by Mia Sheridan
CHAPTER TWELVE
Do it.
Jonah stared at the latch of his gate, unmoving.
Or . . . not.
He glanced back. Myrtle’s car wasn’t far from where he stood, but he wasn’t going to ask her if he could use it. For one, he didn’t want to involve her in this at all, and for two, his driver’s license had expired many years before. But the real truth of the matter was, he still hadn’t decided if he would go through with meeting Clara. He still didn’t fucking know exactly why he’d agreed in the first place.
Or maybe I do. Yes, he admitted to himself with a sigh of acceptance. I do. I know.
It was because he’d been infused with her hopefulness—her joy—and filled with the wonder of the grace she’d given him even after hearing his story, knowing each and every grisly detail. She’d offered him her compassion—her understanding—and the awe of that made him dizzy.
Meet me, she'd said, her voice so full of hope and joyful astonishment when the wall had started "weeping." Her wonder had been infectious. For a few minutes, Jonah had felt part of it. Part of Clara's vibrant spirit. For that's all he really knew of her. He didn't know what she looked like, except that her hair was the color of spun gold—he'd seen that much through the small crack in the wall—and she must have a dancer's slim, athletic body. Otherwise, he only knew she was compassionate and sensitive and deeply loyal. Come to think of it, that might be the most Jonah had ever known about any girl, even the ones he'd known more intimately in a physical sense.
His thoughts caused his mind to move to the moment Clara had kissed him. And yes, he knew it wasn’t really a kiss, and he knew they were only friends, but it had been one of the sweetest moments of his life. It had made him feel like a flesh-and-blood man again when he’d been nothing but an invisible monster for so long.
He put one hand on the latch and released a harsh exhale, pulling his collar up high and the beanie he was wearing down low so most of his face was hidden.
The sliver of moon above went behind a cloud, causing the night shadows to grow deeper. Clara was waiting for him. He could do this.
In one swift movement, he unlatched the gate, moved to the other side, and let it swing shut behind him.
His heart raced, his hands becoming clammy as he worked to catch his breath. He hadn’t been outside Windisle for eight long, miserable years.
He stood in the shadow of the gate for a moment, gathering his courage before he stepped away, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his black, lightweight jacket and moving down the empty street.
He stepped between dim patches, his head bowed as if against the wind, though there was no breeze that night. His heart continued to pound heavily the farther from Windisle he moved, and several times he almost turned and darted back to the plantation, as a child races up the stairs at night, sure there is a demon at his heels. But Jonah was the only monster on this street tonight, and he suddenly understood that it was much better to be pursued by ghouls than to be the ghoul yourself. If only he’d known.
He arrived at the edge of the park fifteen minutes later and leaned against a tree, a stunned laugh rising in his throat, born half of surprise and half of terror. He’d done it. He’d left Windisle and made the full trip to the park where Clara waited for him. Yes, it was only a handful of blocks from home, but to Jonah, it felt as if he’d traveled a million miles. Fear still sat heavy on his chest, but underneath that there was the bubbling of triumph. God, he hadn’t felt that feeling for so damn long. I didn’t think I’d ever feel it again.
Jonah stilled completely, focusing on the whisper of water, a tinkling sound that let Jonah know the fountain was very nearby. Clara. Was she there already? He’d been so much closer to her than this and yet, in that moment it felt as if they’d never been closer. He was going to lay eyes on her for the first time.
He was going to put a face to the sweet voice through the wall, the woman who had given so much of herself to him, a stranger who didn’t come close to deserving it.
But she was going to see his face too. Would it horrify her? Would she grimace and turn away? Oh God, he was terrified of her reaction. He was so fucking scared.
He pictured the faces of those who had looked upon him right after the explosion, their expressions of disgust. He shivered as he remembered the way it had hurt, how it had punctured something soft and vulnerable way down deep inside of him. And he didn’t think he could take the same thing from her. Not her.
Stealing a breath, he moved through the trees, following the sound of that flowing water, the promise of Clara drawing him forward.
The fountain came into view, the bubbling water catching the glow of the streetlight that shone upon it.
He stood among a grouping of trees, stepping around one ancient trunk and then pressing himself against it. She was there, sitting on the edge of the gray stone, her hands on her knees as she waited.
The light picked up pieces of gold in her hair and flashed them in the air surrounding her. She turned slightly, her eyes scanning the entrance to the park, then moving briefly to the dark area of forest where Jonah hid, his body motionless against the solid strength of the massive oak.
His heart stalled for a moment and then took up a quickened beat as he caught sight of her face. He groaned, so softly it mixed with the night sounds, disappearing before it could reach outside his darkened hiding spot.
She’s beautiful.
Jesus, she’s beautiful.
Clara, the girl he’d only previously known as the soft voice on the other side of his fortress, the woman who both soothed him and caused him to question everything, was beautiful both inside and out. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.
His heart sank lower in his chest, pressing against his lungs until he couldn’t breathe. Why did he suddenly feel so devastated? Had he hoped she was unattractive so she might want to give someone like him a chance? To kiss him again, only the next time with nothing between them? And was he really so insensitive—so superficial—that he thought unattractive women had to settle for disfigured men like him anyway? Or that people loved each other based only on looks? Then again, why shouldn’t he? Hadn’t he chosen women solely on their physical characteristics once upon a time? Hadn’t he been proud to enter a party or a restaurant with some beautiful woman on his arm that he’d replace with a new one once things grew stale as they inevitably always did? He’d never loved any of them. Not one.
God, but his mind was everywhere. And Jesus. Love? What was he even doing thinking about love? Him, the scarred man standing behind a tree in the park, too intimidated and ashamed to emerge from the bushes and approach the girl waiting for him.
Jonah sighed, the energy draining from him as he leaned more heavily against the tree. He felt confused, sad, lonely, and he just wanted to slink back to Windisle and hide again.
As if she’d heard his tiny exhale of breath, Clara turned her head, her eyes probing the darkness around him. He froze, her gaze moving over him without seeing.
A car pulled up near the park entrance and Clara stood, watching, her stance tense until it pulled away. She sat back down on the edge of the fountain, turning toward the splashing water dejectedly and running her fingers through it.
Her movements were elegant, heart-achingly feminine, and everything masculine inside of Jonah responded to her. She’d dance beautifully, and Jonah felt a tiny tremor of grief move through him to know he’d never see it.
He watched her as she waited, memorizing her movements, seeing the way she glanced at the stars now and again. What are you thinking when you do that, Clara? he wondered, the need to know an ache of despair within his chest. What are you looking for? He’d never know, of course, not after this.
An hour went by and still she waited, Jonah’s heart growing heavier by the moment. She waited for him, and he needed her to leave so he could return home as well. But he wouldn’t abandon her alone in this dark, deserted park even if she thought that’s exactly what he’d done. He’d wait for
her ride to appear and then he’d go. But when Clara finally stood a few minutes later, looking around one final time before walking toward the park entrance, there was no car waiting for her.
What the hell?
It was a relatively safe area but still . . . she shouldn’t be walking through strange neighborhoods by herself.
Jonah followed, keeping to the shadows, raising his collar higher and lowering his head in case someone passed. But the streets were mostly empty as he trailed Clara, far enough behind, he hoped, that she wouldn’t hear his hollow footsteps.
Despite his raw emotions and the guilt he felt over standing Clara up, he experienced that surge of triumph he’d felt earlier. He was outside his self-ordained prison, walking down a residential street like any other normal person. He’d done it!
He closed his eyes, breathing in the freedom, breathing out the fear.
If he took precautions, covered himself so no one looked twice, he could walk around just like this. He’d remain hidden—he deserved a life of shadows—and had no desire to be seen. But he didn’t have to torture himself any further than he already did with days of nothing but boredom and sameness. Did he?
The area became less residential the farther Clara walked and when she finally entered a mostly empty, well-lit diner, Jonah took a sigh of relief, standing in a darkened doorway as she sat at a table next to the window across the street, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee.
He could see her more clearly in the bright lights of the diner, see the pretty heart shape of her face and the beautifully wide set of her eyes, the sweeping elegance of her cheekbones, and the full lip that she chewed on as she stared forlornly out the window.
And he ached. He ached with longing so intense it left him breathless. She was his Clara. That beautiful girl in the window, who looked so deep in thought.
He leaned his head so he could see her better with his good eye, knowing he’d let her down, but also knowing it was better this way. He took that moment to merge this Clara with the girl he’d come to know until he could not only hear her in his memories, but picture her as well, sitting on the other side of the wall, her shiny hair pulled into a ponytail as it was now, her long slim legs pulled beneath her.
He startled when Clara suddenly stood, digging in her purse for money that she then placed on the table before rushing out of the diner.
He hadn’t seen her call for a ride, but he figured she must have and that’s where she was heading. But when she looked both ways and then jogged back across the street, he ducked into the doorway, looking out when he heard her footsteps hurrying away, back toward the park, back toward Windisle. What was she doing?
He followed her again, only this time in reverse, as she hurried down the darkened streets, moving fluidly through the night. She was going to Windisle. He had stood her up—or so she thought—and now she was going to confront him.
Or, wrong choice of words. She was going to give him a piece of her mind through the stone that would forever be between them.
Some part of him thrilled at her audacity.
This girl didn’t give up. She might have made a damn fine lawyer if she hadn’t been given a body made for dancing. And he could see that she definitely had been given a body made for dancing. She was slim and strong, her lean legs encased in a pair of fitted jeans, her every movement elegant and graceful. God, to see her dance. To carry that vision in his mind forever. Maybe it would sustain him all the rest of his lonely, sheltered days behind that damn wall he both hated and was forever grateful for.
But he couldn’t make it to the gate at the back of the property—the one she didn’t know about—without her seeing him. So he’d remain hidden until she went away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Clara’s fingertips brushed the rough stone as she leaned her forehead against it, listening for him.
The slice of moon in the sky didn’t provide very much light, but enough that she could see he wasn’t in his usual spot. Not that she’d expected him to be, but still, she called his name, just in case.
She waited a moment but there was no answer. Was he sitting somewhere else close by? Against one of the massive trees on the other side of the wall, perhaps? She could feel him, she swore she could, only . . . well, that was silly. It was just this place, his place, and she was here now, and that was the reason for the warm prickly feeling on the underside of her skin that she associated with him.
She’d felt it in the park as she’d waited too though, and he hadn’t shown, so obviously the feeling was something unrelated to his presence—her own singular focus on him perhaps.
Still, just in case he could hear her, she needed to apologize, or maybe she just needed to voice her feelings out loud, here, against the wall where she’d felt so certain Angelina was sending them a sign.
“I’m sorry, Jonah.” She sighed. “I got carried away when the wall wept. I . . . I was pushy and selfish. I practically forced you to say you’d meet me and you probably weren’t ready.” Clara’s shoulders sagged. “You obviously weren’t ready. Do not feel bad about that. It was my fault.”
She was silent for a moment as she gathered her thoughts in this place where honesty seemed to come more easily. “I’m your friend, and I should have taken more care with your fears. I should have . . . asked you what you were ready for instead of making plans.”
A soft rustling sound whispered from the thick greenery behind her and she turned her head, peering into it. A squirrel probably, or maybe just an errant breeze that hadn’t touched her where she stood.
She turned back to the wall. “I care about you, Jonah. I feel this . . . pull toward you that I’ve never felt before and you’re back there, and I’m out here and—” She broke off on a frustrated exhale. “But I will be your friend in whatever way you need me to be. I want you to know that. I just . . . want you to know that, and that’s all.”
She removed the slip of paper she’d written on as she’d sat in the diner deciding what to do and slipped it through a crack. She hoped Jonah would read it rather than just discarding it along with any other wishes he collected. My wish collector, she thought with a sad sigh.
Clara turned from the wall, pressing her back against it, the vegetation rustling again just as a cloud covered the small sliver of moon, causing the already thick shadows to merge and grow and come alive.
A shiver went down her spine, her skin prickling. Although she hadn’t seen anyone else on the street as she’d walked, adrenaline had kept her nerves at bay. But now . . . she felt watched and because it was from outside the wall, alarm rang within her.
She pulled out her phone and called for an Uber. A driver arrived ten minutes later but that feeling of being observed didn’t go away until Windisle faded from sight out of the rear window.
**********
The feeling of being watched persisted. Clara was being paranoid of course. She knew it for sure now because she was across town from Windisle, at rehearsal, and still the feeling was there.
It was late and she was tired, but Madame Fournier insisted they all stay until they did one perfect run-through.
Her muscles ached and her toes were bloody and blistered in her pointe shoes, but she knew the other dancers were experiencing the same pain, so she plastered a smile on her face and moved through the steps unflinchingly.
Marco lifted Clara in the air, his hand lingering on her backside a heartbeat longer than necessary and Clara shot him a narrow-eyed look before she twirled effortlessly, spinning away. She saw his wink at the moment before her head turned, her gaze finding her spot.
Movement in the back of the theater caught her eye and she stumbled slightly, catching herself and glancing at Madame Fournier who, thank the heavens, was looking in a different direction.
A man—she could only make out his tall outline—stepped around the corner. Just a custodian, or someone there to pick up one of the dancers, she guessed, but her stumble reminded her she needed to focus if they wer
e all going to get out of there at a decent hour.
After what felt like forever and a day, Madame Fournier clapped her hands twice, telling them rehearsal was over and that she’d see them the next day. Thank you, God of Blistered Feet, she thought with a small wince.
Clara grabbed her bag, pulled sweats on over her tights, and changed her shoes quickly.
The other dancers groaned and stretched and commiserated about sore muscles and backaches as Clara ducked out of the theater. The door closed heavily behind her and she made her way to the corner bus stop, pulling out her phone as she walked. No missed calls. Her heart sank, though she hadn’t truly expected that he’d call.
As she’d slipped her number through a crack in the wall after racing back from the diner, she’d wondered why she hadn’t given him her phone number before. But then she realized that she had wanted to visit him at Windisle.
Giving him her number might have made her visits seem unnecessary when she enjoyed everything about sitting on the other side of the weeping wall and listening to him as he spoke right next to her ear, his melodic tone dancing over the wall and settling around her like a comforting caress.
But in any case, he hadn’t called.
Maybe he didn’t have a phone, or had no desire to turn it back on if he’d shut it off when he’d gone to live at Windisle. Maybe he just didn’t want to talk to her anymore at all.
Sadness pierced her, indecision close on its heels. Should she return so she could make an apology, this time one he actually heard? What if he hadn’t opened the slip of paper she’d meant for him? What if—
Clara groaned, massaging her temples as if doing so could stop her from obsessing about Jonah. She’d been doing just that—for one reason or another—since she’d met him, and she needed a break.
She should pick up a bottle of wine and drown her sorrows alone in her apartment, but she’d never been much of a drinker. There was another rehearsal bright and early the next morning, and if she hurried, she had just enough time to make it to the costume shop she’d looked up online earlier that day.