Asking for More

  And when do we feel more like doing violence than when violence has just been done to us? The scars on her skin testify to the vividness of her pain.

  "I didn't think it was likely that Jonah had hurt you," she says. "If I did, I wouldn't have let him hang and have fun all evening. He'd have been out on his ass. Still, I can't forget the possibility. None of us can. The minute we forget to guard against our worst instincts--that's when they'll overcome us."

  "Okay. I hear you," I say. "But everything's all right. Jonah hasn't forgotten, I promise. This shiner is due to some stupid high-heeled shoes. End of story."

  End of the PG-rated version, anyway.

  Rebecca nods. Relief washes over her, and I watch her lean back against the railing, relaxed again as she takes a swig of beer. "High heels," she says in disgust. "Never could stand them. I threw out my last pair two years ago."

  "My hero." I clink my beer against hers.

  "You said that I take care of plants for fun."

  Oh, crap. Just when I thought we'd gotten the conversation back on track. Did Rebecca think I was calling her boring?

  She keeps speaking. "It's not for fun, exactly. But it's something I need. Coming from--where Jonah and I came from--it can be so hard to believe that you could be good for anyone or anything. That you won't contaminate every living thing you ever touch. Every single flower out here, every single green leaf . . . they prove that's not true."

  "Prove it to who?" I ask, though I'm pretty sure I already know.

  Sure enough, she answers, "To myself."

  Her feelings ring true. I've seen the same shadows within Jonah.

  Rebecca and I lapse into small talk, inconsequential but comfortable. After about half an hour we part well, though again without a hug. But the smile she gives me is sincere. Then I tiptoe back into the main room to see Jonah sprawled on his belly, dead to the world. The sheet covers him only to the waist, exposing his broad, muscled back. His strong profile is silhouetted against the white pillowcase, and the sheet is thin enough for me to clearly trace the lines of his amazing ass, his long legs.

  If he were any less tired, I don't know if I could resist waking him up and having him here and now.

  But he is tired. I undress right there, in the middle of the room, moonlight painting my skin pale blue as I peel off my clothes and my bra. In the sultry summer heat, I'd prefer to sleep naked, but this is not really an option when you're staying on someone's living room floor. So I settle on a flimsy tank top and very carefully crawl into bed beside Jonah, both of us covered by one thin white sheet.

  It wouldn't have mattered if I jumped up and down on his pillow. Jonah is out cold. Good. He needs to rest.

  As I lie next to him, I think about what Rebecca said to me. Does Jonah see it that way too? Does he feel like he spends his whole life crossing the minefield his stepfather laid for him?

  It hits me all at once. All this time, I've been talking and thinking about recovering from my past trauma--but for me, at least, it's the past. For Jonah, in some ways, it's still happening.

  Am I the proof he can be good for someone? Or do our games prove to him that he'll never be free of the poison inside?

  Chapter Four

  When do you know that you deeply, truly love another person?

  Movies and ads tell us the cues will be big and splashy: kisses in the rain, public avowals of passion, an enormous diamond ring, even a gift-wrapped Lexus in the driveway.

  What I know is, if you can wait in bureaucratic offices alongside another human being and then stand in line with him for hours, sometimes without air conditioning, and never once regret being by his side? That's love.

  Jonah, Rebecca, and I finally walk out of the consulate in the late afternoon, each of us worn out. "I can't believe they couldn't help you more than that," Jonah says shortly. He's pushed the sleeves of his black linen shirt up to his elbow; this, combined with his dark expression, makes him look more like a brawler than someone who just filled out forms in triplicate.

  "It's Saturday," Rebecca reminds him. She has remained the calmest of us all, by far. "We're lucky they were able to do this much. Besides, I have the essentials." She pats the side of her new bag--a crossbody one with reinforced straps Jonah and I bought for her at the Austin airport. Within it now are the debit card Jonah provided and temporary ID she can use until her new passport arrives.

  "You need more than the essentials." I've seen Rebecca squinting against the sunlight throughout the day. So I point further down the road, toward an area with what looks like cafes and stores. "Sunglasses? Sunblock? Some Chapstick?"

  "Sounds like a plan," Rebecca says. Jonah, whose temper has been better, clearly isn't in the mood to shop. But he'd never deny his sister anything she needed, so he nods shortly as we set out that way.

  Jonah's mood remains . . . not black. But dark gray at best. The anger he feels toward his sister's unknown attacker has nowhere to go, and the day's countless irritations have surely only made it worse. I'm not exactly on cloud nine myself.

  What eclipses my mood, however, is the thought that Jonah can be angry--furious, even--and I am not afraid.

  I've always been terrified by open anger, to a deep, irrational degree. That terror didn't begin when Anthony raped me; he pretended everything was friendly and fine the whole time. It goes all the way back to Mom. My mother never struck me or Chloe once in our lives, not even a spanking. And yet somehow, even as a small child, I always believed she might. Once she lost her temper, which was often, it was like she didn't have any brakes left. She'd shriek and shout, back me into a corner, and go on and on about everything I'd done wrong, starting with whatever set her off and encompassing every other error or fault she could remember. Her reaction didn't always fit the crime. Once, when I accidentally spilled a bowl of popcorn, Mom went at me for nearly an hour. But when Liz and I got caught sneaking in at three A.M. after a senior year party, Mom sourly told me I was grounded for the rest of the weekend, then returned to bed.

  Her unpredictability made it worse, somehow. I couldn't guess how bad Mom's reaction would be, or what would set her off. All I knew was that, at any given moment, for nearly any reason, my mother's wrath would be unleashed, and no escape was possible.

  (She did this to Chloe too, but less often, partly because Chloe has always been Mom's favorite, but also because my sister had a better instinct for what would spark our mother's temper. I don't think Mom ever yelled at Dad like that, at least not where Chloe and I could hear it. He never shouted at all, which for years made me treasure him as the only safe person in our family. It wasn't until I was an adult in therapy that I seriously considered the fact that Dad would have heard Mom shrieking at me--not once, but dozens or even hundreds of times--and never stuck up for me once.)

  In darker moments, I've wondered whether that fear contributed to my rape. Maybe, if I hadn't been so afraid of Anthony getting angry with me, I would've fought back, or pushed him, or even screamed. Probably not: Anthony knew what he wanted and knew how to confuse and intimidate me into cooperation. But I can't know for sure whether a little less fear on my part would've changed things.

  Not knowing is the worst of all.

  Through therapy and pure determination, I've become much better at standing up for myself. I've learned better how to cope with other people's tempers. But it's never been easy for me, and it never will be. It's hard for me to spend time around anyone who's mad.

  Anyone, that is, except for Jonah. Even now, when he's glowering with ill-repressed anger, I feel totally safe with him. I understand on every level that he won't blow up at me. He will not harm me, no matter what. Jonah hasn't only won over my conscious, adult self; he has managed to comfort the frightened little girl deep inside and convince her there's nothing to fear.

  Is that because of our games, where I see how good he is at taking himself to the brink but never losing control? Because I understand his tumultuous history? Or is it just some deep, undefined quality uni
que to Jonah?

  It doesn't matter. I'm just glad I've found him.

  I hook my arm through his. Jonah glances over--not so much annoyed as surprised that I'm being especially affectionate while he's growling like a bear. When I smile up at him, he manages to smile back, however crookedly.

  The shops and cafes along this stretch of the street are fairly touristy. Restaurants advertise "tropical" cocktails; on the sidewalks stand spinning display racks for postcards and magnets. Tourist shops carry some of the stuff Rebecca needs most, so within a few moments she's trying on various sunglasses. Jonah starts going through the maps as fiercely as if he plans to interrogate them.

  I linger by the postcards. One of them shows a glossy image of Mayan ruins--a pyramid, I think.

  Libby would love that.

  My heart aches even thinking about my little niece, who is both one of the people I love most in the world and Anthony's daughter, with Anthony's eyes. Since Chloe and Anthony reconciled, I see Libby less than ever. Neither my sister nor my mom puts her on the phone as often. Libby's not old enough to have her own social media accounts, so we can't be in touch independently. From now on, I'll only get to see her at major holidays . . . if I'm willing to come home, spend time with my rapist and the people who believe him, and accept that without a word.

  Before, I always made myself do it. Now that they've all chosen, yet again, to bury the truth, I don't think I can make that sacrifice any longer. Jonah and my friends are as much family as I'm going to have in a long time.

  But at least I can send Libby a postcard. At least she can see something wondrous and amazing in another part of the world, and know that I'm here, thinking of her.

  ***

  I write my message that evening, as we hang out by the waterfront.

  Dear Libby, I'm visiting a country called Belize. Do you know where that is? It's in Central America. Get Granddaddy to show you on the globe in his study. Uncle Jonah and I are sitting by the water, enjoying the view.

  Belize is famous for its beaches, but Belize City has almost none. Mangroves line this part of the coast instead, so Rebecca brought us to the place where small tour boats set out for the more idyllic tropical islands nearby. Our drive here took me aback. None of the places Jonah and I had visited so far prepared me for the rundown look of Belize City beyond its most upscale or touristy streets. Enormous potholes turn the pavement half to rubble. Colonial-style wooden structures would be beautiful if they were repaired, instead of being left to lean oppressively against newer, uglier buildings of concrete. I don't want to be an "ugly American," but this isn't a place I'd willingly move to.

  Rebecca's share of her inheritance means she could spend her whole life on a luxury yacht if she wanted. Instead she's chosen detailed, difficult scientific work in a country far from home. Jonah, too, went into the sciences, and while he still lives in the U.S., he can and does take off to other countries for his work at a moment's notice.

  They're both intelligent, I think as I sit at the picnic table on the dock. Cruise-ship tourists mill around me, and selfie sticks sway nearby like strands of seaweed in the ocean. Jonah and Rebecca both need to be completely, totally absorbed by their interests. And they both need freedom.

  That makes it all the more amazing, and beautiful, that Jonah has chosen to link himself to me.

  "Here you go." Jonah returns to my side, plates of food stacked so smoothly on his hands and arms that I wonder whether he ever waited tables. "Belize cuisine for you."

  I peer down at my dinner. "They look like tamales."

  "Yep, they're tamales," confirms Rebecca as she walks up with various neon-colored cocktails in her hands. "But the sauces are different--and besides, I thought you'd rather have that than boiled pig tails."

  I'd rather be the ugliest American of all time than eat pig tails. "Tamales it is."

  "Rebecca says we should head back on Monday." Jonah looks from his sister to me. "I told her I'm in for a longer haul than one weekend. But if you have things to do on campus--"

  "Jonah, really," Rebecca interjects. "This isn't a test of your commitment as a brother, all right? I needed some comfort and someone to help me weed through all this bureaucratic bullshit. You've given me that already."

  "And I can keep doing that," he insists.

  I hold up my hands in the time-out signal. "She's saying, in the politest possible way, that we need to leave."

  Rebecca looks vaguely guilty, but doesn't contradict me. It takes Jonah a moment to reply. "Well--at least let me tell Maddox--"

  "Don't tell Maddox." Rebecca's pale eyes widen, as though Jonah has suggested something far more dangerous. "You know how he gets. He'll run down here without taking care of anything back home, probably without even telling anybody where he's going . . . just don't."

  So Maddox has an overprotective mode even more powerful than his brother's? And while Jonah is the careful, controlled one, Maddox is impulsive, maybe even reckless. I mentally file this information away for later.

  Jonah can't let go. "You need someone down here."

  "No. I needed someone down here. Now I need you to go." Rebecca struggles for the words.

  I know what she's trying to say. "At first, after something like that--you need to be helped up. But then you need to prove to yourself that you can stand on your own." Rebecca's eyes meet mine, and I add, "That's it, isn't it?"

  "Yeah," she says. "Something like that."

  Jonah surrenders with a nod, but I can tell he's not convinced. He believes there's more he could do for his sister, that there's more she needs. Really, he's the one who needs to do more for her. But he knows when to step back.

  I lean closer to him, gently flirtatious as I dip my straw toward his cocktail. "Can I have a taste?"

  "Of course," he says, finally able to smile. "You never drink stuff like this at home."

  "You know me, I love new experiences."

  Rebecca raises an eyebrow. "But you wouldn't try the pig tails?"

  "Oh, hell, no." That gets both Jonah and Rebecca to laugh, and the earlier tension fades.

  As dinner ends, dusk begins to darken the sky. Night already lines the far edge of the water, and soon the sun will sink beneath the hills and trees behind us. Before I go, though, I want to finish Libby's postcard. After all, I told her I was writing it by the water's edge.

  My pen hovers above the postcard, wondering how to conclude. See you soon! Not likely. Wish you were here! No, because the only way that would be remotely possible would be if her parents had come along for the trip--my rapist, plus my sister who knowingly stays married to him.

  My expression must have changed at the mere thought of Anthony, because Rebecca leans toward me. "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah. I'm fine."

  I imagine Libby's golden hair and her big smile, remember how she snuggled up to Jonah and me at Christmas, and finally write the simple truth: I miss you, and I love you--Aunt Vivi.

  ***

  That night, once Rebecca has turned in and Jonah and I lie beneath the thin sheet on the air mattress, we talk through it in whispers.

  "What if that guy comes back here?" Jonah says. "She needs someone in the house with her."

  "Her address in Belize isn't on any of her ID here. Rebecca told us that, remember?" I lay one hand on his chest.

  But he stares up at the ceiling fan, disquieted. "It can't be as simple as that."

  "There's nothing simple about getting over an attack. But the hard stuff--making yourself brave again, going back to your life--you can't do that for her. She has to do it herself."

  "I know." He covers his face for a moment, the heels of his hands on his eyes. "I just wish I could do more."

  "You need to feel like you can be good for someone," I murmur. "You never stop needing to prove that to yourself."

  Jonah pulls away his hands as he turns his head toward me. "Did Rebecca tell you that?"

  "Not exactly. But being here helped me to see it."

  Obviousl
y he'd like to argue with me, but he holds back. Maybe Jonah is only now realizing this about himself.

  I snuggle closer to his side. "Is that why it bothered you so much, my fall the other day? Because you felt it proved you'd always wind up hurting me?"

  He lies silently for so long that at first I think I've pushed him too soon. But then I realize he's considering this deeply. Questioning himself.

  At last he says, "The darkness inside me--I've never given in to it. I never will. But it doesn't go away. Our games have been the only way I've ever found to turn that into something good. First it was just about indulging myself and being able to get you off too. I loved that feeling, knowing your fantasy inside out, by instinct. Knowing I could give you exactly what you needed."

  "You always do," I murmur. Desire kindles within me, a small, warm flame inside. But this conversation is more important.

  "When we started falling for each other, it all seemed perfect." Jonah turns to look at me, open and vulnerable in a way I've rarely seen before. "But after finding out about Anthony--I felt like I was hurting someone who'd already been hurt too much. That I wasn't good for you at all, just dragging you down with me."

  "But, Jonah--"

  "It helps you. I know that now. You relive your nightmare and defeat it, every time, by turning it into your fantasy. Your choice. And I love being able to give you that. But when you fell the other day--you know, for that first moment, I thought you were going down that flight of steps. You could've broken an arm, received a concussion. You could even have been killed."

  I never thought about how it must have looked to Jonah: my body falling away from him, toward a long, dark, forbidding stairwell. I hardly even had time to realize what was going on before I'd whacked my head; after that, I mostly felt stupid and hated my shoes. For Jonah, that was a moment when he saw himself losing me.

  "Yeah, it was an accident," he says in a low voice. "But it was partly my fault for choosing such a damned ridiculous place. And I can't stop thinking about what might have happened. I was trying to give you something, to be with you body and soul, but it all went bad anyway. And I might've lost the best thing in my life."

  I roll over to kiss him, my mouth atop his. Jonah's broad hands find my waist and my thigh as he pulls me atop him, straddling him on the air mattress. Our kisses deepen and intensify, the pace quickening as I begin to move against him. Through the cotton of my panties and his boxers, I feel his cock getting hard.