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When I walk through my front door, I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. Even the silence sounds sweet. My little home has never felt more like a cozy shelter from the rest of the world. I ought to prep next week’s lectures, but forget doing any constructive work tonight. Every nerve I have is fried. I’m going to change into a T-shirt and leggings, warm up some soup for dinner, and spend the next couple of hours curled on the sofa rereading an Agatha Christie. Maybe then I can fall asleep.
I wiggle into my leggings and throw on the tee before I realize how long it’s been since I checked my phone. Right now I couldn’t care less about answering any work e-mails—but I ought to turn the ringer back on, in case Carmen or Arturo calls during the night. So I do that and quickly scan through the e-mail to see if there’s anything I should answer.
And there’s a note from Jonah.
The subject line reads only, On my wall.
What’s that supposed to mean? I open the e-mail—which has a file attached—and the first line reads, Take a look.
I can’t imagine what Jonah might have sent me. My first thought is that he broke his word—that he secretly recorded us having sex after all—but no. He wouldn’t do that. Then what? Jonah’s not the dick pic type, thank goodness.
So I click on the attachment, and gasp.
There, hanging on an exposed brick wall, is the etching I donated to the charity benefit. It’s already been framed in simple dark pewter that highlights the lines and shades of the etching itself. The strong hands cradle the little dove tenderly, brutish power devoted to the safety and protection of a fragile thing.
I liked the etching before. Obviously, since I made it. But seeing it in Jonah’s possession moves me on a level I would never have expected. The image means even more to me than it did before—because it has revealed something inside Jonah’s heart.
The rest of Jonah’s e-mail reads:
This caught my eye at the auction even before I walked over to make a bid. Imagine how I felt when I searched for the artist’s name and saw yours there. I put in a bid large enough to discourage any further competition—with success, as you can see.
You’re exceptionally talented, Vivienne. This is a side of you I never got to see. Every time I look at this etching, I’m reminded of how much I never learned about you.
I won’t ask you to resume our arrangement. I’ve always agreed that the moment you said stop, it would all end, and I intend to keep my word. You’re safe from me, Vivienne. You always were, but I wanted to say it again.
If you ever want to talk, you know how to contact me.
—Jonah
If I talk to him even once more, we’ll start over. It won’t be a week before he has me back in his thrall. In my mind, his ragged voice whispers, Next time I’m going to come in your mouth.
He still wants that. He’s still thinking about that. He can write this, look at this tender image, and still daydream about forcing a woman to her knees and raping her mouth.
How can those two parts of him coexist? How can I yearn for Jonah while I continue to fear the darkness inside him?
Doreen would ask why I’m even reading this e-mail. Common sense would too. I walked away with my dignity—or whatever’s left of it after I let Jonah fuck me senseless in his car. Everything is clear between us. No hurt feelings. No further complications.
The best move is not to answer him, now or ever.
I click reply.
Nineteen
One of my favorite restaurants in town is the Elizabeth Street Cafe. Technically it serves Vietnamese cuisine, but the mood of the place is far more eclectic than that. The waitresses all wear floral cotton dresses as they serve up classics like pho ga, or local variations on traditional dishes, like the rice noodle bowl with ranch flank steak.
It’s a good place to eat. More to the point—they have tables outside, reasonably far apart. If you want to have a private conversation over dinner without being overheard, this setup is ideal.
Which is why I asked Jonah to meet me here.
I get there a little early; he gets there a couple minutes late. Although we both smile as he joins me at the table, the moment feels undeniably awkward. I know how to negotiate with this man. I know how to surrender to him. Now I have to figure out how to talk to him like a normal person. That might be the hardest part.
The picnic table I chose is at the far end of Elizabeth’s outdoor section, so we’ll have as much privacy as possible. We look like any other patrons—both of us in jeans and long-sleeved T-shirts, mine white, his black. Normally Jonah’s cheeks bear some stubble, but he’s completely clean-shaven tonight. I realize he did that for me.