by Lauren Rowe
Chapter 23
Sarah
“Holy moly,” I say. “Wow! Oh my gosh!” I can’t stop the exclamations of excitement and glee from pouring out of my mouth. “Wooh! Did you see this? Wow!”
After almost twelve hours of travel—two planes, a layover in Houston, and a long, bumpy Jeep ride out to the middle of nowhere—we’re finally here at our destination, a secluded resort in the heart of the Belizian jungle. I’m panting like a dog, thanks not only to my excitement, but also thanks to our trek up ten flights of rickety wooden steps in the ink-black night to reach our accommodations. Because Jonas and I are staying in an effing tree house—a luxurious, honeymoon-suite tree house!— surrounded on all sides by the lush jungle canopy. Holy crappola. Or, holy shitballs, as Kat would say. (Juepucha, as my mom would say.) Whatever—it’s un-frickin’-believable.
I don’t know where I’m getting this sudden burst of energy, but I’m running around the spacious suite, squealing and shouting about every fabulous detail. “Did you see this?” I shout, pointing at the flower petals strewn all over the white bed covers. “And look!” The towels in the bathroom have been twisted and sculpted into two perfect swans. “Woah!” The bathroom shower is even bigger than Jonas’ spacious shower at his house. “Ooooh!” A bottle of champagne sits on ice, waiting for us. Holy frickin’ moly.
After the steward opens the champagne bottle for us and tucks our luggage away, he explains how to light the mosquito lamps and close the mosquito netting over our bed while we sleep. Jonas hands him a large bill, and he ducks out with a big smile on his face.
“Alone at last,” Jonas says, handing me yet another glass of champagne. I think this is my fourth glass over the course of this long day.
“This is the most amazing place, ever,” I say, my eyes blazing. I take a sip. “Wow. The best champagne of the day.”
Jonas is beaming at me.
“I never thought I’d get to see a place like this in my entire life.” I gaze out the screened windows surrounding us. It’s pitch black outside.
“Wait ‘til you see it in the light,” Jonas says. “The jungle’s gonna blow your mind.” He grabs my hand. “Come here.” He pulls me out to the deck. I can’t see a thing in the blackness surrounding us.
“What?” I ask, looking around. Light is wafting out of the suite behind us, but looking out toward the jungle, I can’t make out a single thing.
He puts his finger to his mouth and tilts his head toward the edge of the balcony. “Listen.”
I stand quietly, pricking my ears for any kind of noise in the darkness around me. I smash my body against his and he puts his arm around me. I listen. And I listen. Well, I definitely hear birds. All around me, in fact. Leaves are rustling as animals move around us. Jonas puts his finger to his mouth again, instructing me to keep listening quietly. Yep, birds. And movement everywhere. We stand stock still for what must be a full two minutes. Finally, a screeching howl cuts through the dark night.
I gasp. “What—?”
“A howler monkey,” Jonas says quietly, grinning mischievously.
Oh, Jonas.
A moment later, there’s another scream, even louder and more piercing than the first one. I burst out laughing.
“They’re all around us in the trees.” He pulls me close to him. “A little inspiration for you, baby.” He kisses me. “Let the monkeys be your guide.”
My heart is in danger of hurtling right out of my chest and flinging into the dark night like a Frisbee. “Oh, Jonas. Right here, right now, on this very spot on planet earth, with you”—I point to the ground I’m standing on—“is the most glorious five square inches in the entire world.”
His smile lights up the dark night.
“When you said ‘tropical,’ I pictured us lying on a sandy beach drinking piña coladas,” I say.
“Yeah, well, Belize is famous for its beaches. But we’re not going to the coast this time. We’ll do that next time. This time, we’re all about the jungle.”
Next time? He’s already contemplating a next time? I try to suppress a squeal, but I don’t succeed.
“But, hey, I can certainly get you that piña colada.” He looks at his watch. “But not tonight. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. Gotta be up bright and early.”
“What are we doing?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says.
“Yes, I would. But I’ll be patient and wait to find out. On this trip, I’m doing whatever you say, Lord-God-Master-Woman-Wizard.”
He nods. “Good girl.”
In a fit of sudden glee, I twirl like a little girl. “This is like a dream.”
He’s smiling from ear to ear. It’s a welcome change from the storm cloud that’s been hanging over him since our horrific conversation on the plane.
I yawn. I don’t mean to, but I do. I didn’t sleep at all last night, and I caught maybe two hours of sleep today on the plane, if I was lucky. And all the champagne I’ve had today certainly isn’t helping me keep my eyes open.
“What do you say we take a shower,” Jonas says, “and then get into bed?”
He’s wearing only boxers, glory be, and his taut muscles are on full display. I watch him light the mosquito lamps on either side of the bed, the muscles over his rib cage tightening as he bends over to position the lamp. I’m wearing a tank top and plaid pajama bottoms, my hair tied into a ponytail, and my skin feels squeaky clean and moisturized after our shower together, a welcome sensation after our long and grimy travel day. Showering with him was particularly enjoyable this time, maybe because I was so relaxed. Somehow, I knew he was going to wash me and lather me, and that sex wasn’t in the cards. I just knew it. And I was right. He lathered me so tenderly, so delicately, he wasn’t so much washing me as worshipping me. Delicious.
And now, I can’t believe I’m lying here in this four-poster mahogany bed in a tree house in the middle of a deep, dark, noisy jungle, basking in the warm night air, as the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on climbs into bed and secures mosquito netting around us.
“It’s a little cocoon,” he says, fastening the net and lying down right next to me. “A cocoon built for two.”
“I like that,” I say, nuzzling up to him as he scoots his body against mine. His skin is warm. “A cocoon built for two,” I repeat.
A monkey screams just outside our window in the darkness and we both laugh.
“That was a good one,” he says. “Are you taking notes?”
“Yes, sir.” I mimic the sound the monkey just made.
He laughs. “Pretty good.”
We lie on our sides, smiling at each other, staring at each other, lost in each other’s eyes. After a moment, he rubs the tip of his nose against mine. “Thank you for coming here with me.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. “But you owe me big.”
He laughs. “I do, actually.”
“You really don’t understand the concept of payment, do you?” I ask.
He grins.
I want to kiss him. But tonight I’m going to honor my word and let him take the lead. He’s my master tonight. His hands rest comfortably on my waist, not moving, not exploring, not pressing for more. So I rest my hand on his thigh.
“I’m happy,” he says.
My heart leaps out of my chest. I can barely breathe. “So am I, Jonas.”
He hugs me to him and squeezes me tight. I rest my head against his chest. I wait. Is he going to make love to me now?
After a moment, his fingers lightly skim the curve of my hip.
I follow his lead. My fingertip drifts to the tattoo inscribed on the inside of his left arm.
“Is this Greek?” I ask.
“Mmm hmm,” he says. “Ancient Greek.”
“Are you Greek?”
“No.”
I wait. I’ve wanted to know the meaning of his tattoos since I first saw his heart-stopping, full-bodied selfie. I smile wistfully to myself. Back then, he was nothing more than an idea—a vi
sion of unattainable perfection, a work of art. Not the flesh and blood man lying next to me now. When I saw that photo, I never would have thought I’d be lying here, touching his muscled arm, drifting off to sleep in his arms. In effing Belize.
I yawn again. Damn. I can’t help it. My body is so relaxed and I’m so sleepy. My mind keeps slipping, floating, and then jolting back awake. I don’t want to fall asleep. I don’t want to miss a thing.
My fingertips track the inscription on his arm again. These words, whatever they are, are the key to unlocking him; I know it. But, somehow, I’ve known from the start to wait for him to hand me the key in his own time.
He pulls back slightly and displays the inside of his arm to me. “It’s a quote from Plato,” he says. He waits a beat.
I’m tingling with anticipation at his next words. “Yeah?” I say, breathless.
“‘For a man to conquer himself is the first and noblest of all victories.’”
My pulse is suddenly pounding in my ears. “That’s the quote you mentioned in your interview with Trey.” And it’s what I guessed the longer of his tattoos would say.
“Ah, you read that interview, huh?”
“Like twenty times. That interview told me more about you than anything else I could find. And believe me, I was thorough in my research.”
He’s quiet for a minute as my fingers migrate up to his biceps. Man, I love the feel of his biceps. He’s got the kind of arms most girls could only dream about wrapping around them one day. And here I am, my dreams a reality.
“Why did you get that tattooed onto your arm?” I ask.
He’s quiet for so long, I begin to wonder if he’s ever going to answer me. “Because conquering myself is my life’s greatest struggle,” he finally says. “It’s a constant reminder for me to keep working at it, to keep trying. Not to give up.”
When it’s clear he’s not going to go on, I finally say, “What happened to you, Jonas?”
His body tenses and he shifts uncomfortably. He exhales. “Josh and I were seven.” He pauses.
I’m holding my breath.
“My dad was taking the whole family to a Seahawks game—my mom, Josh, and me.” He pauses again.
I wait. The light from the mosquito lamp is flickering in the room, casting shadows across his beautiful face. A bird screeches loudly in the jungle, just outside our bedroom window. There’s a rustle in the trees.
His voice is low, barely audible. “I worshipped the ground she walked on, followed her around like a puppy. She used to pat me on the head and say, ‘Good doggie’ and I’d make puppy noises.” He closes his eyes, remembering something. “She was so beautiful. And she was kind.”
I’m afraid if I move or talk or breathe, I’ll break the spell and he’ll stop talking.
He opens his eyes again and pain flashes across his face. “It was time to go to the football game, but my mother had one of her headaches. She didn’t want to go to the noisy stadium.”
There’s a rustling sound outside our window.
His eyes dart to mine for reassurance.
I nod, ever so slightly.
“Dad was mad. He was like, ‘Take a fucking aspirin, you’ll be fine.’ But I said, ‘No, she needs to rest. I’ll stay with her and make her all better.’ I used to rub her temples when she got her headaches. She always said my touch was the only thing that could take her pain away. She said I had magic in my fingers.”
His eyes are moist. I touch his cheek, and he closes his eyes at my touch. He leans his cheek into the palm of my hand.
My heart breaks at this simple gesture.
He continues talking with his eyes closed, his cheek in my hand. “Dad was pissed. He stormed out with Josh. Didn’t even say goodbye.” I caress his cheek with my thumb and he opens his eyes. His expression is one of unadulterated anguish. “We were cuddling in her bed, snuggling, my favorite thing. I loved having her all to myself. I was rubbing her temples so she could fall asleep.” His entire body tenses next to me in the bed. “There was a loud noise downstairs, a crashing noise. She jumped off the bed and I started to follow her, but she said, ‘No, baby, stay here.’ So I hid in the closet because I was scared. I was shaking.” He swallows hard. “And before she got two steps out of her bedroom, there was a man. He dragged her back into the room. She fought against him and he punched her in the face with his fist. She was bleeding out her nose.” His voice hitches. “I knew I should run out of the closet right then to help her, but I didn’t.”
Oh, his voice. I’ve never heard it sound like this—so small. My heart is aching for him.
“I just stood there, peeking through a crack in the closet door, hiding in her dresses.” He inhales, like he’s remembering the scent of her. “He tied her up. He ... he ... pulled down his pants. I remember what his ass looked like.”
I inhale sharply, anticipating the horror to come. My stomach is twisting into knots.
“She was screaming, but I just let him do it to her. I didn’t help her.” His eyes are glistening.
I don’t speak. I just wait. My heart is banging in my ears.
“I wanted to help her, to pull him off her—I wanted to make him stop. But he was so big and my legs wouldn’t work. I imagined myself sneaking out of the closet and finding a golf club in the garage and running back up to the bedroom and bashing him over the head ... But I didn’t move.” Tears are pooling in his eyes. He looks up to keep them from falling down his cheeks. “Then I realized I could take her pain away after the man left—with my magic fingers. I decided to wait and untie her after he was gone and make it all better with my hands, like I always did.” He’s choking up. “I didn’t know he had a knife.” Jonas blinks and, despite his best efforts, big, soggy tears stream down his cheeks. “I didn’t know what he was gonna do with that knife—it happened so fast—or else I wouldn’t have waited. If I’d known, I would have saved her the minute he punched her. I would have done something.” Tears are pouring out of his eyes, and out of mine, too.
“Jonas, you were seven,” I say.
He lets out a soft groan. “I should have saved her.”
“You were seven,” I say again. “There was nothing you could have done.”
“I should have at least tried to save her.” His voice catches in his throat. “I should have at least tried to pull him off her.” His body twitches violently, straining to suppress the tidal wave of grief threatening to rise up out of him. “Or I should have died trying.”
“Oh, Jonas, no.” I take his face in my hands and he melts under my touch. “Oh, baby,” I say, pulling him to me. “No.”
He nods, unable to speak.
“No,” I whisper. “No.” My heart is breaking in two.
“If it wasn’t for me, she would have gone to the football game like my father wanted her to—she wouldn’t have been in the house when the man came. It was me who said she needed to rest. It was me who wanted her to stay behind so I could have her all to myself. I wanted to be alone with her—no Josh, no Dad. I wanted to touch her and take her pain away. I wanted to lie in bed with her. I wanted her to say I was the only one who knew how to make her feel better.” He’s on the verge of a total breakdown. “If it hadn’t been for me . . .” He can’t contain himself anymore. Grief and guilt and heartache and pain burst out of him in a singular, violent release.
There is nothing more heartbreaking than seeing a grown man sob—especially when that man has a hold on your heart like nobody ever has. I hold him to me—rocking him, nuzzling him, stroking his hair—as his anguish rises up and pours out of him like a tsunami.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say again and again.
His body twists and shudders.
“Shh,” I soothe him. “It wasn’t your fault.”
After a while, he quiets down. His chest is heaving. He leans his forehead into mine, but he doesn’t speak. He’s spent.
A howler monkey screams in the dark jungle right outside our window.
He pulls back fro
m me and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. He moves a wisp of hair out my eyes.
“Did they ever catch him?”
“He was our housekeeper’s sister’s boyfriend. Our housekeeper had mentioned getting the day off because the family was going out to the Seahawk’s game—it wasn’t her fault. She had nothing to do with it.” He pauses. “He thought we’d be gone. He just came for her jewelry.” He sighs deeply. “It was just bad luck we were there—bad luck he turned out to be a psychopath.” He sighs again, slowly, trying to control his breathing.
“What about your father?” I ask. I know Jonas’ father died about thirteen years ago, when Jonas was seventeen, but I couldn’t find anything on-line detailing the cause of his death. “I can’t imagine how devastated he must have been.”
At my question, Jonas’ eyes darken. He inhales deeply and exhales slowly. “My father never got over losing her. The grief—the guilt—it ate him alive. So he turned it into blame. He blamed himself, blamed me. Mostly blamed me.”
I shake my head. That can’t be true. “No,” I say softly.
“Yes. My whole life, I knew it. He blamed me for what happened.”
“No. He couldn’t have blamed you. You were seven.”
“Even Josh knows he blamed me. It wasn’t a secret. It’s just the way it was. It was my fault. We all knew it. I’m the one that made her stay behind.”
A shiver runs down my spine. What kind of man could even think of blaming a child for a horror like that?
“I tried to make up for what I did. But it was never enough. How could it ever be enough?”
I shake my head. Horrible. No wonder Jonas needed years of therapy. “He died when you were seventeen?”
Jonas grunts.
Maybe I should let it be, change the subject. But now that this man has shown me the deepest parts of himself, I’m aching to know every last thing. I wait. But he doesn’t say anything. I’m about to say, “It’s okay—we don’t have to talk about this,” when he finally speaks.