by Lauren Rowe
Miss Westbrook tells the class to work on page fifty-four from our math workbook and she calls me up to her desk.
“Jonas, honey, it’s sunny in San Diego all the time. I hope you’ll come visit me.”
How can I come visit her? I’m just a kid. I don’t have a car or an airplane. I have to look away from her pretty brown eyes or else I might cry.
“And I’ll come visit you here in Seattle any chance I get.” She starts crying. “I promise.”
I don’t think Miss Westbrook should promise to come back to me. Everybody leaves me—everybody—and they never, ever come back. I wish she would just tell me the truth: She’s leaving me just like everybody does and I’ll never see her again. Even as I stand here looking at her pretty face, I feel like a big black scarf is floating down from the sky and covering my entire body.
“I like you, Miss Westbrook,” I say, trying to keep the tears from coming. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to her when the other kids are in the classroom, too, when we’re outside our magical cocoon. But I can’t help it—I have to tell her how I feel about her before she leaves me. Actually, I wish I could say the three words that match my true feelings about Miss Westbrook—but saying those three words to anyone besides Mommy would break the rules.
Miss Westbrook’s eyes crinkle. “I like you, too, honey. I’ll come back to visit you one day soon, Jonas. I promise.”
Chapter 8
Jonas
I open my eyes. Sunshine streams through the window of Sarah’s hospital room. A nurse stands next to Sarah’s bed, checking Sarah’s blood pressure.
“Looking good,” the nurse says. “And no signs of infection. The doctor will be in soon to decide if you can go home today.”
My phone vibrates with a text from Josh. He just landed in Seattle. Are we at UW Medical Center, he wants to know? I tell him not to come to the hospital, to meet me at home—and to please stop and pick up sick-person stuff like Saltines and Gatorade and Jello and chicken noodle soup on his way. Oh, and Oreo cookies. Sarah loves Oreo cookies.
He texts back, I’ve got it covered.
Thanks, I reply.
Hang in there, bro.
Thanks, I reply. Will do.
My phone buzzes again. I look down.
I love you, man.
Josh has never said that to me before, ever. Not in person, not in a text. Never. I stare at my phone for a long time, disbelieving my eyes.
Thanks, I text back. I don’t know how else to respond.
I put the phone back in my pocket. If Josh were here, he’d surely slap his face right now, as he should.
The doctor arrives and confirms Sarah can go home and my heart leaps. Oh my God, I’m going to take such good care of my baby. No matter what it takes, we’ll figure this out. Together.
Mrs. Cruz shrieks with joy at the doctor’s news and starts asking him about his discharge orders. Apparently, she thinks Sarah’s coming home with her. I look at Sarah, expecting her to say she’s coming home with me, but she doesn’t. To the contrary, she nods at her mother. What the fuck? Sarah’s not correcting her mother’s misunderstanding. Sarah’s not saying, “No, Mom. I live with Jonas now.” Shit. I guess Mrs. Cruz isn’t the one who misunderstands. I swallow my emotions. All that matters is what Sarah wants. What Sarah needs. And, clearly, it’s not me.
“I can drive you there,” I say. “And help with whatever’s needed.”
“My mom’s got it,” Sarah says. “I’m just going to sleep, anyway—take my pain meds and sleep. You should use this time to get caught up on whatever you need to do. I’m finally out of your hair.” She grins, but there’s no joy in it. “I’ll be fine.”
I can’t speak.
“I think I just need a little mommy time,” Sarah says softly. There’s apology in her voice. But there’s no need to apologize—I understand fully. Everything I touch turns to blood: bloody sheets, bloody carpets, bloody walls, bloody bathroom tiles. Sarah’s right. For her own good, she should stay as far the fuck away from me as humanly possible.
A nurse loads Sarah into a wheelchair to transport her to the front of the hospital.
“I can walk,” Sarah protests.
“Standard procedure,” the nurse assures her.
When we arrive at the front of the hospital, Mrs. Cruz leaves Sarah in my care while she gets her car from the parking structure.
Sarah’s quiet. I’m quiet. There’s so much I want to say, but not here, not now. Maybe there’s never going to be a time to say it. Maybe this is it. Sarah obviously needs a break from me. I just hope a break doesn’t turn into forever.
My heart feels like a slab of cement inside my chest. “I’ll hire a team to guard your mom’s house,” I say. “I can’t let you go over there unprotected.”
“No, I’m safe now, at least for a while,” Sarah says. “They think I’m worth more to them alive than dead.”
What does that mean?
She swallows hard. “Jonas, I have something to tell you.” She pauses, apparently getting up her nerve—but Mrs. Cruz returns with the car before Sarah can say another word.
Sarah looks at me with anxious eyes. Shit, the last time she looked at me like this was during our flight to Belize when she was summoning her courage to tell me the truth about The Club.
I open the passenger side of the car and gingerly load Sarah into the seat. My heart is breaking, aching, shattering. I might be dying, quite literally. Physical death couldn’t feel any worse than this.
I lean down to her before I shut her door. “I can’t let you go...” My brain intended to say, “I can’t let you go there unprotected,” but my mouth didn’t finish the sentence. I can’t let you go. Yeah, that about sums it up.
“It’s just for a couple days,” Sarah says. “My mom needs to be the one who takes care of me—and I need her right now. I’m just going to sleep the whole time, anyway.” She shakes her head, stifling tears. “I’m not myself right now, Jonas. I’m overwhelmed. I’m in pain.” She looks into my eyes and winces. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll call you. I promise. It’s just for a few days—just a little mommy time.”
I nod as if I understand. But I don’t understand. If she’s leaving me for good, I wish she’d just tell me the truth instead of promising me something she doesn’t plan to deliver. If she’s not coming back to me, I wish she wouldn’t tell me she is.
“Are you sure you’re going to be safe?”
“I’m positive. There’s no reason for them to come after me. They left me alive for a reason. I’ll tell you about it later, I promise.”
“I’ll put guards at your mom’s house anyway, just to be sure.”
“No, don’t, Jonas. My mom will freak out. Just trust me. Leave it alone.”
I’m dumbfounded. They just tried to kill her and almost succeeded and I’m supposed to “leave it alone”? What the fuck am I missing here?
“Lista?” Mrs. Cruz asks.
“Sí, Mama.”
“I’ll bring your clothes to you—whatever you need,” I say lamely. I don’t understand what’s happening. Is this the end for us?
“I’ve got a bunch of old stuff at my mom’s house. I’ll be fine.”
I’m speechless. She doesn’t even want me to drop off a bag for her?
“I’ll call you,” Sarah says. But what my brain hears her say is, Don’t call me, I’ll call you.
I shut her door. She reclines in her seat and closes her eyes as the car drives away. I stare at the car until it’s out of sight. And then I grab at my hair and swallow my tears.
Chapter 9
Jonas
Almost everyone in my seventh grade class is hard at work on today’s stupid assignment. Mrs. Dinsdale said those few of us who’ve already finished, including me, can read whatever we want while waiting for the rest of the class to catch up. I’m reading a book about mountain climbing and there’s an entire chapter about Mount Everest. I guess climbing Mount Everest is kind of a big deal—plenty of people have ev
en died trying to do it. They don’t let kids climb it, so it looks like I’ll just have to climb rocks and trees and ropes and do sit-ups and push-ups and pull-ups in my room to get myself ready for when I’m older. Oh, and I just heard about an indoor rock climbing gym opening in Bellevue. Wow, rock climbing indoors sounds so cool I can barely sleep at night just thinking about it. Maybe Dad will let our driver take Josh and me there this weekend.
The door to the classroom opens and—holy shit—oh my God—holy fuck—I can’t believe my eyes—Miss Westbrook walks in. She’s right out of a dream—even more beautiful than I remembered her from four years ago. Wow.
Until just now, I couldn’t even remember exactly what Miss Westbrook looked like, to be honest. She’d become nothing but a hazy fantasy in my mind that I sometimes like to think about late at night when I’m alone in my bed—but the minute she walks through the door, every memory comes rushing back into my head and heart and body. Especially my body.
Wow, Miss Westbrook is as pretty as ever. Even prettier than pretty, actually—she’s beautiful. Her hair is shinier and a bit darker than I remembered it (which I like a lot). And her lips are much fuller than I remembered them, too. Man, oh man, I’d love to kiss Miss Westbrook’s lips. I feel a jolt between my legs just thinking about doing it. Should I go over to her? Or maybe wave to her? I don’t move a muscle. Maybe this is just a coincidence. Maybe she’s not here to see me. Yeah, I’m sure she’s forgotten all about me.
Miss Westbrook scans the room and when her eyes lock onto mine, she smiles. Holy fuck, she’s smiling right at me, I’m sure of it. I wave and she waves back. Oh my God.
Miss Westbrook turns slightly to the side and—holy shit—now I can plainly see that Miss Westbrook’s gonna have a baby. When Miss Westbrook first walked in, I guess I was so busy looking at her beautiful face and imagining myself kissing her lips, I didn’t notice her baby bump. Wow. The beautiful Miss Westbrook came back—I can’t believe it—and she’s gonna have a baby.
“Jonas,” Mrs. Dinsdale says. “You have a visitor. Why don’t you two go outside for a little bit? Take your time.”
When we sit down on a bench outside, Miss Westbrook hugs me and kisses the top of my head. “Jonas! You’re so big! Look at you! Wow!”
My cheeks hurt from smiling. My entire body is tingling. “You came back.”
“Of course, I did. I came back to see you.” She winks. “I never break a promise.”
I can’t believe she’s here. I feel like there’s electricity zapping my skin. I wish she would touch my cheek like she did that one time all those years ago. Or kiss the top of my head again like she just did a minute ago. Or, even better, kiss my lips. I’d give anything to get a kiss from her—a real kiss with tongue and everything. Oh my God. The thought makes me tingle everywhere, but especially between my legs.
We talk for twenty minutes. She asks me about school and my brother and what sports I’m playing. She tells me that San Diego is as sunny and beautiful as she thought it’d be, that she’s a third grade teacher there, and that she and Mr. Santorini are happy and excited about meeting their new baby in a couple months.
“Oh,” she says suddenly, touching her belly. “The baby just kicked. You want to feel?”
I’m not really sure. The whole idea of touching her belly kind of freaks me out. But she doesn’t wait for my response. She grabs my hand and places it on the side of her hard stomach and two seconds later something inside of her karate chops my hand.
“Oh my God,” I say, laughing. I’ve never felt anything like that before.
“It’s a boy,” she says, smiling at me really big.
“Wow. That’s cool, Miss Westbrook.”
“Do you know what I’m going to name him?”
I shrug. How on earth would I know that?
“Jonas,” she says.
There’s a long, awkward silence. Is she saying my name to make sure I listen carefully to whatever name she’s about to say? Or is she telling me, “I’m naming my kid Jonas”? If she’s telling me she’s naming the baby Jonas, that’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? It’s not that common a name—not like Josh.
She rolls her eyes and sighs. “I’m naming the baby after you, Jonas.”
I can’t believe my ears.
She smiles. “Because I hope he’ll grow up to be just like you one day. Sweet and smart and kind.”
I can’t remember the last time my heart has raced quite like this, if ever.
At dinner that night, I tell Dad and Josh about Miss Westbrook’s surprise visit and how she’s naming her baby after me. I’m floating on air when I tell my story, but the minute I’m done talking, I regret saying a damned thing. Clearly, Dad’s been drinking—a lot—and that’s never a good time to say a goddamned thing to him about anything at all, especially something you care about.
I grind my teeth, waiting for whatever mean thing Dad’s going to say to me to make me feel like shit. I don’t have to wait long.
“She wants her baby to grow up to be just like you?” he asks. He takes a long swig of his drink. “I guess she’s hoping for a lifetime of fucking misery and pain, then.”
Josh shoots me his usual look of sympathy. It means, Ignore him—he’s an asshole. But ignoring him is easier said than done.
“If she gets her wish and her kid turns out to be just like you,” Dad continues, “then she’d better watch Mr. Santorini’s back.” He laughs and swigs his drink. “That’s all I’m fucking saying.”
Chapter 10
Sarah
Jonas was right all along—the Ukrainian John Travolta was indeed stalking me in broad daylight. But rather than believe my gorgeous hunky-monkey boyfriend when he said he was “one hundred ten percent” sure of something, I decided the more likely scenario was that he was being overprotective and hypersensitive and maybe even a tad bit crazy. Shame on me.
And, now, thanks to my utter lack of good judgment and my inability to trust him, not only did I get relieved of a good portion of my blood supply, I’ve also put the love of my life through hell. I’ve made him relive the worst horror of his childhood—and not only that, I’ve put him in danger, too. Good God, what have I done? I’ve promised The Club I can get more money from Jonas—and also from a bunch of other guys, too. But, wait, there’s more! Just in case all that wasn’t bad enough, I gave the bastards Jonas’ money—and it was a helluva lot of money, too.
Of course, Jonas will say the money doesn’t matter to him—he’ll say he’d pay any amount to keep me safe—but that money wasn’t mine to give. The whole situation is just a colossal mess—a cluster fuck, as Jonas would say.
I crawl out of bed, pull back the curtains on the window, and peek across the street. Yup. Still there. Two guys sitting in a car. They’ve been there for the past four hours. I grab my phone off the nightstand and type out a text to Jonas. “Please tell me those two guys sitting across from my mom’s place are yours. Or else I’m going to crap my pants.”
“Yes. Sorry to worry you. I should have mentioned it. They’re mine.”
I’m about to tell him the bodyguards aren’t necessary, that Jonas’ check surely bought me a little wiggle room in the they’re-coming-to-get-me department—but detailing yesterday’s run-in with the Ukrainian Travolta is a conversation I want to have with Jonas in person. “Thank you,” I type. “You always take such good care of me.”
“You’re welcome, baby. I miss you so much. How are you feeling?”
“High as a kite. Painkillers are an awesome perk of being stabbed.”
There’s a long pause. “I miss you so much,” he finally texts.
“I miss you, too.”
We’ve been apart for maybe four hours and I already feel like I’m going through physical Jonas-withdrawal. “I hope you understand,” I type. “My mom needs to be the one who nurses me back to health.” I’m about to add, It’s a mom thing, but then I remember Jonas’ mom, so I refrain.
And, truth be told, my mom’s desire t
o take care of me isn’t the only thing motivating me to stay here with her for a few days. The truth is that I need a little space—time to pull myself together and figure out what I’m going to do, what I’m going to say. I’m overwhelmed. Ashamed. Racked with guilt. I’m in pain, both physical and emotional. And most of all, I can’t believe what I’ve put Jonas through—all because I didn’t believe him. I could barely look him in the eye when my mom drove me away earlier today—I just feel so effing guilty.
“I understand,” Jonas types. “I’m so sorry,” he adds.
Why does he keep saying that? I’m the one who owes him an apology. If I’d had faith in him, if I’d trusted his intuition, if I’d believed him when he told me he was sure they were coming to get me, none of this would have happened. There’s no excuse for the way I disregarded him.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Jonas. I’m the one who blew it. Big time.”
“Can I call you right now? We need to talk. I want to hear your voice.”
I’m not ready to have this conversation yet. I’m still not sure how to explain how I feel. Plus, I’m drowsy as hell. “I just took a pain pill,” I write. “I’m pretty sleepy. Talk later?”
He pauses again. “Whatever you need,” he finally replies. “I’m here for you.”
“Thank you. Talk soon.” After a minute, I add, “Madness.” I’m overwhelmed and remorseful and groggy and in pain, sure—but nothing, not even powerful painkillers, not even guilt and remorse and emotional exhaustion, not even a couple stab wounds or a bump on the head, can change the fact that I love Jonas Faraday with all my heart.
“Madness,” he replies quickly. “So, so much.”
I close my eyes and fall asleep.
Chapter 11