The ache I feel for him is so tangible that I am positive I can stick my finger in it and swirl it around until my chest constricts once more.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, sleep no longer claiming me as its own. Now it’s just sadness that presses me against the sheets—sadness and a knowledge that I and I alone am responsible for messing up what I had with the best guy I’ve ever known.
Sometimes, a girl doesn’t need a bad boy like so many stories tell her she does. She doesn’t need to redeem him, and he doesn’t need to redeem her. Sometimes a girl doesn’t need a tortured artist or the recovering playboy, but somebody who helps balance her out, someone who makes sure her feet stay on the ground when life is tough and lift up into the air when her lips find his. She needs somebody smart and funny and comfortable and exciting all at the same time. She needs somebody to go to sleep with who makes her feel secure enough not to care that she snores or drools, and somebody to wake up with who won’t judge her when her hair sticks up and pillowcase lines crease her face. Sometimes a girl needs somebody who she’s content talking about deep things with, or small talk, or sometimes nothing at all.
Sometimes a girl just needs a partner who will help her grow rather than explode.
I had that. I had that and now I kick myself over and over again because I was stupid enough to let it go.
My phone beeps to let me know a text message awaits me. I sigh heavily, debating whether or not to leave it be until morning. It’s probably Zthane or Karl with yet another idea about why we’re striking out so much with our missions lately. Or maybe Caleb, checking in with me to see if I contacted the University of Alaska about online classes yet. But ignoring it would be the Old Chloe thing to do. Even still, I’m annoyed when I roll over to grab my phone.
And then a pair of hummingbirds take flight in my chest. Because the text isn’t from Zthane, Karl, or Caleb. It’s not even from Kellan, whose texts I practically live for when we’re not talking on the phone or hanging out with one another.
It’s from Jonah.
It’s been nearly a month since he walked out of this apartment. Three weeks, four days, ten hours, seventeen minutes, and . . . well, I’m not too good with seconds. But he’s been gone that long, and we’ve had radio silence, and now, there’s a text, and it’s from him.
It says: You called me from Alaska on your birthday and hung up. Yes or no?
I’m laughing maniacally, muddy boots streaking my comforter as I surge up on my knees. Three weeks of separation, and this is what he chooses to say when he finally reaches out? And seriously—how does he even remember? It was a teeny call that had him saying hello twice and me hanging up immediately. A standard wrong number type call that devastated me but should have meant absolutely nothing to him.
There’s no way he could know about it. I didn’t tell Kellan or Callie—the only people who know about that call and the idiotic aftereffects are Will and Cameron, and they would never break confidence.
My hands shake hard when I type back: Yes.
Ten agonizing minutes pass. Why?
I retype my message back at least a dozen times. I missed you and needed to hear your voice so I could get through the day.
Another five minutes pass. I’m going to die. Just die right here on my bed. But then: Did you call my brother, too?
I’m clutching the phone like it’s the embodiment of our Connection. No—not our Connection. Our past. Our bond that we forged together, Connection or no. No. Just you.
Three minutes this time. Why?
I don’t hesitate. Because I missed YOU.
He’s faster with his replies now. Why did you hang up?
I was afraid. It’s honest.
He doesn’t text back, but when I fall asleep hours later, hope has officially found its way back into my soul.
Over the next week, I get sporadic texts from Jonah. Sometimes it’ll be in the middle of the night, and say something like: Why a diner? Or while I’m in one of the never-ending meetings at Guard HQ, and I’ll stop paying attention to Zthane so I can read: Who’s Frieda and why is she turning down Paul? (also, who’s Paul?) One came in during a dinner out with Cameron and Will, and Will ripped the phone out of my hand and read aloud: Why blonde? Which made Will tease me mercilessly about how he first thought I was a stereotypical California girl for being all blonde and blue-eyed.
None of the texts are personal—at least, not in concern to Jonah and his feelings—but all are questions about my life in Alaska. Why Cameron? Why Will? What’s up with the pancake thing? Why blue contacts? Where did I live before Cameron’s house? Did I have a car? Friends? Did I really bowl? (I have no idea where he learned that bit). Most the time, he doesn’t reply further after I answer the question. But the hope in me has continued to grow, because if he were well and truly done with me, he wouldn’t be texting. He wouldn’t care about these things.
At least, that’s what I’m choosing to hold onto.
I slam my phone down on the coffee table. “I cannot get ahold of Cora. It’s been weeks and . . . nada.”
Callie looks at me over the rim of her cup of tea. “You’re kidding me, right?”
I dramatically flop onto the couch. “No! I try calling her every day, but—”
She sets her cup down. “Nobody’s talked to you about Cora yet? None of those people you call Cousins?”
I’m alarmed. “No! Is she okay?”
She sighs. “Cora and Raul got married two days before you came back to Annar. They’re on their honeymoon—a month long safari in Africa. One of her stipulations was to go technology free. She didn’t want the Guard calling Raul in for a mission.”
It feels like I’ve been punched in the gut. Cora’s married? And nobody thought to tell me?
“It was a nice wedding,” she says calmly, like she hasn’t just dropped a bomb on my existence. “Big, too, in Madrid. Cora wanted it here, but Raul’s mom was pretty insistent he do it at their local cathedral. I was supposed to go as Kellan’s date, but as you well know, he was in Kuergal at the time. So I was Mom’s wingman. Speaking of—where’s Will?”
I blink a few times. “Um . . .”
“I came home last night and found Cameron over. He and Mom were drinking wine and laughing.” A beat passes before she stands up and clenches her fists. Then she shoves both hands into her hair, a strangling groan coming out of her pursed lips, before she drops back down into the chair. “Okay. Here’s the deal. Shit. I can’t believe I’m even going to—” She slides down in the chair, all askew yet dressed impeccably. “Fine. FINE. What’s the deal with Will, Chloe?”
I try not to show my amusement. “You mean between him and me? Because—”
“No. Gods. I already know there’s nothing between the two of you. Kellan would have torn him apart with his bare hands had he sensed anything between you guys; you know this. No, I’m asking what . . .” She sighs through her nose. “I can’t get a good bead on him, Chloe, and it’s driving me insane.”
“Well, if you’re asking if he’s some kind of sketchy guy, then—”
Her glare nearly cuts me in half. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
I cut her some slack. “Kellan already told me how you have the hots for Will.”
Her skin goes from porcelain to cherry red in approximately one second. “That asshole.” She pounds a fist against her palm. I do not envy the phone call Kellan will be getting shortly.
“So if you’re asking me whether or not he’s dating anybody right now,” I say, “then I can answer that one. He’s single.”
Her mouth opens then snaps shut.
“That said,” I say, making sure to tread carefully, “Will’s situation is . . . complicated.”
She covers her eyes with a hand. “Of course it is, because apparently I am only attracted to complicated men. Is he gay?”
I assure her that he’s not, but then I apologize for not being able to go further, since I do not want to break his c
onfidence. She stews moodily about this until the man in question comes through the front door, appearing as if he’s been on a thirty-six hour bender.
I want to ask him if he’s okay, because I know this must stem from a Becca call, but from the look he gives me, I hold the question in. Instead, I say, “I thought you and Kellan were going to go surfing today?”
True to his word, Kellan has taken Will out a few times to show him the ropes. I haven’t tagged along, though. I’ve had enough shame on a surfboard, thank you very much.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, running a hand across the stubble decorating his chin. “We went this morning. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to travel by portals. Seems too surreal, you know?” He drops onto the couch next to me; a whiff of saltwater nearly undoes me. I love that smell. I particularly love that smell on a certain person whose text messages from last night have been read and dissected probably a hundred times now.
Will nudges me. “Guess who came along?”
My breath catches in my throat.
“I have to admit,” he says casually, “that I rather like your Jonah. He seems like a good bloke. Quiet, but we got on well.”
“Well, well,” Callie murmurs. “Color me shocked that J crawled out of his hole to socialize. Surfing lately has been a solitary thing for him.”
It takes just about every last ounce in me not to inquire whether or not Jonah asked about me.
But then Will hands me a gift, wrapped up shiny and pretty with a ribbon when he says, “Thought you might like to know that while we were waiting for Kellan to come in, he asked me how you were doing.”
I’m speechless. Hopeful and ecstatic and speechless all at the same time.
“What did you tell him?” Callie asks.
Will ruffles my hair. “I told him the truth, that you’re busy with work and keeping your head down.”
As if on cue, my phone beeps. My heart flies into my mouth as I reach for it. Sure enough, it’s Jonah.
You should talk to Will. I think he needs you today.
I didn’t think it was possible to love Jonah any more than I already do. I was wrong. Him caring about my best friend like this only makes me love him all the more.
One week, four days of texts, and I finally get something other than a question from Jonah. I’m out jogging through the park in central Annar, dripping sweat and cursing my need to get fit so I can take down the Elders, when my phone beeps in my sock. I immediately come to a halt, breathing hard, and search for a nearby rock to collapse onto.
I’ve missed you, too.
A thousand flowers erupt from the mossy carpet surrounding the rock I’m sitting on. I’m no Nymph, and plants aren’t my thing, but damn, if I haven’t just forced life to spring anew all around me. I squeal and clap and reread the text dozens of times. I’ll never delete it. Never.
He misses me. And I couldn’t be more hopeful if I tried.
It takes me two glorious yet anxious minutes before I answer him. I want to say the right thing. No pressure, but the truth. Always the truth from here on out, no matter what happens. I never stopped missing you. I miss you now.
He doesn’t answer, but I spend the rest of the day in a deliriously happy fog. I greet every person I come into contact with the biggest smile that’s stretched across my lips in a long time. I hug more people in the span of three hours than I have in over a year. People probably think I’ve lost my mind, but I. Don’t. Care. Jonah Whitecomb misses me. I treat Will and Cameron to a four star restaurant dinner and order sparkling cider rather than wine. Because I need my wits, and there’ll be no more drunk, morose Chloe. I offer up cheers to at least a dozen things—blue skies, successful missions, them living in Annar with me, Will’s pancakes, Cameron finally shaving off his beard (not that I didn’t like the beard—I make sure to include that, too), Cameron relenting and giving me a flannel shirt of his that I love. I’m into recognizing the little things. Love and appreciation, I’m discovering, doesn’t have to be big and bold. They’re best served in the ordinary joys of daily life.
I’ve officially become a text-a-holic. Jonah is sending me at least three messages a day now, and each one sends me into a tizzy of happy delight. Some even sprout into conversations. He hasn’t called, and I haven’t seen him yet, but we’ve gotten now to a point where we’re communicating.
Just now, he sent me: Astrid really seems taken by Cameron Dane.
It sounds ridiculous, but this text melts my insides like butter. He’s sharing something about his mom to me. Granted, it’s about my—well, my pseudo-dad, but still. And I’ve already been a front row witness to the mush these two are generating, plus there’s the whole bit with Kellan where we love to dish on the relationships developing between the parents and children. Still, I answer: Cameron is the same. I wonder what their story is?
It’s a bit disingenuous, as I already know in pretty good detail what their history is, but I’ve got to keep this texting bit going.
He hasn’t told you?
I’m grinning. Well, I know about the past. I meant the present?
Ah. Obviously, I don’t have details. I just know how she feels when she thinks about him.
Now I’m laughing. I decide to be bold. We should play detectives and get to the bottom of the Astrid-Cameron relationship. If there is one, I mean.
And then my breath is shallow, because I’m scared I went too far with my use of we. But he writes back: Sounds like a plan.
The hummingbirds in my chest refuse to leave. It’s okay. I’ve begun to like them sticking around.
“I AM SO FURIOUS WITH YOU!”
I shrink at Cora’s outburst, but within the next two seconds, she’d got her arms around me and she’s flat-out crying and cursing at me. It’s all I can do to throw my arms around her, too, and tell her how much I love her and missed her. Raul hovers awkwardly in the background, like he isn’t sure if he ought to be yelling at me, too, or prying his wife away from me.
Wife. He and Cora are married. My Cousin is married, and I wasn’t there for the wedding, and the regret that fills me up for that is immense.
For the next hour, Cora pulls my story out of me, and in the end, she’s hugging me again. “I missed you,” she tells me. “You are never allowed to do such a stupid thing again. Did you hear a word I said when you took off to Hawaii that one time? You’re not alone, Chloe. No matter what awful shit is going on, you have people who are here for you.” She takes my face between her hands. “You. Are. Not. Alone.”
Gods, I’ve missed her, too.
Minutes after I hang up from another cathartic phone call with Caleb, I climb into bed, the minutes from this past week’s Council meeting waiting to be read on my iPad (and, if I’m being honest, lull me to sleep). But then my phone beeps, and I’m instantly awake. Jonah asks: What are you doing right now?
Hope explodes through my veins. I try to play it cool, though. Reading up on this week’s mtg. FUN. You?
Minutes go by, and the hope so sparkling and fresh begins to fizz out. Finally, just as I pick my iPad back up: Where are you?
I pull in a sharp breath. My hands begin to shake. I think my palms are sweating, too, which is so gross but it is how it is. Home. You?
Almost five weeks after I returned to Annar and Jonah walked out of my apartment, he sends me the following text: I’m outside your building.
Obviously, I’m out of bed and at the window immediately, peering out into the darkness. I can’t find him. He’s not there. Is he lying? Wait. I smack my forehead. My window faces the back of the building.
I throw a sweatshirt on and find my flip-flops. And then I’m out of my room, running through the apartment, and Will and Cameron are yelling at me, asking what I’m doing, and I tell them I’ll be back, but I’ve got to go. I don’t bother with the elevator; I run the entire length of the stairs, and then I skid through the lobby to the front door.
I throw them open and nearly knock down Erik. “Oh! Sorry!” I murmur, grabbing his arm be
fore he hits the pavement.
“Jesus, Chloe,” he says, readjusting the bags filled with groceries in his hands. “Is the building on fire or something?”
But then I see Jonah, standing, about twenty-five feet down the sidewalk, holding his phone in one hand and tugging at his long hair with the other. He looks shocked that I’m standing in the open doorway, my hair in a sloppy pony tail, face scrubbed clean with no make-up, dressed in pajama shorts and a sweatshirt and wearing flip-flops.
“Chloe?” Erik asks.
I’m dazed. Grinning and dazed and all I can say is that I’ll see him later and if I’m lucky to not wait up for me.
Once the door is closed behind me, I take a deep breath and walk over to where Jonah’s standing. He is so ridiculously gorgeous that I feel like writing all that silly poetry Will once accused me of. “Hi,” slides out of me, all giddy, lovely joy that’s made up of two letters. I hope he can hear me over the beating of my heart. It’s got to be drowning everything out here on the street out.
“Hi,” he says in return. He’s not quite grinning, not like me, but he’s not frowning, either. I’ll take it. And I’ll gladly drink in the sight of him, because nothing has ever been so welcome or beautiful to me before.
Like the poet I just imagined to be, I say, “Hi!”
My idiocy doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “You—wow. Did you run down here or something?”
I laugh. Is it so obvious? “Yes. As a matter of fact, I did.”
He shoves his phone in his pocket and reaches out a hand. I go still and pray that I don’t pass out from excitement when he lightly fingers a loose strand of hair. “It’s nice to see it’s back to brown.”
“I was a lousy blonde,” I admit. I’m thankful I’m wearing a sweatshirt, because I’ve just totally broken out in goose bumps. And I think my skin now envies my hair.
He laughs under his breath, and this bubble of joy burbles up my chest. He thought something I said was funny! I inspired something other than hurt and anger! I’m making progress!
A Matter of Truth (Fate Series 3) Page 26