Asking for More (3 page)

His smile widens, and my heart lifts to see him finally, completely relaxed and happy. “Did you just ask me to be a bridesmaid?”

“A bridesman,” Rosalind corrects him. “Times are changing.”

“For the better,” Jonah says. “Of course I will.”

“When's the big day?” I ask. “Or have you not set a date yet?” My friends have run the gamut, from Arturo and Shay who got married about three weeks after they got engaged, to Liz, my friend back home in New Orleans, who accepted her fiancé's proposal two years ago and is still in no hurry to schedule the ceremony.

Rosalind puts her arm around Candace. “August. Neither of us wants a big do, and we've been together so long that, honestly, we're married already in almost every way that counts. This is more a party to celebrate what we've known from the start.”

“But you still have to wear a tux, Jonah!” Candace chimes in.

Then it's all happy chatter about the arrangements for a while, except for some talk about the food (which is excellent) and my etching (which Rosalind recognized in a flash). Jonah's less intrigued by the question of a wedding venue than I am, but I can tell he's basking in his best friend's elation.

Many people who grew up the way Jonah did—under the control of a brutal, manipulative stepfather—wouldn't have turned out so steady. So centered, or so able to take such simple pleasure in a friend's happiness.

But Jonah defies the odds every time.

***

Thanks to Kip's flair for entertaining, the art show opening becomes a smash. People usually stop in, politely look around, make some chitchat and then escape within half an hour. But when Jonah and I push our way through the crush to the door, around 10:30
P.M.
, it looks like we might be the first to leave. Laughter bubbles up in every corner, and the free-flowing champagne has combined with the happy spirit to work the best magic of all: Several pieces have sold, including mine.

“Five hundred bucks,” I say to Jonah as we walk from the parking garage to the elevator of his apartment building. “I hope you understand that I'm very rich now.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

I flutter my eyelashes at him, deliberately camp. “You know, I may be in the market for a kept man.”

Jonah shakes his head in amusement. “What would the qualifications be? If someone wanted to apply for the position, I mean.”

The elevator doors open for us, and I wait until they begin to close again—ensuring we're alone—before I caress his ass. “Well, you'd have to be prepared for some on-the-job training . . .”

But the smile fades from Jonah's face. “I didn't think—you can't want to.”

“What? Why not?” He looks amazing, I'm not half bad myself in this cocktail dress, and we've spent the whole night in each other's arms, nursing glasses of champagne and talking about love and romance with a newly engaged couple. “This isn't about me. Do you not want to go to bed together?”

Jonah puts one hand to my cheek; his fingertips brush the area just beneath my black eye. “I can't play. Not again. Not yet.”

“That's all right.” I fold his arm in mine. “We're past it now, remember?”

For the longest time, I couldn't have an orgasm unless I pretended I was being raped. Most of my life, I fantasized inside my head. Jonah and I acted things out for real, but we were both frustrated that my fantasy was necessary. We even tried to stop completely.

You see how that went.

Finally, after Mack's would-be assault, we took several weeks to simply learn who we were in bed together without the role-playing. It was tough for me to accept that I just wouldn't come for a long time, even tougher for Jonah to accept that I might enjoy sex without orgasm. But we learned how to enjoy each other. I finally trusted myself enough to let go. Now the fantasy is something we explore together—intensely—but it no longer defines our sex life.

Jonah, however, can't always compartmentalize. “When I see you like that, and I know that you got hurt because I was careless . . . Vivienne, I can't.”

This, too, is part of Jonah's overprotectiveness. I resist the urge to point out that I was careless too, or to impishly suggest that there are things we could do that wouldn't involve him looking me in the face. Jonah needs some time, and I need to respect that. “Okay,” I whisper, snuggling closer to his side. “It's enough just to be near you.”

He folds me in his arms and kisses my forehead. I feel as if he's wrapping himself around me to try and shield me from any harshness or harm in the world.

We go to bed right away, each of us wearing one of his T-shirts. Although it's good to be held by him, I can tell that Jonah's still very much awake. He's still troubled by what happened, so much so that he can't even rest. Come to think of it, he seemed kind of tired this morning, too.

Why is he torturing himself so much about what was clearly, obviously an accident?

I won't pry any further tonight. Jonah and I have gotten so much better at being open and honest with one another—but sometimes, each of us needs space to work through something on our own. I sense that's what Jonah needs now.

Despite my resolution, the question haunts me. As we lie together in the dark, I remember how Jonah walked away from me when he first learned I was a rape victim. How he broke things off between us again when he thought we'd never be able to put the fantasy behind us. Even the way he approached me in the hospital after the Mack incident, so careful, stooping so that his height and power wouldn't intimidate me while I was so raw.

Guilt shuts Jonah down
, I realize. Rather than do more harm, he'll pull back entirely. In some ways, that's been my role in our relationship since the very beginning: the one who absolves him of guilt he shouldn't feel, the one who allows him to start moving forward again. Without someone like that in his life, I think Jonah could easily become paralyzed by his past.

I've finally learned how to let the past go. But Jonah's not there yet.

Snuggling back against him, I pull Jonah's arm more firmly around me. He waited a long time for me to work through my issues. I can wait for him too. As long as it takes.

***

A phone's ringing startles me from my sleep. As I push myself up onto my elbows, blinking, I try to remember where I left my phone—but it's not mine. Jonah's phone sits in its charging dock, screen glowing brightly.

And even from across the room, I can read the name displayed there: REBECCA.

Jonah throws back the covers and goes for the phone. I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest as drowsiness is replaced by worry. Rebecca is Jonah's younger sister. She's currently doing fieldwork as a botanist in Central America. And she's not the type to call at three
A.M.
for no reason.

“Rebecca? What's wrong?” Jonah listens for a moment, then sucks in a breath sharply, as if he's in pain.

Oh, no. I want to go to him, to ask what happened, but it's more important for him to hear what his sister has to say.

Besides, his half of the conversation tells me enough. “Oh, my God. Are you all right? . . . You're sure? . . . What did the doctor say? . . . No. I don't want you going back there tonight. . . . Tell me the name of the hotel, and I'll call, all right? And hang tight. I'm flying down tomorrow.”

As soon as he hangs up, I say, “What happened to Rebecca?”

“She got mugged. Walking down the street, some guy on a moped comes up and grabs her purse. Knocks her down, drags her a few feet, then drives away and leaves her sprawled on the asphalt.” Jonah sits down heavily on the bed, as if even envisioning this happening to his younger sister has hurt him too badly to stand. “Thank God she had her phone in her pocket instead of her bag. But that's about all she has left.”

“Was she injured?”

“Cuts and bruises, she says. And I can tell from the way she was talking that her lip is split.” He puts one hand to his forehead, steadying himself. “I told her not to go home tonight, because that guy now has her address and her keys.”

For a moment, the memory of Mack's assault flickers in my mind—the way he grabbed me from behind, pushed his way through the door into my kitchen, ski mask over his face—

I force down the panic by remembering what happened next, namely my picking up a marble canister and smashing Mack's face in. Once I can breathe again, I say, “So you're going down to Belize, right?”

“Yes.” Jonah pauses. “You know you're welcome to come. And you know you don't have to.”

“I'll come. I want to help.”

“I'm sure Rebecca will appreciate that.”

Although I nod, I know I'm not just going down there for Rebecca.

Strong and powerful as Jonah is, he can't fully defend himself against the wounds of his childhood. And when he's with his family—even the ones he loves and trusts—those wounds reopen.

I want to be by Jonah's side when he once again confronts his past.

Central America sounds so far away, but it turns out the flight to Belize only lasts about five hours. Jonah's late father was a cofounder of Oceanic Airlines, so he's pretty much able to just call up, ask if two business-class tickets are available, and then claim them. We'll leave in the early evening, about four
P.M.
, so that gives me time to head home, pack a few things, and check in with everyone.

Jonah remains troubled. I don't think he slept at all after Rebecca phoned.

“Are you sure you're all right?” I ask as I pull on a T-shirt from my drawer in his dresser.

“I'm fine,” he says shortly. He stands at the door of his closet, staring at his clothes as if they'll announce which ones he should pack.

It's not indecision holding him fast. I know Jonah well enough for that. I've seen him like this, but only at certain moments—always when he was thinking about how I had been hurt before. To some degree it helps, knowing that Jonah's reaction isn't all about me. This is how he gets when anyone he loves is injured or endangered: silent, moody, and still, but with anger boiling hot just beneath the surface. Nor does he lash out the way immature, violent goons do. Instead he bottles it up inside.

That can't be good for him. I open my mouth to ask him whether he and his therapist have talked through this, but I shut it without saying a word. Jonah's process with his therapist has to be his own to navigate. I can't do that work for him, any more than he could solve the problems I take to Doreen.

“I'll be back by two,” I promise as I go to his side. When I go on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, Jonah slides his arms around me and holds me close, only for a moment. This is as close as he's ever come to asking for comfort.

I close my eyes as we embrace. It feels good, being able to be there for him the way he's been for me. I wish it happened more often.

I wish he'd let that happen.

***

At my little rental house on the south side of town, I water my plants, take out the trash and pack a few things in my lavender duffel bag. One of the few things I know about Belize is that it's in Central America, which means it's going to be even hotter and more humid than Texas in summer. So I stick to simple, practical basics: a couple of cotton skirts, a pair of wide-legged linen pants, tank tops, an old button-up Jonah left over here that now gets worn mostly as my cover-up, and comfortable sandals.

In other words, flat sandals. The high-heeled ones are staying home.

On my way out of Jonah's apartment, I had texted both Geordie and the Gillespie-Ortizes to find out if they could meet me for a quick meal at Kerbey Lane. Normally we'd have to wait thirty minutes at least for a table at any of the popular brunch places in town, but between semesters, the crowds aren't as fierce. Geordie gets back to me right away with a yes, but only as I pull into the Kerbey Lane lot does my phone buzz with Shay's reply. Once I've parked, I look down and read:
We can't today, sorry. Have fun in Belize!

Well, okay. But it hits me just how long it's been since I did anything fun with Arturo and Shay. We went from hanging out all the time to mostly meeting up in groups when Carmen made plans, to a point where I don't think I've even seen them in a month.

New babies
, I tell myself.
That's just how it is. New parents don't have as much time to hang out.

Maybe that's all there is to it . . . but maybe not.

I remain deep in thought as I walk inside the diner, which means I don't even see Geordie waiting for me in a booth until he waves with both hands. “You were a million miles away there,” he says in his soft Scottish burr, chuckling, as I sit opposite him. Then his smile fades. “Oh, my God, what happened to your face? I put that poorly. It's still a lovely face. But—”

“High heels and a dark stairwell. You know how it goes.”

“Oh, definitely. Remember the time I went arse over kettle in my stilettos?”

Despite my preoccupation, I have to laugh. Of all the guys I know, Geordie's probably the last one who'd ever cross-dress. This is kind of ironic, given how he insists on wearing his kilt to formal occasions, but if I get Geordie started on how kilts are actually so much more badass and masculine than trousers, we'll be here for a week.

“Now, what's this about Central America?” Geordie says. “Don't tell me—you're fleeing the police.” Then he goes pale. “Oh, dear God. Not funny at all. Forgive me, Vivienne.”

He just tripped over the very uncomfortable fact that Jonah was briefly suspected of being the Austin Stalker, an accusation that made it to the press. However, since Mack's arrest, that particular shadow has faded. “It's okay. I know what you meant. Or didn't mean. Whatever.”

“Nobody's giving him shit about what happened to your eye, are they?” Geordie shakes his head. He instinctively trusts Jonah not to hurt me, or trusts me to tell the truth. Probably the latter.

That trust allows me to say, “No one blames Jonah except Jonah himself. Though it really was about high heels and a dark stairwell—”

“No more details!”

“You weren't getting any.”

Geordie's face looks like he just drank milk that turned out to be sour, but he manages to say, “You've got to be careful, you know.”

“I know. We both know. It was just an accident, that's all.”

Mercifully, the waitress appears, giving us an out for this uncomfortable conversation.

The thing is, only two people in my life know the truth about what Jonah and I do together. One is my therapist, Doreen, who is trained to handle this kind of thing. The other is my Scottish ex-boyfriend, who is definitely
not
trained for it. Normally an ex would be the last person I'd confide in about my current relationship. But Geordie knew about my kink already, and during a weak moment while Jonah and I were broken up, I wound up spilling out the entire story.

No doubt Geordie profoundly wishes he didn't know. Sometimes I wish that too. Today, however, I'm glad there's one person in my life I can talk to about this, even obliquely. We were always more friends than lovers, which is one reason we can discuss the situation. And Geordie is definitely the only one who understands how deep my trust in Jonah goes.

When the waitress leaves, I do Geordie a favor and change the subject. “I asked Arturo and Shay along, but they couldn't make it. Has Nicolas been sick or something?”

“What? No. He's healthy as can be.” Geordie smiles fondly. He's wound up becoming a surrogate uncle to little Nicolas Gillespie-Ortiz. “Just two nights ago, the little guy was crawling like anything. Well, not real crawling, sort of scooting around on his stomach, but he's picking up speed—”

“Wait. Two nights ago?”

Geordie gives me an odd look. “Yeah. I brought some Chinese takeout over. We watched
Spaceballs
, which doesn't hold up as well as you'd think.
Young Frankenstein
, on the other hand . . . Hold on. What's wrong?”

“I'd asked them if they wanted to do dinner that night, but they begged off.”

Geordie's face takes on the pained horror shared by anyone who inadvertently reveals someone else's social snubbing. “Oh, you know, it was really last minute. Totally casual. I practically descended on them with General Tso's chicken in hand.”

I nod like I'm buying it and quickly change the topic to how hot it might be in Belize. But inside, I keep turning over this new, hard fact in my mind: Two of my best friends in the world have shut me out. Deliberately. And I have no idea why.

***

“I'm sure it's nothing,” Jonah says as our plane begins its descent into Belize City that evening. Although he remains silent about his own feelings, I finally got him to talk about mine. “Geordie's probably right. You have to make it easy for new parents. At least, that's what Rosalind says.”

Rosalind's an obstetrician, the one who delivered Nicolas. I assume she knows what she's talking about in this area. But I'm too close to Arturo and Shay to accept that as an excuse. “I
do
make it easy for them. Hanging out at the townhouse, even just running errands together . . . we've always found the time.”

“Do they have any reason to be angry with you?” Jonah asks bluntly.

I've been scouring my mind for any possible sour moment or accidentally unkind remark, for hours, without success. “Not that I can remember.”

“Then they're not angry,” he says, like it really is that simple. “Maybe they need time to themselves for a while.”

“But what if—”

“Vivienne.” Jonah's hand closes over mine. “Whatever it is, it's not about you.”

If only I could believe him. But then my ears start to tighten, and I have to concentrate on more prosaic concerns, i.e., stuffing a couple sticks of spearmint gum in my mouth.

The Belize City airport is neither as nice as the average American airport nor as broken down as it would be in some crappy movie. Basically, it looks like something built in a smaller city around 1975—efficient and clean, just old-fashioned. Jonah and I walk into the tropical night hand in hand to find the driver Jonah hired waiting for us in a small white car parked beneath a broad palm tree. The warmth and humidity in the air reminds me of July in New Orleans: sultry in the darkness, but no doubt oppressive during the day. With Jonah in his linen shirt and cargo pants, and me in a denim shirtdress and straw hat, I feel as though we're beginning some exotic adventure.

Then we get in the car to hear the radio playing “Uptown Funk.” I sigh. Some things really are the same the whole world over.

Rebecca's home down here is in Belize City itself, which surprised me when Jonah first told me. I had imagined that a botanist doing research would be living out in the jungle in some kind of picturesque hut. But Belize City turns out to be fairly small for a national capital, with only about seventy thousand people; the outskirts of town are as close to the wild as anyone needs to be.

“If you won't be comfortable at Rebecca's, you and I can always get a hotel,” Jonah promises. “Even tonight, whatever hour—”

“Jonah. It's okay. We're here for Rebecca. The rest is irrelevant.”

He puts his arm around me in wordless thanks. But there's still something overly gentle, almost tentative, about the way he touches me.

Even in the dark, he can see the stain of my black eye.

Traffic in Belize City is its own kind of nightmare. In Central America, apparently, traffic lanes and signals are less “rules,” more “suggestions.” We make it to Rebecca's within a half hour anyway. The driver pulls up in front of a white stucco house with turquoise shutters and door so vibrant that the color remains clear in the nighttime. Clay-red tiles cover the roof, and while the house isn't on stilts, it's raised off the ground by a tall slab of concrete beneath. A broad porch circles the entire house, and one shadow looks as though it might be a hammock dangling from two of the struts. The road became gravel about a mile back, and we are far from Belize City's lights. This is the very edge of town. Beyond this lie palms and other trees, stretching into what seems like infinity. A little thrill runs through me, just from the experience of being someplace so new.

I think maybe I need to travel more.

As we walk toward the stairs that lead up to the door, it opens. The sliver of light widens to paint a thin female silhouette. Jonah quickens his steps, and I let him go ahead. This should be between him and his sister.

“Rebecca.” He hugs her with a sigh of relief. “Thank God you're okay.”

“I'm fine,” she murmurs, in the soft voice I remember from our one meeting via Skype. Her pale slim arms wrap around him, revealing some of her cuts and bruises. For a moment she seems almost wraithlike in her fragility.

But then she extricates herself from Jonah's embrace and comes down the steps to greet me. Rebecca's sleeveless T-shirt and shorts reveal both her wounds and the wiry muscles beneath the skin. Her pale, gray-blue eyes, so like Jonah's, lock with mine—a level of directness some people might find disconcerting. But I recognize Jonah in that, too.

She's somehow both ethereal and grounded. Unremarkable and compelling. You might walk right past her on the street, but from the moment you first really look at her, it's hard to look away.

Rebecca Marks is going to be an interesting puzzle to figure out.

“Hi.” I offer her my hand instead of a hug. Instinctively I sense she needs that space, that time to consider a new person in her life. “It's good to meet you in person.”

“You too, Vivienne.” Rebecca's voice is soft. “You didn't have to come.”

From some people, that would sound like a passive-aggressive brush-off. However, Rebecca says it with sincerity, even surprise, like she's touched I would even consider helping out.

Jonah, Rebecca and their step-siblings Maddox and Elise—they all learned early not to rely on anyone but each other. Carter Hale taught them that in the cruelest possible ways. Maddox seems to have ignored that lesson, but Jonah and Elise have only now begun to allow other people into their lives. Where does Rebecca stand?

“C'mon, you guys. Let's get inside before mosquitos eat us alive.” Rebecca sighs. “I don't have much left, but I do have cold beer.”

Rebecca's surroundings are bare, in a way that feels stark and yet aesthetically pleasing: stone-tiled floors, a ceiling fan that looks like it might be from the 1940s, a simple metal table and chairs by the small kitchen area, a desk against the far wall beneath dozens of pinned images of leaves and flowers—mostly orchids. One gorgeous bloom with sun-gold petals looks familiar, and I realize I've seen a version of that photo before. But then it was almost as large as an entire wall, the centerpiece of the hottest nightclub in Chicago.