“You should get some sleep,” Jonathan said from the opening of the room. I looked up at him, dazed.
“I don’t think I could if I tried."
He came over and sat next to me on the couch. We listened to the silence, letting the stillness settle in around us. My mind searched for understanding, unable to find solace amongst my thoughts.
“I don’t know what to do,” I uttered in defeat. "I really wanted it to be different."
“This is my fault. I should have called her back."
I knew his need for space had triggered this catastrophe, but this was how my mother handled things when she was upset. Unfortunately, that hadn't changed as much as I'd hoped.
"It's not your fault," I assured him. I thought of my mother in her bed and wanted to believe this was just something she was going through, that she’d adjust and get over it. I wasn't certain how far hoping would get me.
"What are you thinking?" he asked when I was quiet for too long.
"What was she even doing there? That place was awful."
"I don't know," he replied, just as confused.
The night replayed itself in my head: the phone call, the sketchy bar, the confrontation with the creepiest guy on earth.
"Were you―" I began, just as Jonathan asked, "What did―”
We both stopped and he encouraged, "Go ahead."
"Were you really going to hit that guy?"
Jonathan pressed his lips together, like he was considering his words carefully. "You mean, if you hadn't stopped me?"
I nodded.
"Definitely." He answered without hesitation. My eyes widened at his bluntness. He looked down and rubbed his hands together. "It’s a part of my past that I don't like to talk about." He raised his head. "But that's never happened before."
"What?"
"No one's ever been able to stop me. I usually lose it, and there's no holding me back."
"You're a fighter?" I clarified, not expecting the confession. For the first time I noticed a thin scar under his chin, and another above his right eyebrow, both barely visible.
"Used to be," he corrected. "My past, remember. I haven't gotten that angry in a long time. It scared me."
"It scared me too," I admitted.
He stopped rubbing his hands together, troubled by my admission.
"The whole thing scared me," I said, still feeling the after effects trembling beneath my skin. "Let's just say tonight sucked all around."
"Yeah, it did," he exhaled. Jonathan leaned toward me to make certain he had my attention. His dark brown eyes focused on me, pulling me in when he said, "I don't ever want to scare you again." I couldn't say anything. The conviction of his words poured into me, and I could barely breathe.
He leaned back against the couch, releasing me from the connection. I took a deep breath to ease the pounding in my chest.
"What were you going to ask me?" I was finally able to get out.
"You said you thought it would be different. What did you mean?"
“I haven’t lived with her for almost five years,” I explained evasively, staring out the window into the night. "She's been hurt before, and I don't want her to go through that again. I just want it to be different for her, for us."
“Where were you during those five years?”
“In hell,” I breathed, resting my head against the couch. He was quiet. I continued to stare into the dark, eventually breathing myself to sleep.
~~~~~
When I opened my eyes, the room was a warm gold as the sun filtered through the trees. My heavy lids closed again, and I pulled the blanket over me. I was about to drift off when I set my hand down and felt the hard lines of his thigh beneath it. My eyes stretched wide. My instinct was to jump up from the couch, freaked that I fell asleep with my head on his leg. But I didn't want to wake him, so I sat up slowly. Jonathan remained seated on the end of the couch, his head lolled to the side, breathing deeply.
I found my jacket draped over the arm of the rocking chair and my shoes placed beneath it―knowing I’d had them on when I fell asleep. I rubbed my eyes to ward off the remaining drowsiness and carefully rose from the couch. A floorboard creaked when I stood. His head rocked in response, and his eyes blinked open.
“Sorry,” I whispered, my heart beating quickly. I’d really wanted to be gone when he woke up.
“What time is it?” he asked, squinting as he read his watch. “I should get going.” He yawned and stretched his arms over his head.
“You’re not staying?”
“Um,” he stalled, not expecting the strain in my voice. I bit my lip, realizing how I sounded.
“I mean,” I fumbled, searching for a way to fix it. “I thought that…”
“I can stay,” he interrupted. He sighed as his eyes climbed the stairs.
“You don’t have to.” I could tell he was unsettled by his decision.
“I don't understand what happened last night,” he said, resting his head on the couch and searching the ceiling. "I've seen her drunk, and I've seen her get emotional. But I've never seen her that bad before.”
I hesitated, taking in his troubled face―debating if I should just go up to my room. He was obviously concerned about her, and so was I.
I sat down on the couch, with one leg folded under me so I could face him. “She was upset.” He rolled his head over to look at me. “I'm sure it's been hard having me move back in, too. I remind her of my father, and that... hurts her. I want to fix us, but I don't know how if I'm the reason she's in pain.”
Jonathan studied my eyes, as the truth of my words swallowed me.
“You didn’t do this to her,” he soothed. I averted my eyes. "And as much I feel guilty for not calling her back, I didn't do this to her either."
We sat in silence for a minute. I tried to convince myself that what he said was true, and I knew it was. But I couldn't help feeling that if I hadn't forced myself back in, she wouldn't be forcing herself forget.
“Can I ask you something?” Jonathan inquired hesitantly.
“Sure.” I turned back toward him, waiting.
“What happened to your ankle?” He eyed the scar on my right foot, which was curled under me. I pressed my lips together, not prepared for the question.
He opened his mouth to say something when I answered, “A going away present.”
He was quiet a moment. “From hell?” I raised my brows in confirmation, not expecting him to get it. “I have one of those.” Before I could react, he lifted the right side of his shirt to reveal a long, thin scar that ran under his ribs. “Lived there once too.”
There were so many questions I wanted to ask him, but shock stole them from my tongue. I eventually excused myself to my room.
Jonathan remained on the couch, not leaving as he’d promised―but not making any attempt to go to my mother's room.
Despite being exhausted, I couldn’t fall back to sleep. I wondered if he was downstairs lying awake as well, trying to figure out what might have happened to me. I couldn’t even imagine how to begin to ask someone to reveal their nightmares.
15. Another Chance
“Jonathan, I'm so sorry. I promise I’ll be better.”
My eyes blinked open, only moments after they'd finally shut. I remained still, listening.
“Please, don’t leave me,” her words were broken with emotion. Footsteps creaked down the stairs. Cries filtered through my door. I didn’t dare move, fearing they’d know I could hear them.
“I won’t leave,” he stated from the bottom of the stairs. His voice didn’t hold signs of promise, but consoled with a defeated breath. “I need to clear my head, okay? But I’ll come back tonight and we’ll talk about it.”
“You promise?” she asked, in an elevated voice that was stressed with desperation. His answer wasn’t verbal because the next thing I heard was the door shutting, followed by gasping sobs at the top of the stairs.
It was difficult to listen to her. My insides ached, wanting to take away the hurt―but I didn’t. I pulled up into a ball and waited. Waited for her to find her breath and put herself back together. Her whimpers only quieted with a click of her door.
I crawled out of my bed and dressed in running pants and a long sleeved running shirt, pulling a fleece over it. I needed to get out of the house, away from the consuming emotions. I tied my sneakers and slipped on gloves, hiding my hair under a baseball cap. The brisk air filled my lungs as I stepped out the door.
The sun was out, and the temperature was above freezing, melting away the edges along the shoveled sidewalk. I eased into a jog and breathed deep, releasing the tension in my shoulders as I followed the concrete squares beneath my feet. I forgot my iPod, which would have been ideal to distract me from playing the previous night over and over in my head. Instead, the racing thoughts remained trapped.
I explored the intertwining neighborhood, finding a park a few streets away. It was filled with kids in snowsuits jumping off whatever they could into the thick mounds of snow. Their laughter and squeals were a welcome sound in contrast to the cries that echoed in my head.
As I rounded the corner of the park, my jogging slowed at the sight of the blue pick-up truck. When I saw Jonathan sitting on a bench staring at nothing, I stopped. I considered turning around and running in a different direction, pretending I didn’t see him. But then he spotted me, and I wasn’t going anywhere.
I walked toward him, tucking my hands in my fleece pockets.
“Hey,” I offered, standing in front of him. “It’s not bad out today. It’s not California, but it’s not bad.”
Jonathan nodded lightly. His eyes remained troubled. I sat down next to him on the wooden bench. Neither of us said anything for at least a minute.
I was contemplating getting up to continue my run when he spontaneously confessed, “My father didn’t like me very much. I wasn’t submissive like my mother. I didn’t worship him like my younger brother. I didn’t let him control me, so he’d do anything he could to break me. My life's been complicated, and I can't...” The words trailed away and he stared into the distance.
“I can’t do this. This… drama.” He took a breath and finally looked over at me. “I need my life to be simple. I need to know what’s coming, to be in control. I don’t handle the unexpected very well.” He dropped his gaze.
“I understand. So does that mean you're done? That you're leaving?"
"Why? You think I should?" He waited for me to answer.
"I don't think I'm the person to tell you what to do. But I don't want her to hurt either.”
"Emma, I promise that I don't want to hurt you... I mean, her." I turned toward him, confused by his stuttering sentence. His eyes flickered in apology. "I don't want to hurt Rachel," he emphasized. "You believe me, right?" His dark brown eyes delved into me the way that they did, invading my thoughts and leaving me too vulnerable to resist. He held me captive until I was able to pull away with a shiver. "Right?"