Where the Streets Have No Name(6)
The burden of his mistakes weighed heavy on his shoulders, and Daniel trudged back to the bed and breakfast. To Amelia. Beautiful, sweet Amelia. She came at him like a freight train from nowhere. Like an angel. And bloody hell, she looked like one.
He took his time walking back, contemplating how to keep his distance. Daniel never pretended to be a hard man growing up, and he never did well with lying. In his mind, actors were liars who got paid to do their job, and at least no one got hurt from it. She’d see through him at some point. He had no doubt.
When he returned to the room the scent of steak and chips took hold of him. Amelia sat in one of the two chairs at a small table. Two silver lids covered the plates on a large tray with tomato sauce, mayonnaise, salt, and pepper. He didn’t know whether to thank her for the meal or yell at her for moving, for possibly adding to her injury.
Daniel gave himself a little shake. He had to keep his head together.
“Let me…” He paused, licking his lips. “Uh, let me fix you up, then…”
Amelia laughed; the sound was a healing balm on his soul. “I’m too hungry to wait. I waited for you and that was long enough.”
She lifted the silver lids from both plates. Two steaks on each, heaped with fried onions and mushrooms. Jacket potatoes stuffed with butter and bacon and sour cream and cheddar cheese. Thick cut chips.
“Jaysus,” he exclaimed, dropping the chemists’ bag to the floor.
Grinning like the damned Cheshire cat, Amelia motioned to the other chair. Daniel took it, gladly. A little too gladly.
He watched her dive in. Then he joined her.
The light outside the ocean view room faded slowly. Both Amelia and Daniel sat at the window, their eyes glued to the sky. An hour ago, streaks of pastel pinks, oranges, and purples spanned the canvas of the sky. Now, as they knelt on the couch sitting under the window ledge, the cobalt blue sky lit up with a reddish-orange hue emulating flames, splashes of vibrant fuchsia, and clouds so dark they looked black.
What interested her wasn’t so much the sunset, but Daniel’s response to it. He watched the sky, motionless, like he had never seen it before. And while his body might be inflexible and wooden, she read the thoroughly satisfied expression he wore like the cover of a book. The number of emotions he revealed in sixty minutes could fill the first ten years of a child’s life.
The man was a mystery to her. During dinner, he savoured every bite of food on his plate. Most men she had come in contact with devoured their food like someone was going to steal it from them.
Not Daniel. He even made the simple act of squeezing ketchup onto his plate, mixing some mayonnaise in and dipping a thick-cut chip look like an art form.
Poppa taught her plenty over the years and one of the lessons she learned proved useful in this instance. He instructed her on the science of reading people, taking into account the tone and pitch of their voice, facial movements and expressions and body language, to name a few.
A hand on her shoulder distracted Amelia from the inside of her own mind. She looked up to see Daniel observing her with concern.
“Are you feeling all right, lass? You didn’t hit your head when you fell, did you?”
“No, I didn’t and I’m fine,” she answered.
“Hmm.” He removed his hand, stuffing it in his pocket. “Something on your mind then?”
Don’t tell him he’s on your mind.
Don’t tell him he’s on your mind.
Don’t tell him he’s on your mind.
“Uh…no. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering after your knee, but you didn’t reply. Stared through me like I wasn’t even here.” Hurt flared in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. It’s just, well this isn’t exactly a pleasure trip for me.” Hell, even if she bawled her eyes out, Amelia would tell him. At the very least, the focus would be off of him; something Daniel seemed to loathe.
“My grandparents came to Canada for a couple of months because a few of us have birthdays around the same time. They had only been in Vancouver for eleven days when my Poppa had a stroke.”
She stopped, grabbing a tissue from the bedside table to dry her eyes. That excruciatingly long and drawn-out night began to replay in her head, as much as she tried to shut it off.
The stinging scent of hospital-grade disinfectant, too bright lights, squeaking shoes on over-polished floors as the staff went on their rounds. All of these things and more would forever remind her of that night. Precisely why she could not – and would not – go to a hospital. If Amelia had her choice, she’d never set foot in one again.
Dropping to his knees on the floor in front of her, Daniel extracted the tissue from her trembling hands and made fast work of dabbing the corners of her eyes. Just like before, his touch remained gentle. Almost as if he couldn’t quite figure out how much pressure he should use.