31. Jonah
31
JONAH
“What do you mean she went to the hospital?”
Mabel flinches, then scowls at me. “You don’t have to yell, asshole. She’s fine. It was just a minor injury.”
An injury? She’s fucking injured? I start to pace. My already splitting fucking headache intensifies.
“Why am I just learning about it at fucking soundcheck? You didn’t think you should let one of us know?”
“Did you not hear me? It wasn’t a big deal. She’s fine, Jo.”
“What happened?” I snap the question as I pull my phone out of my pocket and turn it back on with shaking fingers. No missed texts pop up, but I’m kicking myself for ever turning it off.
She was in the hospital, and I didn’t know.
She was in the hospital, and I wasn’t there for her.
“Nothing. She just got a little dizzy on the treadmill.”
I whip my head back at Mabel. “A little dizzy?”
“She passed out.”
“She passed out?” I shout again. I can’t help it.
What the fuck was Claire doing on the treadmill? She was in her pajamas when I left. It was supposed to be our rest day. I pull up her contact and call her. A thousand thoughts swirl through my head as it rings. Did she eat? Is she overtired? Is she sick?
Then I see Theo.
Theo with his head shaved .
Theo with his face swollen.
Theo’s grave marker in our family mausoleum.
Images of Theo change to images of Claire. Claire, injured. Claire, sick and dying. Claire’s headstone.
Her phone goes to voicemail, and I want to fucking scream. Instead of leaving a message, I stick my phone back in my pocket and turn to leave.
“Where are you going? We’ve got soundcheck!” Sav calls after me. I wave a hand in the air, but I don’t stop walking.
“Do it without me. I’ll be back for the show.”
José takes me back to the hotel. I absently reach into my pocket twice for pills and come up empty. By the time I’m stepping into the elevator, both of my thumbs are bleeding, and my chest aches with panic.
Claire’s words from the other day hit me hard. I feel everything.
The moment I’m in the suite, I call her name. She doesn’t answer. I rush to the bedroom—maybe she’s sleeping—but I hear the shower running, so I change course. I don’t think. I don’t knock. I just open the bathroom door and walk in. Seeing her outline through the fogged-up shower door calms me slightly, but it’s not enough. I open the door and step right into the shower with her.
“Oh my God.” She whips around, eyes wide. Her hand splays over her chest and she pants. “Jonah. What are you doing?”
I look her over quickly, surveying every inch of her body. I ghost my hands over her wet skin. Looking for injury. Feeling for pain. She’s wearing some sort of shower cap, so I reach up and take it off her. There’s a small cut with two silver staples on her hairline. I try to touch it, but she wraps her hand around my wrist, stopping me.
“Careful. I’m not supposed to get it wet yet.”
I step closer, pressing her back into the tile wall. The shower hits my back, but she’s out of the stream. My clothes are soaked. My boots. I don’t care. I can’t take my eyes off her. Her face. The cut. The staples. I wrap my free hand around hers, just to keep myself from trying to touch it again.
I just need to feel her. I just need to know for sure that she’s unharmed. That she’s alive.
I feel everything.
“Does it hurt? Are you alright? What happened? ”
Her brows furrow as her eyes bounce between mine. “It doesn’t hurt.” She reaches up and puts her hand on my cheek. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
I hate that word. Okay . What does it even fucking mean? Again, I flash back to Theo. Sick and dying in our living room.
Everything will be okay. I promise.
It wasn’t okay. He lied. It’s one big fucking lie.
I lean into Claire and close my eyes. I breathe in the hot air. It smells like lavender and sugar. Like her. Slowly, my muscles start to relax. I grab her hip and pull her into me. I run my hand up her back so I can cup her neck.
Questions dance on the tip of my tongue. Accusations. How did this happen? How could you be so reckless? But when I open my mouth, I give her the rawest, most vulnerable truth. She’s always pulling the most painful truths out of me. She doesn’t even have to try.
“I was scared. Mabel said you went to the hospital, and I panicked.”
My voice is strained with exhaustion. Less than an hour and I feel like I’ve run a marathon. The longer I hold her, the longer I breathe her in, the more my muscles relax. Tension bleeds steadily from my body, and all I have to do is hold her close. I feel everything.
“I’m sorry.” She rests her head on my chest. “I’m okay. It was nothing.”
“Did you eat before you ran?”
I feel her body tense. There’s a charged moment of silence. She doesn’t have to tell me. I know the answer already.
“I was just dehydrated from all the traveling. I need to remember to drink more water.”
I force a swallow, clamping my eyes shut. She lied to me. She doesn’t trust me with the truth, and I know what that means. I know because I lie all the fucking time.
I was right. I was right about the calorie counting, and the toothbrush, and the obsessive fucking workouts. Something is wrong.
And if she’s ashamed, it’s probably bad.
Pressing the issue will make it worse. Prodding her with questions will only lead to more lies. I know it, because I fucking live it. If I push, she’ll retreat further into herself—further away from me—and that’s not acceptable. Not when I need her close .
“Okay,” I murmur into her hair. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
Okay .
It’s all one big fucking lie, and I feel everything .
Our opening band is halfway through their set, and she’s still not here.
I keep cycling from the dressing rooms to the stage wings. I take out my phone and text her once. It’s delivered, but it stays unread. I start thinking about all the things that could go wrong. She has a head wound. She could have a concussion. She could have internal bleeding. She could?—
I shove my hands in my hair and pull. I try to breathe. I reach into my pocket and come up empty.
Empty .
I pace.
I head out the exit and chain-smoke two cigarettes in a matter of minutes. When I’m still wired, I find my guitar case, rip open the liner and pull out my other cigarette case. There are pre-rolls in it, but no pills.
Like a fucking burglar, I steal back outside. I’ve never tried to hide smoking weed from anyone accept Brynn. Now, it feels like a deception, and I don’t even know why.
No, that’s not true. It’s because of Claire. Her perfectionist, bossy ass. I don’t want to disappoint her. I want to be worthy of her.
I light the pre-roll and suck until the end glows red. I hold it in my lungs until it burns, and I cough. I feel like such an asshole that the first hit only serves to make me feel more like an asshole. Like a liar and a failure.
I take another hit.
I drop my head on the wall and blow the smoke through my nose. I wait and wait. I check my phone. My text still says unread. I finish the pre-roll. A false-calm settles over my limbs. I feel heavier, but my thoughts are still loud. Spinning slower now, but still loud enough that I can’t handle it.
I’ve fucked up.
Inside, I find José.
“Vodka. Something small. Put it under my bed in the suite. ”
I don’t wait for him to say anything. I just turn around and find my roadie. I nod to the exit, then go into the bathroom to wait. I splash water on my face, then look in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, and I don’t even have eyedrops.
“Fuck me.”
At five minutes on the dot, I walk slowly to the exit. He’s already waiting for me.
“I don’t have cash on me, but I’ll get you after.”
He nods and hands over the ibuprofen bottle. “I know you’re good for it.”
“Thanks.”
I shove the bottle into my pocket, head back inside, then stop in my tracks.
“Claire.”
She looks from me to the roadie behind me and back.
“What were you just doing?” Her question is whispered, her voice shaky. And Jesus, she looks so sad. She’s not even angry. She’s just sad.
This is exactly what I didn’t want to do.
When I don’t answer her, she closes the distance between us, reaches into my pocket, and pulls out the ibuprofen bottle. Her eyes flutter shut. When she opens them, I expect to see anger. I don’t.
I wish it was anger. I’d take that over the disappointment I see.
Claire takes my hand and shoves the pill bottle back into my palm. My fingers close around it on impulse. I don’t know if I want to whip the bottle against the wall or put it back in my pocket. I do neither. I just stand there and stare at her.
“I have a headache. I’m going back to the room. Have a good show.”
I watch her leave, and I say nothing. I don’t try to stop her. When she’s gone, I turn to José.
“Why didn’t you stop her?”
His brow furrows. “I’m sorry.”
I huff and shove past him. A familiar emotion flares in my chest. It’s comfortable. I prefer it, and I feed into it. It grows until everything else is consumed. Sadness. Dejection. Disgust. It’s all gone.
Incinerated by rage .
My body is tense when I step into the suite.
My jaw aches from clenching it through the whole concert.
I go straight to the bedroom and find Claire in bed with her laptop. When she sees me, she snaps it shut. She runs her gaze over my face, no doubt noting my mood. Her brows slant and her eyes narrow. Even before I speak, the air seems to spark between us. Frenetic energy. Unfettered chaos. It’s dangerous, but I don’t bother trying to stop it.
“You have no right to be disappointed in me.” I go for calm, but every word quakes. Simmers. Threatens to boil over. “You take the same meds. I’ve seen you do it.”
“I have a prescription from a psychiatrist. I’m not buying it from a roadie like some back-alley crack addict.”
I grit my teeth. “No. But the way you deal with your shit is so much better, isn’t it?”
She shakes her head. “Don’t. Don’t you dare.”
“That two-month stay at a wellness facility was for your eating disorder, wasn’t it?”
She doesn’t answer. She just glares at me with her nostrils flaring. Good. At least our emotions match now. I’m so fucking mad. I’m so angry at myself for letting her down, but she’s no better. She’s just as fucked up as I am. We’re the same. We deserve each other.
She just refuses to see it.
“It was.” I press, even though I know I shouldn’t. I know it will do nothing but harm. I do it anyway. “Just admit it. You went to rehab for an eating disorder, and now you’ve relapsed. You’re not perfect. Admit it, Claire. Admit it.”
She stands abruptly from the bed. Her fists are balled tight. Her chest is heaving. I know immediately I’ve made a mistake.
“Fine,” she shouts, and I flinch. “Fine, yes, you’re right. I spent two months going through treatment, and I’ve fucked it all up. Does that make you feel better, Jonah? Is that what you want to hear? That I’m fucked up, too?”
I shake my head as tears stream down her furious face. I feel worse. I regret everything.
“Stop.” I shake my head. “Stop. I don’t want to hear anymore.”
She doesn’t. She keeps going. Crying and sneering. Hateful and hurting. I did this .
“Oh no, you wanted this.” She takes two steps closer and glares up at me. “You wanted to rip me open, so you could feel better about your own shit, right? You want to hear about how I let it get so bad, I had ulcers in my throat? You want me to tell you how I permanently ruined my teeth? I had to take out a fucking loan to get them fixed because I’d emptied my entire savings and maxed out my credit card paying for rehab and hospital bills.”
She takes two more steps. Her body is vibrating. I wouldn’t be surprised if she takes a swing at me. I’d fucking deserve it. I brace myself for it, but then her face falls. Pain swallows the anger, and I feel it in my stomach. In my chest.
“See, unlike you, Jonah Henderson , I had to do it all alone. I didn’t have my daddy’s money or my rock star royalties to pay for it. I didn’t have a band of people who cared about me to send me to rehab. I didn’t have anyone. No support. No encouragement. I had to pay for it myself. I had to go through it myself. And yeah, now I’ve fucked it all up. Are you happy now? Does that make you feel fucking better?”
“No.” I shake my head, blinking away my own tears. “No, it doesn’t.”
I drop to my knees in front of her, wrap my arms around her, and rest my forehead on her stomach. She stiffens, but she doesn’t push me away.
“I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry, Claire.” I breathe her in and hold her tighter. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’m just...I’m so fucking angry all the time. I’m so tired of being angry, but I don’t know how to feel anything else. I can’t . I can’t be anything but angry.”
Everything else hurts too much.
The room goes silent. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but I don’t let her go. I can’t. I won’t. When her hands slip into my hair, I let out a shaky exhale. I tremble under her touch. When she moves her hands to my wrists and steps back, though, my heart plummets. She’s walking away. She’s going to leave me, and I don’t blame her. She should. She should walk away and never look back.
But then she kneels on the ground with me.
Her hands cup my face. Her blue eyes shine as they hold mine.
“I don’t know what to say to make you feel better. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Tell me how to help. ”
I’m stunned for a moment, and I have to blink against the rush of more tears. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I force a swallow. I shake my head. I put my hands over hers, hold them to me, and try again.
“I don’t know how to handle this,” I whisper. “You just came in here and ripped me open. I feel like I’ve been skinned. Everything is bloody and raw and exposed, and nothing is working. Nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
Her thumb rubs my cheek, wiping at my tears. Her touch is so gentle. It’s loving . I’m so fucked.
“I don’t know how to feel all of this,” I rasp out. “I conditioned myself to be numb to it. That part of me is off. It’s supposed to be off. I’ve protected myself from it for so fucking long because it hurts. It fucking hurts, and it’s consuming, and it’s changing fucking everything.”
“Jonah, I don’t understand.”
Her eyes peer into mine, searching, and it’s too much. Too vulnerable. Too open. I close mine, cutting off that connection, but I don’t let go of her hands. I still need something. I still need her...
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to help, Jonah, I just don’t?—”
“I love you, Claire. I’m fucking in love with you.”
She says nothing. It’s complete, utter silence, and my heart aches. I crack open, and I fucking bleed out. She doesn’t feel the same. I knew she wouldn’t. How could she? But fuck, the confirmation is killer.
I open my eyes and scan her shocked face, then choke out a laugh.
“See? I knew from the jump you’d give me trouble. I just didn’t think it would be like this.”
Her face falls as a new wave of tears floods her eyes. I brace myself. She delivers my death blow on a shaky whisper.
“I can’t be with an addict.”
I wince, then nod. “I understand.”
“I care about you so much. I do. I want to?—"
“No.” I shake my head. “Don’t say anything else. I don’t want you to. I just...Fuck, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”
I let go of her and try to pull away, but she doesn’t release me. She slips her hands to the back of my head, holding me in place, and there’s something in her eyes I can’t identify. Something that gives me hope but cuts deep. Whatever she might feel for me, she doesn’t want it. That’s worse than her feeling nothing at all.
“I’m sorry for causing you pain. It’s the last thing I want to do. If you want me to leave, I will.”
It’s not at all what I want to hear. I feel pathetic and desperate. But for the first time in a long fucking time, I don’t feel angry.
“I don’t. I don’t want you to leave.” I force a smile, then give her a shrug. “We have a job to do, right?”
“Right.” Something passes over her face, then she gives me a flat, sad smile. “Let’s just make it through Amsterdam. Maybe a break is what you need.”
I swallow and nod, then pull away. She lets me go this time. I push to standing and offer her my hand so I can help her up.
“Yeah, Trouble. I think I just need a break.”