Twenty-six
Few things could be more embarrassing than taking the Walk of Shame dressed like the St. Pauli Girl. So Jonah lends me a T-shirt and some workout shorts with a drawstring that allows me to cinch them around my waist.
I almost don’t remember the moment when, half asleep, I let Jonah carry me into his bedroom. But this morning I woke up next to him in an enormous, king-sized bed, and since then he’s been considerate. Almost courtly. The total opposite of last night.
As Jonah scrambles some eggs for us, I walk around, taking a look at his place in the daylight. His bedroom and bathroom are the only fully enclosed spaces, occupying a bricked-in area at the center of the enormous open space that forms the rest of his apartment. Stainless steel shines in the kitchen, yet the dining table nearby seems to be made of reclaimed woods, rustic and yet somehow perfect here. I circle around to see low bookshelves beneath the wide windows that look out on Lake Austin and the rest of the city—a space defined as the living room by low leather sofas, a Turkish carpet, and the ottoman I remember. Turns out it’s dark red. At the far end of his apartment—the part where I’ve nearly circled back to the kitchen—is a home office with books stacked around his computer, and a seismograph sitting on a small end table. All the lines move slowly and easily—no tremors today. I step around a treadmill to reappear in the kitchen, where Jonah is spooning our finished breakfast onto our plates.
He’s wearing nothing but boxer briefs and a white tee so tight and thin that he might as well be shirtless. Even after weeks of screwing around, this man’s body takes my breath away.
Jonah gives me a sidelong look. “Feeling okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” I take a sip of the OJ he’s poured into a sleek glass tumbler. “I only had one glass of wine last night.”
“That’s not what I meant.” His hand finds mine, and I watch him examine my wrists, looking for burns from the leather he strapped around them last night. But there’s only one small bruise, no larger than a fingertip.
I meet his eyes evenly. “When you go too far for me, I’ll tell you.” After a moment, he nods.
I only wish I knew just how far “too far” would be.
When we sit at the table, I have a good view of my etching, which hangs on the brick inner wall. Jonah catches me looking at it and smiles. “Is that the right place for it?”
This is your apartment, I want to say, hang it wherever you want—but the truth is, as an artist, I kind of do care about where my work ends up. “That spot is perfect, actually. You get enough light to see it clearly, without so much sunshine that the inks could fade.” It’s in a place of pride, too, which is always an enormous compliment.
Jonah uses his fork to push his eggs around his plate. “I’d like to ask you a question. Feel free not to answer.”
“Um, okay.”
“What else did you read?” He can’t meet my eyes. “From the stuff Kip gave you.”
“I learned you ran track. That your house is supposed to be haunted. And—and I learned that your family’s having a tough time.” That seems like the most tactful way to put it. He’ll have to realize how much I know; the guy can’t be blind to the way the press seizes on his family’s troubles.
Jonah finally looks up at me. Once again, I see a sliver of that deep-buried vulnerability. “What the media reports—that’s not the whole story.”
“I never figured it was.” I rest my hand on Jonah’s forearm. “You can tell me what you want, when you want. I’m not going to pry. I shouldn’t even have read the stuff Kip gave me.”
“No. If it’s in the papers, it’s fair game.”
“Well, I haven’t pried any further than that, and I won’t.”
He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t entirely believe me. At first I’m offended—but then I wonder whether anyone has ever respected Jonah’s privacy. He can’t believe anyone would willingly give him space and solitude, because he was denied it before. I remember the news stories about a mad mother—my own theories about his anger with her—and feel a pang deep inside as I realize how long Jonah’s been building these walls around his heart.
Can those walls ever be torn down?
Not by anyone hiding behind walls of her own.
We eat breakfast in silence, lovers who have told each other everything and nothing.
Jonah drives me back home, kisses me gently before I get out of the car. We’re all right—at least, as close to it as we ever were.
Time to figure out what all this means later. Right now, I need rest.
So I nap for a while longer, take a long, hot shower, and change into jeans and a sweater. A party as epic as Arturo and Shay’s would need a volunteer cleanup crew the next morning even if Shay could help. Since she can’t, the earlier I get over there, the better. Tidying up will take my mind off the tangle of emotions between Jonah and me.
When I pull up in front of the town house, Carmen’s car is already parked out front. I expect to get teased about sleeping in—and then maybe about who I slept in with. So I brace myself to face the inquisition.
I’m not prepared for what I find instead.
Arturo opens the door without even looking at me. “What business is it of yours?”
“If you get evicted, who else are you going to move in with?” Carmen’s voice is shrill and sharp—unlike her. “That makes it my business!”
“We’re not going to get evicted!” Arturo’s face is flushed. This argument has been going on for a while.
“You spent almost a hundred dollars on beer,” Carmen says as she stomps through the living room, grabbing cans and tossing them in a trash bag she has clenched in one fist. “With a baby on the way! That’s irresponsible!”
It’s a measure of how close I am to Carmen and Arturo that they think nothing of letting me in while they’re having a bitter argument. Doesn’t make it any less awkward for me. “I’m going to check on Shay,” I say, before hurrying up the stairs. The sounds of their squabbling follow me the whole way.
I find Shay propped up in bed, holding the new crochet needles and soft white yarn I gave her at her bedside baby shower a couple days after I returned from Scotland. But she’s not working with the yarn, just sitting there teary-eyed. She tries to smile when she sees me, but it doesn’t really work. “They’ve been going on like this for at least half an hour.” She wipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I can’t stand it.”
“Hey, hey. Every brother and sister fight sometimes.” This is true, but I feel like a liar saying it. Neither Carmen nor Arturo is the type to shout, especially not at each other.
Shay sniffles. “It was like Carmen was mad at me for getting pregnant to begin with, and then as soon as she got over that, she turned on Arturo. We saved up for one last party before the baby! Everything besides the beer, other people brought! We weren’t being stupid—were we?”
I sit on the bed beside her. Despite the fact that she’s a married woman on the verge of motherhood, she looks so much younger than me right now. More like a girl than an adult. “You’ve got all the furniture for the nursery. You’ve started a savings account for college, and this kid is still a fetus!”
“But there’s day care to pay for too—because I’ve got to finish my degree, or else I’ll just be a lead weight around Arturo’s neck—” By now Shay is breaking down completely.
“It’s going to be fine,” I promise her. “Okay? You guys aren’t going to get derailed by one last party.”
“Did war break out downstairs?” Surprised by the voice behind me, I turn around to see Geordie standing in the doorway, shirtless but still clad in his kilt. He winces at the light coming in through Shay’s bedroom window. “Also, is it November first or have I been out for longer?”
“You passed out around two A.M.,” Shay says between sniffles. “Arturo put you on the nursery floor.”
“Kind of him.” Geordie slumps against the doorjamb. His complexion has taken on a ghastly shade of green. “I’m afraid I may be on the verge of getting sick in your toilet.”