten as much out of me as possible, Lacey began to eagerly
recount the details of her sister’s birthday party the day before. Grateful for
her short attention span, I laughed with genuine pleasure as she described her
Granny Ferguson playing air guitar after several helpings of the ambrosia salad
that Lacey had spiked with rum.
 

Hanging
up, I stared out the window at the dark night sky. The apartment seemed quiet
and lonely after our conversation and I suddenly wished again that Eaden hadn’t
been quite so insistent about leaving me alone with my thoughts. Leaving the
peanut butter where it was, I grabbed my well-worn copy of
The Mists of Avalon
from the bookshelf. Turning out the lights, I
stopped by the window and pressed my face against the glass, remembering.

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Enjoying
the cool chill on my flushed skin, I had stood at my bedroom window, forehead
pressed against the glass, gazing at the road until my breath had begun to
obscure my view.