13. Jonah
Jonah
I know something’s wrong the second she walks into the kitchen. This is not the Ani we’ve come to know over the last few days.
She has fully retreated into her shell. And it’s even worse than that. Because she’s not just moving quietly and slowly. Her feet actually drag. Her shoulders are hunched. There’s no laughter, no attempt to play with Mae.
Before, she was trying at least.
Now she just sits at the table in one of the sweatshirts from the front closet—mine, I think, judging by the stretched-out cuffs—and stares in front of her.
I pour her tea anyway. Same as always. Earl Grey, a splash of almond milk, no sweetener. I set the mug down near her elbow, but she doesn’t lift her head. Doesn’t say thank you.
That’s when I know for sure something’s really wrong.
“Morning,” I offer, testing to see how she’ll respond.
She nods but doesn’t meet my eyes.
She’s pulled so far inward it’s a miracle she made it out of bed, and whatever happened to shove her back inside herself has got to be pretty bad.
Mae finishes her cereal and hops off the chair without a word. She disappears down the hallway with a book tucked under one arm.
Ani’s still staring straight ahead. And I’m too caught up in watching her to scold Mae for not washing out her bowl and putting it on the drainboard.
I lean against the counter and try not to make her feel watched. Her hand lifts to the mug, fingers curling around it, but she doesn’t drink.
I wait.
Nothing.
Finn walks in ten minutes later, humming under his breath. It’s the same song I’ve heard Ani humming a time or two. I shake this jealousy off. This is a good thing, I tell myself. Finn is good for her. I’m not.
His hair’s still wet from the shower. He’s wearing that same old T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up and his usual smile.
Usually he gets a return smile from Ani, but he doesn’t today.
That makes his cheery mood falter. He gives Ani a once-over, something flickering behind his eyes before he moves to her side.
Finn bends, presses a kiss to her temple, and stays there for a second. His hand covers hers on the table, thumb brushing along her knuckles. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t lean into it either.
He crouches next to her chair. “Hey. You okay?”
She nods stiffly.
He doesn’t push, but the furrow in his brow and the quick glance he throws my way tells me he’s just as worried—and confused—as I am. I shrug in response to his unasked question.
His expression is tight as he steps back, grabs a pan from the rack, and starts pulling out ingredients like he’s trying to fill the room with noise.
A few minutes later, she pushes her untouched mug forward, mumbles something about laundry, and disappears down the hall.
Finn stares at the spot where she was.
“She’s spiraling again,” he says without looking at me.
I look down the hall after her as I shift, leaning back into the counter. “What happened?”
He shakes his head, jaw clenching for a second before he answers. “I don’t know.”
That’s worse than if he did. Finn usually knows what’s going on with her. But not today, apparently.
“She barely looked at me,” he adds.
Finn begins cracking eggs into the pan with more force than usual.
“We talked yesterday,” he says after a beat. “Maybe I said the wrong thing.”
“Or maybe she heard something you didn’t actually say.”
It’s too easy to imagine what might’ve happened. She’s still adjusting to being here. Maybe the freedom tasted too sweet too fast. Maybe she’s crashing from it now.
Or maybe it’s something else entirely. There was something in her eyes this morning. A dull kind of panic she was trying to smother.
“She talked about you,” Finn says.
My eyes flick toward him. “What does that mean?”
“She trusts you in a way she doesn’t trust me. It’s…what I have with her is different,” Finn responds, shrugging his shoulders.
I turn that over in my mind, try to figure out what it means. She’s still young, still rebuilding. She’s figuring out what she needs. And it sure as hell isn’t someone like me.
She deserves soft and steady and safe. Finn is all of those things.
I’m not.
But I can’t stop the feeling.
“She’s not mine,” I say firmly.
Finn’s quiet a moment. Then, without turning, he mutters, “Doesn’t mean you don’t want her to be.”
“I don’t—that’s?—”
“Look, all I’m saying is you might be the only one she lets in this time. Just…try.”
I want to. I do. But how am I going to get through to her?
When I finally find her where she can’t easily escape me, it’s long past sunset. The porch light hasn’t been turned on, but there’s enough glow from the moon to see her outline at the edge of the steps.
She’s sitting with her legs pulled in tight, shoulders curled forward, still wrapped in one of my old sweatshirts. The thing’s oversized enough that she’s tucked her legs into it, hiding everything but her bare toes. Her hair’s a little wild, and her hands are buried in the sleeves.
She looks so small. And so damn beautiful.
I move slowly, giving her time to hear me coming. She doesn’t turn around, just tilts her head slightly when I sit down beside her.
She doesn’t immediately retreat, which I take as a win. Every time I’ve managed to get close to her today, she’s tightened—physically, emotionally. Like she’s bracing for something. But now, she just exhales. Barely a sound, but enough to let me know I’m not unwelcome.
I rest my arms on my knees, giving her space. And then I let the silence settle between us. We sit in the quiet together, listening to the distant hum of night insects and the occasional creak of the house settling behind us.
When she speaks, it’s almost too soft to catch.
“I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”
I glance over. Her profile’s faint in the low light, but I can make out the tight line of her jaw. “You didn’t worry us,” I say. But the soft huff tells me she doesn’t buy my bullshit. “Okay, you worried us.”
“Finn sent you.”
“I would have come anyway, Ani. I care about you.”
That gets her attention. She looks at me, and our eyes meet for the first time today. I hope she can’t see the desperation written all over my face.
God, the way I want this girl…
“I’m okay,” she says quickly, and it sounds rehearsed. One of those phrases people say out of habit more than truth.
I nod slowly. “You don’t have to be, you know.”
Ani presses her lips together. Her hands tighten in the sleeves. Then she looks down at the porch.
“My old life is still trying to pull me back,” she says in a brittle voice. “And I don’t know how long I can hold it off. Boone is right about me.”
That lands hard. “Are you in danger?”
She shakes her head, but it’s not convincing. “Not…directly.”
“What does that mean?”
Her fingers curl tighter. “It means I didn’t leave because I was being chased. I left because staying would have slowly killed me.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then she adds, “I ran away the night before my wedding. Everyone thought it was a good match. On paper, he was perfect. But no one ever asked me.”
I swallow hard.
“He wasn’t cruel,” she says, almost defensively. “Not in the way people think of cruelty. I mean, he wasn't exactly nice. His comments had bite. But I couldn’t breathe. I was disappearing. And my family was happy to watch me wither. They expected it, even.”
Something lodges in my throat. “So you ran.”
She nods once. “I had to.”
The moonlight catches the curve of her cheek. Her skin’s paler than usual. The shadows under her eyes are darker. But there’s a strength in the way she finally says these things aloud.
“Does anyone know where you are?”
“I don’t think so,” she responds. “If they did they would have come to take me back.”
She continues. “When I say everything I had burned up in that motel fire, I meant it. I’d squirreled money away for years so that I had something…just in case I got up the nerve to leave. I gave the motel a false name, paid in cash. Even you don’t know my name.”
That part stings, even though I understand it. “Your name isn’t actually Ani?”
“It’s my preferred name, yes. But few people actually refer to me by it. Nicknames aren’t proper in my culture.”
“We wouldn’t have turned you in.”
“I know.” Her voice softens. “I believe that now. But I didn’t know who I could trust.”
I nod. “I get that. Do you trust us now?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me what changed. Because you went from a woman finding her way to a shell of yourself today.”
She hesitates. And I can tell she’s weighing how much she can tell me.
“I used the laptop.”
“Okay. I told you that you could. But you didn’t seem interested before.”
“I wasn’t,” she says quickly. “Not really. But I needed to know. I told myself it would help if I could just...see how bad it was. If they were even looking for me.”
“And?”
Her lips press together, and her eyes drop. “There were messages. Dozens of them. From everyone—friends, relatives, people I haven’t spoken to in years. Some were kind. Most weren’t.”
Ah. I can see how that might derail her.
“They think I’ve lost my mind,” she continues. “That I’ve been brainwashed, or kidnapped. That I’ve been poisoned by ‘bad influences.’”
I take her hand in mine and squeeze it gently. “And your parents?”
She pulls her hand from mine so she can wrap her arms around her knees again. She curls in tighter this time.
“They’re leading the charge. My mother said I’ve humiliated the family. My father wants me to come home immediately and ‘do the right thing’ before it’s too late. I’m not a good daughter. I’ve forgotten my place. I’ll regret this.”
Her voice cracks on that last part.
“They think I’m broken,” she says. “Or dangerous. Or both.”
“Are you?”
She blinks, startled. “What?”
“Are you broken?” I ask again. “Are you dangerous?”
“No,” she whispers.
“Then they’re wrong.”
She exhales. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not,” I admit. “I know that.”
“I just wanted to be free,” she says. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I didn’t mean to make a mess. I just...I didn’t want to disappear.”