Chapter Three #2
“That’s all you’re going to say?” I asked.
“You had privacy. What you did with it is your business.”
“I’m going back to the cabin.”
He set down his sandwich. “Why?”
“I haven’t completed the week.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s the answer I have.”
“You can leave. You know I didn’t accept the placement. Your father’s point has already failed.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m required to retreat.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You’re implying that returning with you is irrational.”
“I’m asking whether you’re staying because you want to or because leaving feels like losing.”
The sandwich wrapper crackled beneath my fingers.
“My reasons don’t have to satisfy you.”
“No, but they should probably satisfy you.”
I stared at him.
Jonah took another bite.
“My therapist would tell me to distinguish between a reactive choice and an intentional one,” I said.
“What would you tell yourself?”
“That I’m eating a dry sandwich in a general store with a man who asks intrusive questions while pretending he doesn’t.”
He unscrewed his water. “That didn’t answer it.”
“It bought me time.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
His crooked smile appeared.
I looked down at my sandwich.
The driver could’ve been summoned. The week could’ve ended. Daddy would’ve called it proof that I couldn’t function without the world he provided.
I looked at the phone inside my handbag, then at the dust caught along Jonah’s boot beneath the table.
“I don’t know yet,” I said.
His smile faded. He waited.
“I know I don’t want to leave today.”
“All right.”
“That isn’t permission.”
“I heard you.”
I took another bite of the sandwich.
“Your emotional support style needs work,” I said.
“I didn’t know I had one.”
“That explains a lot.”
When we finished, Jonah carried the bags while I walked beside him in my new boots. Gravel no longer threatened my ankles. The block heels struck the ground with a solid rhythm that felt almost aggressive.
At the truck, Jonah opened the passenger door.
I accepted his hand before he offered it twice.
His fingers closed around mine, warm and rough. The contact lasted only long enough to steady me, but the warmth lingered after I reached the seat.
He loaded the bags behind us.
My phone stayed silent inside my handbag because I’d told it to.
***
Back at the cabin, I carried the clothing bags into the bedroom while Jonah put away the groceries.
The afternoon heat had settled over the one-bedroom space. Sunlight fell through the open window, and the fan pushed warm air over the bed where we’d spent the previous night separated by a pillow and several rules I no longer found comforting.
I changed into dark denim shorts and a fitted red tank.
The shorts hugged my hips. The top followed every curve and showed plenty of cleavage. Mountain clothes didn’t require surrender.
I kept my diamonds on.
The new boots stayed on too.
When I entered the main room, Jonah stood at the counter with his back to me, arranging groceries in the small cabinets. His shirt stretched across his shoulders when he reached for the top shelf.
He turned.
He looked at the tank, shorts, bare thighs, and boots.
“You found clothes for the mountain,” he said.
“I found clothes that won’t kill me.”
“That was the goal.”
“You could acknowledge that I achieved it without becoming visually beige.”
“I never asked you to become beige.”
“No, but the mountains seem to encourage it.”
He looked down at his faded-blue shirt. “This isn’t beige.”
“It’s emotionally adjacent.”
Jonah laughed.
The low, brief sound widened his crooked smile, and my breath caught.
“There,” I said. “That was almost a personality.”
“I was doing fine before you arrived.”
“I’m sure the trees appreciated your range.”
He turned back to the cabinet, still smiling.
I unpacked the toiletries in the bathroom, placed the new clothing in one drawer Jonah cleared, and hung the red dress from the bedroom door.
My stilettos remained beside the dresser.
They looked offended by the boots.
When I returned to the kitchenette, Jonah had set the canned tomatoes, beef, onions, garlic, and pasta on the counter.
“What are you making?” he asked.
“Sunday gravy.”
“It’s Sunday?”
“That’s not the point.”
He glanced toward the window as though the trees might confirm the day.
I pulled a pan from beneath the stove. “My grandmother made it whenever she wanted the family to stay at the table until they heard each other.”
“Did it work?”
“Usually. Nobody leaves while there’s pasta.”
“That seems less like communication and more like containment.”
“It’s hospitality.”
“What do you need me to do?”
I handed him an onion.
“Dice that.”
He took the onion and reached for a knife.
“Small pieces,” I added.
“I know how to cut an onion.”
“You use canned sauce with sugar.”
“I didn’t buy it.”
“You put it in the basket.”
“Because I thought you might want sauce.”
“I wanted ingredients.”
“I do now.”
I watched him cut the onion.
The pieces were even.
I folded my arms. “That’s annoyingly competent.”
“I’ve fed myself for fifteen years.”
“Feeding yourself and cooking aren’t always the same thing.”
“What did you eat before you came here?”
“Food prepared by people who respected garlic.”
Jonah slid the chopped onion toward me. “Your grandmother taught you?”
“She believed a woman should know how to feed herself even if she never had to.”
“That sounds sensible.”
“She’d be furious you reduced her philosophy to that word.”
“What word should I use?”
“Wise. Generous. Visionary.”
“She taught you to make sauce.”
“She taught me not to depend on anyone else for dinner.”
Jonah’s hand stilled beside the cutting board.
I poured oil into the pan.
“That was a general principle,” I said.
“I didn’t ask.”
“No, but your face did.”
“That’s your line.”
“I’m reclaiming it.”
He handed me the garlic.
We cooked in the narrow space, though avoiding Jonah required more attention than the food. He drained the beef while I stirred the onions and garlic. I crushed the tomatoes into the pot, added herbs, and tasted the sauce.
He stood close enough that the heat from his body reached my bare shoulder.
“Try it,” I said.
I held out the spoon.
Jonah leaned down and tasted the sauce without taking it from me.
His mouth closed around the edge.
My nipples tightened beneath the tank.
He swallowed. “It’s good.”
“Good?”
“Very good.”
“That sounded painful.”
“I’m acknowledging new evidence.”
I pointed the spoon at him. “You’re using my material.”
“It works.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You came back.”
Jonah stayed beside me, one hand braced against the counter.
I put the spoon down.
“Yes,” I said. “I did.”
He didn’t move closer.
That made me want him to.
The sauce simmered while the pasta water heated. We opened the windows wider, and cooler air began moving through the cabin as the sun dropped behind the ridge.
I set the table. Jonah sliced bread and heated it in a skillet with butter and garlic.
“That’s almost cooking,” I said.
“You gave me instructions.”
“You followed them beautifully.”
“Is that praise?”
“Don’t become dependent on it.”
We ate across from each other at the same table where we’d shared sandwiches the night before.
My new boots rested beneath my chair. My red tank reflected faintly in the window. Jonah had rolled his sleeves to his elbows, exposing sun-browned forearms and the muscles built by work that required more than answering emails.
He took another bite of pasta.
“You studied psychology?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Because you wanted to be a therapist?”
“I considered it.”
“Past tense?”
“Complicated tense.”
He waited.
I twirled pasta around my fork. “My father thinks psychology is a fine degree and a terrible career.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“I haven’t decided what the career looks like yet. I only know the decision should be mine.”
Jonah held my gaze.
I took a drink of water.
“That’s a broad philosophical position,” I said.
“I was listening.”
“That’s worse.”
“Why?”
“Because I might keep talking.”
“You do that anyway.”
I pointed my fork at him. “You’ve become much too comfortable.”
“You cooked dinner in my kitchen.”
“That isn’t permission to become smug.”
“No, but it might be evidence that you aren’t leaving tomorrow.”
The fork lowered.
“You keep returning to that.”
“You’re sleeping in my bed.”
“We established that the bed is a logistical necessity.”
“You bought clothes.”
“I needed underwear.”
“You bought a dress for next week.”
“Red is seasonally appropriate.”
“You put your things in my drawer.”
“You cleared it.”
“Because you came back.”
I set down my fork. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth would work.”
“You don’t know enough about me to demand the truth.”
“I’m not demanding anything.”
“It sounds like you’re deciding what my choices mean.”
“I’m asking what they mean to you.”
“They mean I chose not to call for a ride today.”
“Because you wanted to stay or because you wanted to beat your father?”
Heat rose beneath my skin.
“Both can be true.”
“They can.”
“You’re acting like one reason invalidates the other.”
“I’m trying to understand where I fit.”
Jonah leaned back in his chair.
I looked toward the bedroom.
The red dress hung from the door. My stilettos stood beside Jonah’s dresser. New clothes occupied one of his drawers.
“You’re part of why I’m staying,” I said.
His breathing changed.
I heard it in the quiet room.
“How much of the reason?” he asked.
“I haven’t decided.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It’s honest.”
“People call me when something breaks,” he said. “Trees, engines, roads. I help, then I come home to a life that’s mine. I don’t want to be responsible for choices I never asked you to make.”
“You think I’m using you.”
“No. I’m trying to understand what you want from me.”
I pushed away from the table.
Jonah stood too.
He filled the narrow space between the table and counter.
“I know exactly what I want right now,” I said.
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
I crossed the small space between us, caught the front of his work shirt, and kissed him.
For one suspended second, Jonah didn’t touch me.
Then his hands settled at my waist.
He kissed me back with a restraint that lasted exactly long enough to make me angry.