17. Claire
17
CLAIRE
We get back to the hotel around nine.
We stayed at the tower until sunset, and then he took me to dinner.
I’ve tried so hard not to stress over the dinner, but the cuisine was unfamiliar, and now I have no idea how many calories I need to burn off. Jonah wouldn’t let me order anything simple. He insisted on dessert. I’ve been fixating on it since, and that anxiety only spikes my feelings of failure. One unplanned meal, and I’m teetering on the edge of panic.
Eight weeks of treatment up in smoke, and I let a man unworthy of me light the match.
No. That’s not true. He may have handed me the match, but I’m the one who struck it and set everything ablaze.
The realization only makes my stomach roil. It only makes everything worse. My throat burns. My teeth ache. My bones and limbs grow heavy, and I feel everything I worked for slipping away.
I never should have stopped seeing my therapist.
I never should have?—
“You okay?”
I shake my head and whip my attention toward Jonah. His eyes are on me, assessing me as if peeling back my carefully constructed layers and seeing every flaw underneath.
“Yeah. Fine. Just tired.”
“You’ve been off since dinner. ”
I look away and busy myself with kicking off my shoes and pulling my hair from the ponytail.
“I’m not feeling well. I’m going to get ready for bed.”
He hums, his stare never leaving me, and I feel like he knows I’m lying. When I walk into the bedroom to gather my toiletries and pajamas, he follows, and I can feel his gaze on my back.
“I’m sorry I didn’t take any pictures today,” I say into my suitcase. “I forgot it was supposed to be a photo op.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and when I stand and look at him, he’s still staring at me. His eyes are narrowed in thought, and he’s picking at his thumb again.
“It’s fine,” he says finally. “I didn’t do it as a PR stunt, anyway.”
The soft smile that forms on my lips is an honest one. It momentarily quiets the screaming in my head.
“Thank you again, Jonah. I really, really enjoyed today.”
He nods, then moves toward his side of the room. He waits until he disappears behind the partition before he answers.
“So did I.”
I watch his shadow as he changes. His arms rise as he pulls off his shirt. His back bows as he kicks off his jeans. I can hear the clothing fall to the floor, and I swear the jangle of his belt echoes through the otherwise quiet room. When he finally drops into bed, I turn and walk calmly into the bathroom.
I go through the motions of my nightly routine. I change into pajamas. I carry out my six-step skincare regimen. The whole time, I work to keep my eyes on the sink until they’re pulled to the mirror, and I spend too long staring at my reflection. I focus on the way my face has filled out, but instead of cringing, I tell myself it’s a good thing. It’s what I wanted. My eyes are brighter. My hair is fuller. I look healthy. I haven’t ruined that. Yet.
My attention falls to the curls at my hairline. Out of curiosity, I reach up and finger one. I tug on it, pulling it straight and letting it bounce back. My lips curl into a small smile.
I love how it does that.
Jonah’s voice echoes in my head once more as I walk to my bed. I pull back the duvet and climb onto the soft mattress, then I do what I always do. I grab my phone, log into my social media, and go to my ex- best-friend’s profile. There’s nothing new, so I go to my brother’s profile. I know he never posts, but I’m still disappointed when I find nothing.
I decide to check the follower count on Jonah’s profile. It’s been growing by the thousands every day. He’ll be to one million soon if it keeps going this route. When his profile appears on my screen, though, my eyes don’t go to the follower count. They go straight to the most recent photo. It’s not one I scheduled, and it makes my entire body tingle.
I click on the picture to enlarge it and blink several times before I’m convinced it’s real. There’s no caption, but it’s time-stamped only fifteen minutes ago. He must have posted it when I was in the bathroom.
The photo is of me on the roof of Belém Tower. I’m not tagged, and my back is to the camera as I look out toward the ocean. You can’t see my face, just my curly hair in the ponytail and Jonah’s large leather jacket draped over my shoulders. The like count just keeps rising. Thousands and thousands of likes, and I’m grateful that the comments are turned off. I don’t know how this will affect my PR campaign, but in this moment, I don’t care.
I’m just...warm. Warm and blushing, and trying like hell to stifle a laugh.
I close my eyes and drop my phone onto the bed beside me. It means nothing. It’s just a picture. But...
I slap my hand over my face and swallow back a groan.
But fuck .
I fall asleep grinning, replaying scenes from the day in Belém. At some point, my dreams turn heated. Stolen kisses. Possessive stares. Sensual caresses. And just before it becomes full-on X-rated, reality crashes through.
Jonah turns into Conrad. He says terrible things. He belittles me. Berates me. Beats me down into myself until my own insecurities are crashing over me, stealing my breath and my power. Drowning me in guilt.
Women do these things when they’ve been scorned.
He’s right. I have done terrible, terrible things. Broken hearts. Ruined lives. My best friend flashes in my head. My brother. Their son.
And then I wake up .
Jonah’s deep breathing is the only sound in the dark room, and quietly, I climb out of my bed and tiptoe into the bathroom. I empty my stomach into the toilet with tears streaming down my face. I rinse my mouth twice, swishing for at least thirty seconds each time, and then I brush my teeth with my eyes closed so I don’t have to see my reflection in the mirror. I take a Xanax, lie back down in bed, and take comfort in the familiar feeling of emptiness.
I tell myself that I’ll call my therapist in the morning.
The first show in Lisbon is a good one.
Just like every show in Stockholm, this one is sold out. The energy in the stadium is palpable, and I find myself buzzing along with it. The excitement becomes contagious, and for the first time, I watch the entire show. I, of course, take photos for Jonah’s social media, but I pay more attention to the show outside of the viewfinder this time. I let myself really see The Hometown Heartless perform, and the experience is unlike any live show I’ve ever seen.
Sav’s stage presence is legendary. She plays the crowd like she plays her guitar. She laughs and it vibrates through the audience. I feel every ounce of emotion she puts behind the songs she sings, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that she’ll go down in history as a music icon. She’s larger than life, and everyone in this stadium knows it.
It’s not just her, though. The whole band has a visible, almost tangible, chemistry. They’re so in sync, so tapped into each other, that I suddenly understand how they’ve made it this long. I get how they managed to hold on through all the challenges and dark times. I get why they’re fighting so hard for Jonah. They’re a family, and I’m envious.
A feeling of sadness washes over me. What would it be like to have something like that? Where every flaw is known and your family loves you, anyway. Where you’re not alone when you’re hurting or struggling. Where people fight for you when you can’t fight for yourself. I can’t even fathom it. Even in the best friendship I’ve ever had, I still kept secrets. I still spent every day pretending to be something I wasn’t. And when it mattered the most, I let down the people I loved.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t even realize the show is coming to an end. The crowd roars so loud that I have to put my hands over my ears, but I can’t help but laugh at the smirk on Sav’s face. She always looks like she’s about to pull a prank or tell a secret. Her charisma is unmatched.
“Lisbon, you’ve been beautiful. This is a show we won’t forget.”
Sav’s grin grows as she pauses, and it feels like the crowd takes a collective inhale. They’re waiting for something, and I don’t understand it until Sav leans in to speak once more.
“Now, Lisbon, even though this is good night...”
“It’s not goodbye,” the crowd shouts back in unison, and Sav’s laugh booms through the stadium.
“But just in case, so you don’t forget us, back there is Mabel on drums, over here is Jonah on guitar, that’s Torren on bass, my name is Sav Loveless, and we’re The Hometown Heartless. Thank you so much, Lisbon! We love you! Have a great night.”
The audience cheers as the lights dim, then one by one, the band members walk off stage. Then the crowd starts to stomp and chant encore , encore , and I swear I can feel the stadium shake. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn in the morning that it registered as an earthquake.
The chanting and stomping don’t stop until the lights come back up just enough to show four shadowy figures moving back to their instruments. The chants turn into cheers, the stage lights brighten, and The Hometown Heartless launch into another song. This one is the only song I recognize, and I’m excited to be able to sing along on the chorus.
I understand fandoms now. There’s something to be said for loving something so fiercely and bonding with millions of people over that love. It’s a connection unlike any other, especially on a scale this massive. When the final notes of the encore song fade out and the stadium lights come on, I’m actually sad that it’s over. Sad and already looking forward to tomorrow’s show.
Because I was standing behind the barricade, I’m able to avoid the mass exodus of bodies as everyone pours through the exit doors. Instead of going to the dressing room, though, I have one of the security guards take me back to the hotel. As amazing as that show was, I need just a little longer before I have to see Jonah again. With any luck, I can pretend to be asleep before he gets back to the suite.
He's messing with my head. I can’t tell if he’s playing me, or if he’s really just accepted me being here. I don’t like not knowing. It’s an obstacle I don’t know how to tackle. Worse, I don’t know if I want to.
This morning, he made my double espresso and was ready for the gym even before I was. He was not only cooperative during our guitar video session, but he complimented me multiple times. And then there was the touching, the smiles, the eye contact...
It just...
It just made my brain go a little fuzzy, and that’s the last thing that needs to happen. It’s not a good idea to fall for Jonah Hendrix, but I’m not an idiot. I know I’ve got a crush. It’s hard to avoid when he’s being so...
I don’t even know.
Attentive? Kind?
Suggestive...
But the part that messes with me the most? I know for a fact that if I wanted something to happen, it could happen. Jonah Hendrix is a slut, and no matter what his motives are, if I wanted to fall into bed with him, he’d be all for it. The little comments he makes? The invitations? They’re not just jokes. There’s truth behind them.
If I wanted him to fuck me, he’d gladly do it.
And unfortunately, just the thought of it makes my body hot. I have to press my palms into my eyes to force away the images of his naked, tattooed chest. He hasn’t been naked in front of me since we recorded “Landslide,” and truth be told, I’m disappointed. Disappointed but also grateful. If it happened again, I’d probably let myself look. My imagination is running wild, and it’s almost too much to bear.