The Club

by Lauren Rowe

  “He killed himself.”

  I moan softly. How much tragedy can one family take?

  “He just couldn’t ... He never got over losing her. In the beginning, he tried to forget what happened by throwing himself into his company.”

  I’m surprised at the edge in his tone when he says “his company,” especially since that company ultimately became Jonas’.

  “And when all the money in the world didn’t take the pain away, he turned to booze, and then to women—lots and lots of women—prostitutes, mainly.” He scoffs angrily at this last part. “He had the famous Faraday libido, of course, so becoming a monk wasn’t realistic, and yet he didn’t want to foul her memory by feeling something with another human being ever again, God forbid.” He clenches his jaw. “He never told the truth about any of it, acted like all those hot women were falling all over him thanks to his fucking personality, acted like his shit didn’t stink ‘til the bitter end—but Josh and I knew exactly what he was doing. It was disgusting.” He sighs. “He fucked every hooker he could get his hands on for about a year—and then he finally put himself out of his misery.”

  I’m speechless. Does he not see the parallels between himself and his father? Or does he? I’ve suddenly got goose bumps.

  “My uncle took over the company. Josh went off to college that fall, and I went off the following year, when I was all better.” His eyes flicker. “But we both knew, when we graduated, we’d have to come back. We knew we had a duty to become the ‘Sons’ of Faraday & Sons.” His jaw muscles are pulsing.

  “Not what you wanted?”

  “My dad started Faraday & Sons right after we were born. We were babies and he called it Faraday & Sons. There was never any question about who we were expected to become.” He looks up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

  I stroke his cheek with the back of my hand.

  His eyes soften. “I like to imagine there’s another version of me, the ‘divine original’ form of me, floating in another realm. A not-fucked-up version of me. In that realm, that one horrible day never happened and I became the man I was originally designed to be.” He sighs. “The man I would have been if I didn’t get hopelessly fucked up.”

  “Is that what your other tattoo is about?” I ask, but I already know it is.

  He half-smiles at me. “You’re so smart, Sarah—you’d give Plato a run for his money, you know that?” He shifts his body and holds his right arm up to display his tattoo. “‘Visualize the divine originals.’”

  I look down at the lettering. Greek again. “Plato?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Why the devotion to Plato?” I ask.

  He sighs. “After my dad died, I had a bit of a rough time.” He smiles wanly, like this is the understatement of the year. “When all the doctors in the world couldn’t fix me, I started reading philosophy—everything I could get my hands on, just reading, reading, reading, trying to make sense of things, trying not to have a nervous breakdown again, honestly—trying not to go completely insane again. I’d had a total fucking meltdown after everything with my mother, and I’d been in therapy ever since—and doing pretty well, actually—but then I lost it again after my dad ... And I finally figured out talking about my fucking feelings just wasn’t gonna be enough this time, especially after what my dad said to me in his fucking suicide note.”

  Oh my God. What did that bastard say to my sweet Jonas as an unanswerable parting shot? I’m afraid to ask, and he doesn’t offer any specifics. A chill runs down my spine.

  He shrugs. “I knew I needed something more, something wise. Timeless. I needed answers. I read everything I could get my hands on, and when I discovered Plato, I don’t know, he just spoke to me, especially his Allegory of the Cave, the one I told you about in the limo.” He grins, obviously remembering our eventful limo ride. “I don’t know, people always talk about Aristotle—and he was great, of course, obviously—but Plato was Aristotle’s teacher, you know? Plato was the fucking forefather of modern thought, you know? The divine original. His ideas gave me something to latch onto—something to focus on. He had ideas about everything—music, science, death, family, mortality ... love.” He blushes.

  I feel my cheeks flush. My heart is racing. I touch his cheek again.

  He turns his head and kisses the palm of my hand.

  “Plato was an idealist.” He says the word ‘idealist’ like he’s paying the man his highest compliment.

  “But what does it mean—‘visualize the divine originals’?”

  He looks down at his tattoo. “Visualize the divine originals.” He sighs reverently. “It’s from Plato’s Theory of Forms.” Oh wow, his eyes are suddenly animated. Clearly, he’s passionate about this, whatever it is. “Plato had the idea that truth, idealism, perfection, it’s all an abstraction that exists separate and apart from the physical world we live in.”

  I shrug. I still don’t understand.

  He grins. “It’s really esoteric stuff. Plato thought there were two realms—the imperfect physical world we live in—the one we experience through our senses, the one filled with pain and imperfection—and also an ideal realm, completely separate, a realm we can’t experience, but which we nevertheless innately understand.”

  “Sorry, I’m still totally lost.”

  He grins. “So, let’s say you see a tree in the physical realm. It’s got a couple branches missing. And there’s another tree burned in a fire. And another one with initials carved in the bark. How does your mind recognize all of these forms as trees? They’re all imperfect, and differently so. And yet your mind recognizes them all as trees. Plato said it’s because the ideal form of a tree—the abstraction of tree-ness—exists in the ideal realm. And our minds, our souls, innately understand and recognize the perfect tree-ness in those imperfect trees, even if we’ve never actually witnessed perfect tree-ness. Tree-ness is what the imperfect trees aspire to, and our souls are designed to aspire.” His face is flushed, glowing.

  I smile at him. This man is stunningly beautiful in every way.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You’re such a poet,” I say.

  “No,” he replies. “Not usually.” He opens his mouth to say something else but thinks the better of it. He clamps his mouth shut.

  “So if I understand this correctly, your tattoo means you aspire to the ideal form of Jonas Faraday-ness, like a broken tree aspires to tree-ness?”

  He smiles broadly at me. “Exactly. My soul recognizes the divine original of Jonas Faraday-ness, even though that perfect abstraction doesn’t exist in the physical world.” He sighs. “Basically, I aspire to the un-fucked-up form of me. My soul can envision who he is, even though my physical senses can’t. And I just keep visualizing and aspiring.”

  I cock my head to one side. God, he’s beautiful, inside and out. If this man isn’t perfection personified, I don’t know what is. “You’re already him, Jonas.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Yes, you are. You’re perfect, exactly as you are.”

  “No. I’m hopelessly fucked up.”

  “Yeah, you’re fucked up. Of course you are. What you’ve been through would fuck anybody up. Horribly. But you’re perfect—and definitely not hopeless. There’s no such thing as hopelessness.”

  He doesn’t understand me.

  I sit up on my elbow and look down at his face. “You’re scarred, that’s for sure.” I stroke his brow line. “You’ve been forced to experience the worst thing a human being could ever endure, and at such a tender age.”

  He looks away.

  “Jonas.” His eyes return to me. “You’re not a tree. You were innately designed to feel—for better and for worse. Which means the perfect form of you was inherently designed to be scarred.”

  He clenches his jaw.

  I sigh. I feel like I’m not expressing my thoughts very well. “If there’s a divine original of Jonas Faraday floating around in some other realm, a perfectly unscathed
and unscarred version of you, then I’d still choose you. Because if this allegedly ideal Jonas Faraday is perfectly unscathed by life, then he’s never felt anything.” I swallow hard and look him directly in the eyes. “If he’s unscarred, then he’s never loved,” I whisper. “Or been loved.”

  His eyes flicker.

  My heart is going to burst.

  “It’s feelings that leave scars on our hearts. It’s risking.” A lump is rising in my throat. “It’s love,” I whisper. “So if the divine original of Jonas Faraday has no scars, he’s not perfect, after all.” My eyes are pricking with tears. What this beautiful man has been through is unthinkable. “Jonas, we’re here on this planet to do one thing: to love and be loved.” My tears begin to flow. “And nothing else.” I wipe my eyes. “Love leaves scars.”

  He exhales sharply. He’s shaking. He opens his mouth to speak, but then apparently thinks better of it.

  I lie back down and throw my arms around him, my tears flowing freely. The pain, the grief, the joy at being with him in his arms, the sorrow for all he’s been through, the weight he’s carried on his shoulders his entire life—it’s all just too much for me. I’m suddenly overflowing with emotion. “You’re not a tree, Jonas, you’re not a tree,” I mumble, burrowing into his chest. I can’t even think straight anymore. I have to make him understand it wasn’t his fault. I have to make him understand he’s good—so very good. So very beautiful. He’s worthy. He’s kind. He’s mine.

  There’s a rustling sound in the darkness surrounding our tree house.

  He pulls me close. His body is warm against mine, his muscles taut. His arms feel so strong wrapped around me. He leans into me and kisses me oh so tenderly, even as tears inexplicably continue to pour out of me. His lips are slightly salty, maybe from his tears, maybe from mine. When his tongue gently parts my lips and enters my mouth, it’s like he’s touching my very soul.

  When I first laid eyes on his photos, when I first bore witness to his breathtaking beauty, my body instantly yearned to fuse with his, to take him into me and let him fill me up as fully and deeply as my body would allow. But now, lying here, clothed in my pajamas, nestled next to him in our little mosquito-netted cocoon for two, I feel transported into another world—another realm, as Plato would say. An ideal realm. And in this realm, it’s not my body that yearns to fuse with Jonas, it’s my very soul. Yes, he’s got broken branches and charred bark—of course—and so do I. But our imperfections don’t matter. Because right now, on this particular spot on planet earth, in the middle of a jungle in frickin’ Belize, we’re perfect.

  Chapter 24

  Sarah

  “Wake up, baby,” he coos softly in my ear.

  I moan.

  “Good morning,” he says. “Rise and shine.” He kisses my cheek. “Up and at ‘em.”

  I smile, remembering our beautiful, sexless night together. We kissed and cuddled and caressed softly until we couldn’t keep our eyes open any longer, and then we fell deeply asleep in each other arms.

  I rub my eyes and moan again. “It sounds like jungle sound effects for a movie.”

  Jonas laughs. “Your voice is so cute in the morning—so gravelly. I love it.”

  “Coffee,” I mumble. I glance at him. He’s already fully dressed, bright eyed and bushy tailed, raring to go. His eyes are blazing with excitement.

  “Breakfast is out on the balcony waiting for us. Time to get up.” He’s practically jumping up and down. I’ve never seen him like this.

  I raise my hands over my head and stretch myself from head to toe, purring like a cat. “Best sleep ever,” I say dreamily.

  He hops onto the bed and crouches next to me. His energy is through the roof. “Do you know what today is, My Magnificent Sarah?”

  I smile at him. “What?”

  “Today’s the day I’m gonna make all your dreams come true.”

  “You already have.”

  “Says the girl who’s lived in a cave her whole life, staring at shadows. Ha!” He abruptly rolls my entire body onto its side, yanks down my pajama bottoms to reveal my butt cheek, and bites my ass. I mean, really, really, like he literally bites my ass.

  I yelp.

  “Delicious!” he hoots. He snaps my pajama bottoms back into place. “Now go pee or shower or do whatever girly thing you’ve got to do and meet me on the balcony for some breakfast. Our guide’s picking us up in forty-five minutes.”

  “Guide?”

  Without warning, he leaps over me like a panther pouncing on its prey and holds himself in a plank position over my body, his muscles bulging and straining all around me.

  I squeal yet again at his sudden movement.

  “Yes, guide,” he says flatly. He kisses the tip of my nose. “All will be revealed in due time, My Magnificent Sarah, all will be revealed.” He leaps off the bed in one sleek motion, turns my body onto its side again, and slaps my ass.

  I squeal again.

  “Get moving, baby.” He bounds across the room toward the balcony. “Time’s a wastin’!”

  I sit up and look around. Oh my God. Now that it’s daylight, I can finally see the source of all the rustling and tweeting and screeching and howling we heard last night. “Holy frickin’ moly,” I say. Our tree house is surrounded on all sides by a lush, green, almost surreal jungle canopy, stretching as far as the eye can see. “Oh my God.”

  I leap out of bed, mesmerized by the jungle all around me. Oh man, I really, really, really have to pee, but seeing the jungle up close and personal is more important than any bodily function right now. I join Jonas out on the deck in the already-balmy morning sunshine.

  “Incredible, right?” he says, grabbing my hand and leading me to the railing.

  My jaw hangs open. “It’s like I just leaped into an Indiana Jones movie—or, like, a real-life Disney ride.”

  He laughs. “Exactly. There’s no other place quite like this on earth.”

  “Wow.” I can’t think of a better word than that.

  Somewhere to the left of us, a monkey releases an urgent, plaintive howl.

  “Are you taking notes on how to do that?” Jonas asks, laughing.

  I dart toward the sound, trying to get a glimpse of the monkey who made it, wherever it is, but the foliage is just too thick to see anything. “I can’t see him,” I say, frowning.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll see lots and lots of monkeys today. It’s easier to see ‘em from down below.” He claps his hands in excited anticipation. “But, first, you’ve gotta get your delectable ass in gear.”

  He looks at me like a cat about to devour a mouse and it’s suddenly, abundantly clear my butt’s about to get chomped again. I squeal and run back inside, laughing, and he follows me, cackling wickedly and stomping loudly right behind me. When he catches me in the spacious bathroom, he wraps his arms around me and picks me up off the ground like I’m a rag doll. He gropes at my butt with exaggerated enthusiasm and nibbles voraciously on my neck.

  Yet again, I squeal. I can’t help myself.

  “Delicious,” he says in between bites. “Mmm mmm mmm. Tasty.”

  And, with that, his erection makes an enthusiastic appearance against my thigh. He gently places my feet back on the floor, but continues holding me tight, his hard-on grinding into me. “If your neck tastes this good, I can’t wait to taste the rest of you tonight.” He tilts his chin up toward the ceiling and he yells with glee at the top of his lungs. “I’m finally, finally gonna lick and kiss and suck my baby’s sweet pussy tonight!” His eyes are on fire. “Mmm mmm mmm.” He laughs and leans his forehead against mine. “Madness,” he says simply, looking into my eyes. He smiles broadly. “Utter madness.” Without warning, he slaps my ass again, this time with added gusto (making me yelp), and bounds out of the bathroom, hooting and hollering. “Meet me on the deck for breakfast, baby. You gotta fuel up!”

  What have I gotten myself into? I’m slathered in a sticky combination of sunscreen and mosquito repellant—the most high-octane mosquit
o repellant known to man, so I’m told—slogging through a dense jungle rain forest along a narrow, uneven trail covered in thick mud, vines, tree roots and wet rocks. Miguel, our guide, is hiking through the mud in front of me, charting the least slippery path for us, and Jonas is behind me, variously reminding me to place my feet exactly in Miguel’s footprints or watch out for a large root sticking out of the ground or to steer clear of an ant hill the size of a Volkswagen. Thank God Jonas told me to get extra thick-tread hiking boots, or I already would have slipped and broken my neck five different times—or, at the very least, sprained my ankle. It’s not the rainy season this time of year, Miguel has told us, but even during this alleged “dry season,” as he calls it, torrential downpours nonetheless rain down on this lush inland area at least three times a week. Hence, the sloshy mud I’m currently navigating.

  At periodic intervals, Miguel points out a tree or root that he says has healing properties or a particularly nutritious tree nut a person could eat if they were lost in the jungle without provisions, or stops to single out a prehistoric-looking tree with poisonous spines covering its trunk. I feel like I’ve been dropped into Jurassic Park. I keep waiting for a T. rex to ramble into frame and swallow me whole like that guy who gets chomped while sitting on a toilet. Twice, Miguel’s stopped to study the path in front of us with narrow eyes and sudden concentration, and when I asked him in a hushed voice what he was looking for, he whispered over his shoulder, “Snake.” The phrase that keeps scrolling through my mind on an endless loop is, This shit is real.

  I still don’t know our destination in all this. Miguel has a huge pack on his back, filled to bursting with I don’t know what. Jonas also wears a pack, but it seems to be filled with nothing more than sunscreen and jugs of water for the two of us.

  “How you doing, baby?” Jonas asks. “You need a water break?”

  “No, I’m good,” I reply. “Great, actually. Freaking out a teeny bit. But great.”