Mayan Moon [ONC2024]

Chapter 8

The heiress's mystique lost its shine that first night with each breath that reminded him of the pulling of a saw that crescendoed into a drill-like whine. The pillow over his head served only to muffle the symphony of snores emanating from beside him.

He whispered in her ear, a gentle plea for silence. He then lightly shook her, hoping a change in position might bring some peace. Each failed attempt only deepened his sense of despair.

The idea of "accidentally" nudging her off the bed flickered through his mind, but the thought was immediately dismissed with a mix of guilt and affection. In his frustration and sleep deprivation, his imagination took a darker turn, conjuring scenarios where he could gag her, choke her, or even smother her—all of which were quickly banished as he remembered the tender goodnight kiss she had given him. These were not thoughts born of desire but the whimsical fantasies of a man desperate for sleep. Her lips tasted sweet; the stray thought interrupted his musing.

He remembered an anecdote from his youth about his mother hitting his father with a shoe in hopes of stopping his snoring and chuckled. I wonder if Claire and I could create a relationship like my parents. Her words the previous night echoed in his head, but he had long ago given up on the type of love his parents shared.

Ultimately, defeated by the relentless serenade, Roger sought refuge with a pillow and blanket in the only place left—the spacious bathroom. A surprisingly ample divan became his refuge from Claire's rendition of Ives' Symphony No. 4.

But now, it was the deathly silence that prevented the rest he craved. Surrounded by frigid white marble tile and lustrous gold fixtures, the bathroom felt more like a mausoleum for his final resting than a refuge.

However, it offered respite, and as his family escaped from Arandas to Yuma, they had slept in a cemetery, so the feeling wasn't new. He shivered. They were all gone now. His personal ghosts accentuated the cold.

He shut his eyes, did what Tata had taught him, and implored Ixchel, "May the moon's embrace guide my dreams to a nurturing space," but his plea went unanswered.

His mind wandered and drifted. The events of the days before. The night he met Chester. The downward spiral his life had taken. The fear when Claire was taken. The joy that she was unharmed.

In the darkness, his breathing slowed, consciousness sunk, and slowly, he came into a lucid-like state and saw the previous night's events.

"We're sleeping together," Claire stated as she closed the door to their bedroom, "but don't get any ideas. Nothing is going to happen between us."

"I can go to—" He tried to offer. Perhaps a little too much enthusiasm in his voice.

She frowned, "No! You need to sleep here so my mother will believe we have a true marriage."

Then she came close. Her voice a mixture of determination and a plea for understanding, and she whispered, "Just give me time, Roger, and I will become your proper wife." Her eyes whispered possibilities. His heart stopped, bewildered.

Then she kissed him goodnight. His heart tried to push out of his chest. It yearned. Like any male, he was attracted to her.

He took a deep breath and kept his distance. The memory of seeing his high school girlfriend kissing another guy made him cringe. Trust wasn't easy, and Claire was miles away from his league. Why start something doomed?

Hope's fragile seed took root in his mind. Could it flourish? Yet, the moon's lessons lingered: hope was ephemeral, home elusive, family fleeting, and love merely a brief respite.

"Become your proper wife," the promise echoed in his head. Did it mean what he thought it meant? Was she hinting at going beyond their one-year arrangement?