Chapter 18 #2
“Your therapy appointment?” Summer asked. Her coat was on, with the collar caught under her bag strap.
“I’ll make another one.” He pushed his foot into the shoe without undoing it. “I can’t do this again. Sit in a room and tell someone who wasn’t there.”
She came to sit on the bed. “You called because you couldn’t sleep,” she said. “You still can’t.”
“She’ll ask about it.” He pulled the shoe off, angry enough now to tug the laces into a knot. “That’s the whole point of going.”
“Then tell her you don’t want to.” Summer held out her hand for the shoe. “I don’t know what she’ll say. I know what happens if you stay here. You’ll be at that table again.”
He gave her the shoe. She worked at the knot with a fingernail, bending close because her eyes were still swollen.
“I can’t keep asking you,” he said. He looked at the top of her head. “I know I keep doing it.”
Summer loosened the lace. “I can take you tomorrow,” she said. “Let me do that.”
The lawyer met them at the courthouse. Because Jonah and Kylie had been in a relationship, his application was for an abuse prevention order; the account he gave the judge included the assault, the messages afterward, and his fear that she would come to the house.
Summer gave her own account in support. The criminal investigation’s failure to produce an arrest didn’t prevent the judge from considering their evidence for protection.
Jonah had brought his printed timeline, but the judge asked him about being afraid. He struggled with that question longer than he had with the others. Summer sat behind him, close enough that he could hear her move when he finally described listening for the front door.
They left with a temporary order requiring Kylie to stay away from Jonah and their home and forbidding contact, including through other people.
There would be another hearing, and they would have to come back.
The lawyer went through the terms with them before they left, marked the next date, and explained what to do if Kylie broke them.
Late that afternoon the police confirmed she had been served.
Jonah put their copy on the kitchen table. He read the address twice, then carried it into the hall to check that Summer had locked the door.
“She’s got it?” Summer asked. She was halfway up the stairs with a load of laundry.
“They handed it to her.” He looked at the order again. “She knows.”
Summer sat down on the stair. A sock slid off the pile onto the step below, and she left it there.
“Good,” she said. She pressed the laundry against her stomach. “Good.”
On Thursday, Jonah asked Summer to stop before they reached the therapist’s building. She pulled over beside a bus stop, and he sat with his hand against the door, trying to work out whether he wanted air or to get out entirely.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” he said. Summer switched off the engine.
“Here?” she asked. She reached behind her for the empty shopping bag on the back seat.
He shook his head, then took the bag anyway. A bus pulled up behind them and sounded its horn. Summer swore, started the car, and drove around the corner with her indicator still clicking.
By the time she found a place to park, the feeling had eased. He was embarrassed by the bag and more embarrassed when she took it back without saying anything. They walked to the building together. At the top of the steps he turned, expecting her to go back to the car.
“Where are you going to be?” he asked. She nodded toward the door he was holding.
“In there, if they’ve got somewhere to sit.” Summer looked past him. “Will that bother you?”
“No.” He moved so she could come up beside him. “Don’t go someplace where I have to call and find you.”
The therapist’s room had a window that opened onto a wall. Jonah sat nearest the door, still wearing his coat.
“Where do I start?”
The therapist looked at him calmly, spreading her hands before her. “Wherever you like.”
He talked about an estimate he’d been unable to finish. He explained the measurements, the customer who kept changing the kitchen, the trouble he was causing the other man at work. The therapist let him get through most of it before asking how much he’d slept.
“Some,” he said. He looked at the clock behind her. “I don’t know. Summer would know.”
She asked him what woke him. He rubbed his palms on his trousers, ready to return to the estimate.
“I’ve told people,” he said instead. His eyes stayed on the clock. “About what happened. Then they want something I haven’t got. Proof.”
The therapist waited. He could hear someone walking along the corridor outside and hoped Summer hadn’t decided to come looking for him.
“I haven’t got any more,” he said. He had to swallow before he could finish. “I keep looking.”
“What have you been looking at?” she asked. She left her pen on the desk.
He told her about the two versions, about going through the messages. At first he made it sound like something he’d done once that morning. Then she asked when he’d last eaten, and he remembered Summer bringing toast upstairs while he was trying to make the printer work.
He took off his coat. Half the appointment had gone by before he stopped describing his marriage as if he were explaining why he had a reason to lie.
When he came out, Summer was in the waiting room with a magazine open on her lap. She’d taken off her coat, but her bag was still on her shoulder.
“They’ve got nothing from this year,” she said. She put it beneath the other magazines. “Do you want to go?”
He nodded and followed her downstairs. She didn’t ask him about the session. At the car, he gave her the card with his next appointment on it, and she put it in the little compartment beneath the radio.
At home he slept for forty minutes, lying on top of the bedspread while Summer spoke to her mother downstairs.
He woke with his heart racing and his tongue pressed painfully against a tooth.
For several seconds he didn’t know whether it was morning or evening.
Then he heard Summer saying goodbye and a car starting outside.
He went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. In the mirror, one cheek bore the pattern of the bedspread. He was rubbing it when the front doorbell rang.
Summer called that she’d get it. Jonah heard the latch, then a sound he couldn’t place, too short to be a word.
“You need to leave.” Summer’s voice carried up the stairs. “Now.”
He knew before the answer came. He stayed beside the bathroom sink, one hand dripping onto the floor.
“I saw your mother’s car go.” Kylie sounded out of breath. “I only want to talk to Jonah.”
There was a dull knock from downstairs. Summer said something he couldn’t hear, then raised her voice.
“Move your foot.” The door shook in its frame. “I’m calling the police.”
Jonah reached the landing without remembering leaving the bathroom. From there he could see Summer at the front door, her shoulder braced against it. Kylie’s shoe was in the gap. The familiar brown toe rested on the mat he’d bought because Summer kept slipping on the old one.
“I’m not doing anything,” Kylie said. Her face appeared as she leaned toward the opening. “Summer, stop making this—Jonah.”
His name changed her voice. She smiled at him, quick and relieved, and he stopped halfway down the stairs.
“Tell her,” she said. One hand appeared around the edge of the door. “We can talk for five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Jonah, you’re not really going to throw away what we’ve had, are you? She just can’t handle the truth.”
Summer had the phone at her ear. She gave their address, then said there was an order and that Kylie was preventing her from closing the door. Her eyes never left the gap.
Kylie looked at the phone. “You don’t have to do that,” she said. “I’m standing on the step.”
“Get your foot out.” Jonah heard himself from above them, thin and unfamiliar. He came down another stair. “Let her shut the door.”
Kylie drew her shoe back. Summer closed the door at once and turned the lock, then stood holding it as if Kylie might still be able to open it from outside.
For a moment all Jonah could see was the strip of light beneath the door. The shadow crossed it once and stopped.
“I’m still here,” Kylie called. Her knuckles struck the wood. “Jonah, will you please stop this? I know you’re upset.”
He came down to Summer. She was listening to the person on the phone and nodding, though nobody could see her. He put his hand over hers on the lock. She let go and moved enough for him to stand beside her.
“I got the papers.” Kylie’s voice was quieter through the door. “I read them. We both know you wouldn’t have done that before.”
Jonah looked at Summer’s phone. She lowered it a little, keeping the call connected.
“Before what?” he asked. He hated that he’d answered, but he wanted her to say it.
“Before all this.” There was movement outside, then her voice came closer. “Before her. Before you had somebody listening in every time I tried to talk to you.”
Summer’s mouth opened. Jonah stepped toward the door, and her free hand caught the back of his shirt.
“I’m not opening it,” he told her. He waited until her fingers loosened, then faced the wood again. “I went upstairs because you told me my wife was there.”
“You came with me.” Kylie spoke immediately. “You kissed me. your hand was all over me. You wanted me. You didn’t seem to mind until she saw us together.”
He shut his eyes. For an instant the stair rail was beneath his hand, but it was the wrong rail; he couldn’t remember whether he’d been holding it when he followed her.
Summer touched his elbow. He opened his eyes and found the chipped paint beside their door, the place he’d meant to sand before winter.
“I couldn’t stand up,” he said. His voice broke. “You watched me try.”
“We’d been drinking.” She was louder now. “You’re making it sound like I dragged you somewhere. You kissed me. You’ve always wanted me, can you deny it?”
Summer made a furious sound beside him. Jonah caught her hand before she could move closer to the door.