Nothing to Hide

by Isabel Sharpe

  As if on cue, his phone chimed the arrival of a text from Allie.

  Still barely moving. Should arrive around seven maybe?

  Seven. Two more hours. He could have gone to his morning client meeting instead of rescheduling. His boss had not been happy with the cancellation, or with Jonas taking more time off while they were at a crucial phase of developing a new client.

  Jonas didn’t really care.

  As long as he was in the process of making lists of everything pissing him off, he’d add that not caring bothered him, too. Jonas had always cared about doing a good job, even if the work didn’t thrill him. Not just at this job, at all of them, starting with his bakery job as a teenager. Did it matter if flour under the ovens wasn’t swept up since no one would see it? Maybe not. But even though the other employees his age sneered at him, he wanted to be better than just adequate. Do your best work or don’t bother had been his dad’s mantra. Jonas had always done his best. Erik was the one always trying to get away with less.

  Out of the car, he paused for the first long breath of clear lake air, feeling a reluctant sense of homecoming. They’d need to put the house on the market soon, maybe before the end of summer while people were still thinking about the season. They’d have to hire a real-estate agent, make sure the house was in good shape, decide about storing the contents, all while communicating overseas with his parents for instructions and signatures.

  Giant pain in the ass.

  In the cottage, he hauled his suitcase up to the bedroom, running his hand over the freshly made bed—Clarissa would have been there that morning to clean and change sheets. He hoped to be sleeping in that bed with Allie tonight.

  The thought brought on a burst of pleasure and a dark burn of irritation. Or was it fear? He didn’t know what the hell was happening to him anymore. After an emotionally charged goodbye on Tuesday, she’d returned to New York and to an emotional arm’s length for the rest of the week. Until yesterday, he hadn’t even been sure she’d be back this weekend.

  But he was absolutely sure he wanted to spend tonight with her, feeling her naked body against his all night long.

  Unpacked, he headed downstairs and out toward the big house to see what Erik was up to and find out how things had gone with Sandra this week. She’d probably passed Jonas on the highway heading back to Boston for weekend performances—going sixty-five, while he was lucky to go one-quarter that fast.

  “Erik?” He pushed open the door.

  “Hey, Jonas. In here.”

  Jonas strode toward the kitchen, and stopped in the doorway, appalled. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink. The floor was unswept. Blinds drawn. His brother, his face unshaven, was watching some video or movie on his iPad.

  “What the hell happened? Why didn’t Clarissa clean?”

  “Oh, I told her not to bother. That I’d do it.” Erik blinked around him, mole-like, seeming surprised at the mess. “I didn’t want her to have to deal with it since there’s kind of a lot.”

  “Uh, yeah, kind of.” He stood watching his brother, hands on his hips. “Allie was supposed to be here by now.”

  “And?”

  Jonas gestured to the mess. “And you want her to see this?”

  “Uh...” Erik gave him a look as if he was speaking some other language. “I don’t really think it matters one way or the other.”

  “Did you wash a single dish all week?”

  “Hey.” Erik closed his iPad. “My dishwashing pace is my business.”

  “In your own house. Not one we share.”

  “Lighten up, dude. No rape, no murder and no kidnapping happened here. I will wash the dishes. The kitchen will be clean.”

  “Are you still in your bathrobe?”

  Erik chuckled, shaking his head. “Yes, Dad.”

  Jonas saw red for a moment. He would really like to punch his brother in the nose. “I wouldn’t have to be like this if you’d taken ten minutes to—”

  He locked his jaw shut, appalled that Erik was right. He sounded exactly like their dad.

  For a tense few seconds he stared at his brother, still wanting to punch him, but recognizing that maybe Erik was a trigger, not the underlying problem.

  “Okay.” He let out the breath he’d been holding. “You’re right. I’m sounding exactly like him. God, Erik, I’m losing my shit.”

  “Yeah? Welcome to the club. I can’t find mine anywhere, either.”

  Jonas had his hands halfway up to his face when what his brother said hit him, and instead of holding his aching head, he burst out laughing, pleased as hell when Erik joined him. They hadn’t laughed together in a long time.

  “You want to go for a run?” He automatically prepared himself for Erik’s refusal. “I need to get rid of this bad energy.”

  “Sure.”

  Jonas gaped at him. “Yeah?”

  “What, you think I don’t know how to run?”

  “Hey, I wasn’t sure.” Jonas grinned. “I’ll change and meet you outside.”

  Five minutes later, in his running shorts and shoes, Jonas was surprised to find Erik dressed and waiting. And even more surprised when he set a moderate pace and his brother was able to keep up. “You been running in the city?”

  “Some. Mostly the gym.”

  Gym? Erik? “Since when?”

  “Since I found out Allie runs.”

  Jonas snorted. “Everything for the women, huh?”

  “Been meaning to ask, Jonas, how come you’re here this weekend?”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay. Touché.” They turned north on tree-lined Lake Shore Drive, aka Route 9, which meandered along the western shore of the lake.

  “I’d say the woman has you.”

  “Nobody has me. I’m just up here because—”

  “You can’t stop thinking about her, because you have this intense craving for her body and the way she smells and smiles and speaks and—”

  “For God’s sake, Erik. You sound like you’re in a movie.”

  “But I’m right.”

  He was. But Jonas wasn’t going to admit it. “I’m here because we need to talk seriously about selling the house.”

  “What is wrong with you?” Erik stopped, then threw up his hands and sprinted to catch up when Jonas kept running. “Why can’t you admit you’re falling for her?”

  “I’m not you.”

  “I noticed.” He cleared his throat, breathing heavily now. “I’m falling for Sandra.”

  “Yeah?” Jonas feigned surprise. “Cool. Who’s it going to be next week?”

  “I’m serious, man.” His voice was so somber, Jonas glanced over at him. He did look serious. Or maybe the run was about to give him a heart attack. “I’ve never felt this way about any woman. I think this is it.”

  “Come on.” Jonas slowed his pace to go easier on his brother. “Last week you said that about Allie.”

  “That was different. I wanted to marry Allie because I thought it was time I got married and that she’d be good for me. Comfortable, you know. Like old clothes.” He looked over at Jonas apologetically. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” Though Erik’s thinking that someone as unpredictable and exciting as Allie was comfortable was like...well, like the way Jonas had thought about settling down with Sandra. What had seemed pleasant and possible back then would now feel like settling, not settling down.

  They ran on, passing the boat store where Dad had bought their kayaks, a few houses of neighbors he’d met and enjoyed. It would be hard to give this place up.

  “I think I’m in love with her.” Erik betrayed his agitation by speeding nearly to a sprint.

  “Erik.” Jonas couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Over the years his brother had used every word in the dictionary to describe his feelings for women. All except for that one. “Did you just say you think—”

  “No, I don’t think. I am in love with her.” His voice was thick with emotion. “What the hell am I going to do?”

  “Do? You’re
asking me?” Jonas started laughing. “I couldn’t even admit why I came up here this weekend.”

  “What is wrong with us?” Erik was laughing, too. “I mean, really, this emotion stuff shouldn’t be so hard. We grew up in such an open and supportive family.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Between running and laughing, Jonas could barely get the words out. “Every night at dinner it was the same from Dad, ‘Jonas, Erik, please share your feelings with your mother and me.’”

  “Ha!” Erik could barely catch his breath. “Yes! ‘We would like to listen with respect and then validate those emotions, so we will never ever make you feel as if you couldn’t possibly measure up to our standards.’”

  “‘Afterward, your mother and I would like to share our feelings. We’ll admit we’re only human and let you off the hook for being that way, too.’”

  “‘What’s that, Erik?’” Erik put a hand to his ear as if he were their father listening to a distant voice. “‘You think I can be a narrow-minded, intolerant son of a bitch? Thank you for sharing that.’”

  Jonas ran faster, feeling as if he were on the verge of bursting out of some too-tight shell. “‘What, Jonas? Did you say you were effing tired of being responsible all the time? Go wild! Please let your mother and I know how we can help with your quest for self-knowledge and fulfillment.’”

  Erik dropped behind while a car passed them. “Can you imagine?”

  “Not really.”

  They ran on, past woods, mowed lawns, occasional houses or businesses, no longer chuckling.

  “Though in the end, it’s too easy to blame our parents.” Jonas used his shirt to wipe his forehead. “They did their best. It’s up to us to be who we want to be.”

  “True.” Erik was starting to sound winded. “Me? I want to be a man in bed with Sandra for the rest of my life.”

  “So drive to Boston and tell her.”

  Erik stopped abruptly. Jonas turned back after momentum carried him a few more steps. Erik stood, panting, looking as if he’d just been zapped with electricity.

  “What am I, a moron?”

  Jonas winced. “Dude, don’t hand me that one.”

  “Drive to Boston. Why did that never occur to me?”

  “That initiative thing...”

  “Yeah, not my strong point.” Erik shook his head, leaning forward, hands braced on his thighs. “What’s even scarier is that you are the one who had to tell me to be spontaneous.”

  “I planned it.” Jonas waved dismissively. “It’s in my date book. Five-seventeen p.m. Tell Erik to be spontaneous.”

  Erik straightened and gave Jonas a high five. “C’mon, let’s go back.”

  “What, now?” Jonas gestured to the road ahead. “We barely did a mile! This highway ends in Canada.”

  “Ha! Race you to the house.”

  Jonas sprang into action, beating his brother, but not by as much as he’d expected. Erik had been taking this working-on-himself thing seriously. Jonas hadn’t given him enough credit.

  “Hey.” He socked Erik on the shoulder, the closest he and his brother got to a hug. “You’re really serious about getting your life under control. I’m proud of you.”

  Erik tried to hide his grin under eye-rolling, but it was clear Jonas’s comment pleased him. “And you—you’re really losing control, dude. I’m proud of you.”

  It was Jonas’s turn to roll his eyes. He wasn’t quite sure his brother’s comment had pleased him the same way, but he knew what Erik meant. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

  “I’m going to shower and pack. Allie coming soon?”

  “A couple of hours.”

  “Cool.” He started for the house, then paused and turned back to give Jonas a brief hug. “I love you, man.”

  “Jeez, Erik.” Jonas grinned, meeting his brother’s eyes so he’d know the words had touched him, though he had too much of his dad in him to answer. “Meyer men don’t— What am I supposed to say to that?”

  “Just one thing.” Erik held up his hand, backing toward the house, grinning. “That you’d be happy to clean up the kitchen.”

  12

  STILL DRIPPING from an unexpected rain shower, Sandra let herself into her tiny apartment—a crappy place in a decent neighborhood in Somerville, but she insisted on living alone, and this was what she could afford.

  Her show tonight had been grim. The bar was only half-full, half of the people there weren’t listening to her songs and some drunk guy in a cowboy hat kept making obnoxious comments. That song is as old as my grandma. Play Freebird. I wanna refund. Nights like this she was ready to give up the whole career.

  She dumped her bag on the kitchen table and kicked her flip-flops onto the orange-and-brown shag carpet, which must have looked clean and new at some point, but she couldn’t imagine it had ever looked good.

  A quick shower later, she wrapped herself up in a thin cotton robe and contemplated the contents of her refrigerator. A few eggs. A hunk of cheese with white mold on one corner.

  Forget it. She wasn’t hungry.

  She missed Erik.

  Sandra slammed the refrigerator door closed. Damn it, this was not supposed to have happened. They were supposed to have fun; she was supposed to teach him a lesson about respecting women, about being a real man like his brother instead of a live-for-the-moment boy. And in the process, he was supposed to get the idea of marrying her and turn her life of struggle into easy street, while she gave him the combination of stability he craved and wildness he needed.

  Somehow he’d turned the tables on her, gotten her to open up, tell him things she’d told nobody, made her vulnerable to him in a way she hadn’t been vulnerable since her mom and dad kicked her out of the house when she needed them most. What kind of parents let their seventeen-year-old daughter marry a thirty-year-old she’d known for six weeks? And then punish her by disowning her, as if she’d been old enough to make a wise decision on her own?

  She’d sworn she’d never need anyone like that again. So far she’d done well. Her marriage had been an act of rebellion. Edwin hadn’t been able to touch her, nor had Jake or any boyfriend since, with the possible exception of Jonas. But even he had never gotten to her like this.

  When she left Erik yesterday morning—keeping their goodbye casual, thanking him for the wild time, and telling him she hoped she’d see him again soon—she’d been dying inside. Then and all the way home. That drunk cowboy tonight probably deserved a refund. Most likely what sucked about her show was her. She’d been going through the motions.

  Damn it.

  Erik hadn’t said he’d call her, or text her, or given any indication that he’d like to see her again. And right there she was pissed. Why should she care? She had never been and never wanted to be the kind of woman who fretted over crap like that; she didn’t need to fret over it this time. Two secrets had been told so far. After the third, he got sex. He’d call.

  Or maybe she’d scared him away.

  Tuesday night after Allie left, Jonas had been around, and they’d had an uproarious evening drinking and telling stories until late. Wednesday she and Erik had been alone, and after a delicious dinner with excellent wine, they’d continued their game. He’d told her he’d once slept with a married woman he was crazy about, and then she freaked out and went back to her husband, leaving him brokenhearted and totally disgusted with himself.

  Then it was her turn. She’d started fine, telling him briefly about her impulsive marriage to a controlling man, and her escape from him into the world of exotic dancing. This time she would stay cool. She understood every level of what she’d done, and he couldn’t turn this one back on her.

  He hadn’t. She’d broken down all by herself. Because instead of being shocked or titillated, Erik had been immediately sympathetic, imagining the betrayal she’d felt when her marriage became unbearable, the frustration of turning to dancing for a living when she wanted to be taken seriously as a vocal artist... Whether it was the wine or not, Sandra had come undone. She’d to
ld him everything. Her stories, all the truths, all her power had poured out of her. How her dancing had been thrilling at first, how she’d reveled in the power over men after feeling victim to Edwin for nearly five years. Then the boredom, the dissatisfaction, the drugs, the man who tempted her with the money she could make as an “escort.” How close she’d come to doing just that, leaving the first guy without taking his money. Her subsequent struggle to get out and get clean.

  Sandra had only cried a few times in her life. When her parents disinherited her. When she left her husband. When she woke up after her first and only night as a call girl. And that night in front of poor Erik who hadn’t signed on for anything more than a flirtatious game with a tough girl from Southie.

  Yes, to correct her misstep, she’d initiated a fabulous full-body make-out session that left Erik crazy with lust, back where she wanted him. But Thursday morning she’d gotten a call to cover for a singer she owed favors to, and she’d had to leave, without being sure the damage control was complete.

  Now here she was, missing the bastard, terrified he had her under his power as much as he was under hers. Or the unthinkable—maybe more.

  Somewhere in her kitchen cabinet was a really nice bottle of wine a drunk bar manager had given her a few months back, which she’d saved for a special occasion. At the time she’d hoped it would be a happy one. But maybe this was more appropriate.

  She’d just extracted the cork and was about to pour when her phone rang.

  Yeah, whoever it was could just screw him-or herself.

  Maybe it was Erik.

  She rolled her eyes and poured. Yeah, or Gerard Butler.

  The phone kept ringing.

  It wasn’t going to be Erik.

  Except it might be.

  She stared at the bottle, at the single glass of wine next to it...and yanked the phone out of her pocket.

  It was Erik.

  “Sandra. How was the show?”

  “Dismal.” She was instantly fizzy inside, having become an utter fool. Hearing his voice was like being given a big drink when you were thirsty—with no idea when the next drink would be coming or how long the supply would last.