Chapter Two
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The next morning he met me down at breakfast. I could tell by his face that he was as excited to see me as I was to see him.
"Good morning, Alice," he said, smoothly pulling out a chair for me. I sat down, and he took the chair at my side. "You haven't eaten?"
I shook my head. "Have you?"
He grinned. "I've been waiting for you."
"Well, in that case, we'd better order. Waiter!" I called, and a man in an elegant uniform came smoothly to my side.
"Yes, miss?"
"I'd like some eggs and toast and a cup of coffee, please. What would you like, Jasper?"
He shrugged. "I'll have the same. Thank you." When the waiter had left, he smiled at me. "Are you tired?"
I grinned. "Most people are tired after staying up the whole night." I took his hand, smiling as I remembered. We had sat out on the deck, looking at the stars. Not talking much. Not even touching. But, strangely enough, it was if we hadn't needed to. There was a sort of understanding I couldn't describe. It was good enough to just be near him, to look into his eyes.
But I still didn't know anything about his past, or he of mine. My family …
As always, he was eerily on line with my thoughts. "Is your family on the ship with you?"
I hesitated, blushing. "They're not. They're … a difficult subject for me."
He was quiet for a moment, his gaze intense. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."
The waiter came with our meal, and for a moment I busied myself with buttering the toast, trying to pretend the exchange hadn't happened. But the desire to come clean with him was too strong. "I'll tell you," I promised finally, looking him in the eye. "But not here. Not now. I need … some time." I sighed. "My past isn't as clean-cut as you might imagine."
His face became dark, and I felt a thrill go through me. "Neither is mine."
We were silent, and the only sound was the chattering of the other passengers and the scraping of our knives on our toast. His face was so tortured, I had to speak. "Whatever it is, Jasper …" I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling, "I don't care." He raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. "Honestly," I said.
His face twisted. "My past isn't something I'm proud of."
I shrugged. "I'm in the same boat, believe me."
He put down his knife, and looked at my overly buttered but still uneaten toast. "Are you hungry?"
I smiled wryly. "Obviously not."
"Want to sit in the parlor, then? It's hard to talk here," he said.
I agreed, and he took my arm again. He seemed to know the way down the maze of opulent hallways better than I did, so I relaxed and let him lead. I could feel his anxiety and apprehension once more, and sensed that a confession was not far away. My mouth felt dry. I would have to come clean, too. What would he think of me then?
The parlor was empty. There were two large armchairs by the fire, but they were too far apart to be suitable for this type of conversation. "Do you want to sit?" Jasper asked a little awkwardly as he shut the door behind us.
"Only next to you," I said, surprising myself with my boldness. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks.
He cracked a smile. "That might be difficult."
"Sit on the ground, then."
He raised an eyebrow, but lowered himself onto the ground by the fire, leaning against the armchair. I hesitated before sitting next to him, leaning against his chest. My heart raced as he carefully put his arms around me. So cautious. Like I was made of glass. Or like I was a bird about to fly away.
"This will look highly improper if anyone comes in," he murmured.
"I can go to lock the door," I offered.
His arms tightened. "I think I'll risk it."
I grinned, and we stared into the crackling fire for a few moments. Then I twisted to look up into his face. "So."
He was instantly apprehensive. "Yes."
"Want me to go first?"
He hesitated, and then smiled grimly. "After I tell mine, I won't be surprised if you go running away and never want to see me again. So there's no use in putting you through the pain of telling yours." I started to interrupt him, but he pressed a finger to my lips to silence me. "I'll go first," he said firmly.
Then he was quiet for a long moment, trying to find words. "I was born in Texas," he said finally, his eyes on the fire. "My parents raised me well. I was the model student and athlete, never talking back or breaking the rules or getting into trouble. When the war broke out, I left in a heartbeat." He laughed, but it was empty, without humor. "I was going to fight for my country. I was ready for a bit of action. I thought it would be fun to get some glory overseas. I … I had no idea," he said bitterly.
I could feel his disgust at himself, but I snuggled closer to him, willing him to go on. He closed his eyes. "I was young and naive. I wish that was a good enough excuse. I … I got into the wrong stuff down there. I missed my family and friends. The first time I killed a man in combat, I didn't speak for weeks. I fell into such a deep depression, that I needed some way to escape." He opened his eyes to look at me. Not to ask for understanding, but to search for condemnation. Finding none, he went on, his voice low.
"I made some friends." He paused. "No, not friends … I – I can't even describe it. More like a cult than anything else. But I was so desperate for some sort of connection. I was so lonely. And I got heavily addicted to … the wrong kinds of things." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I can't tell you what I did." His arms tightened around me. "I can't begin to describe … I was a whole different person. I killed without a thought. For money to feed my addiction. It was what they taught me … all my life, growing up in the South, I did what I was told to do. It never occurred to me to do anything otherwise.
"So I killed. And my addiction continued. But still I was never quite satisfied. It got to the point that I needed drugs like I needed air. But each time I killed, I could feel their pain." He hesitated. "I wasn't like the others … not to say I wasn't just as evil, just as sinful. But they felt no sympathy. Killing was something different for me, and each time got harder and harder. So, eventually, I left, so dazed with drug I could hardly understand what I was doing. And I got on the first ship I saw to England." His hands twisted together. "I just got the news my mother's sick. That's why I'm coming back to the States."
"And Maria?" I asked, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice.
He sighed. "A girl I met over there. When I was in the wrong crowd."
"Were you …"
"Sort of."
I frowned. "Are you …"
He looked me in the eye, and I could tell that he wasn't lying. "Alice, I promise. She was nothing, nothing like you." A wave of peace fell over me, and I smiled.
"But there's still one thing I don't get," I said.
"What?"
"Why did you specifically empathy? Why did you feel those people's pain? Even when you were … addicted?"
He sighed. "Even today I still don't understand that …"
I was quiet, reflecting. "I might know why,"
"What?" he asked.
I hesitated. "You're … different. You're really in tune with what I'm feeling."
He shrugged. "Empathy. Just what you said"
I shook my head. "Something more. Like just now … I should be bouncing off the walls about the whole Maria thing."
He laughed. "You think I have … what, some weird gift?"
I tensed, and immediately he was on alert. "What?"
"I hope you're not averse to weirdness …" I whispered, trying to smile.
"I'm with you, aren't I?" he said lightly, but his eyes were serious.
"Well, I haven't told you my story yet."
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Author's Note: I'm updating soon, because this story has been coming along pretty fast. Please review!!