Page 94 of For Wrath and Redemption
“Yeah. And I...um...well...not to put any more pressure on you...because this is in no way on your shoulders, but...”
“But what, Mabel?”
She shrugs. “Well. I don’t think he believes he can survive without it.”
My heart sinks. I want to rush to Jonah and hug him. I want to shake him, tell him he has so much to live for until he believes it. My feet yearn to run in his direction, but I stay put.
Just when I think I know Jonah, something else is revealed. Something new and heartbreaking. I feel like I’m sifting carefully through sand just to find another hidden, forbidden piece of him. I know I shouldn’t. I should leave it alone and walk away, because with everything I learn, I relate to him more. I understand him on a deeper level.
And that is so very dangerous.
On the way back to the hotel, Jonah sets his tote bag of books on the seat between us.
“So, what all did you get?”
He gestures to the bag. “You can look if you want.”
I lean over and peer into the bag. “Jesus, Jonah. There’s like twenty books in here.”
I pull them out one by one, reading the titles as I do. A lot of novels, which is no surprise. He’s always reading some thick, beaten-up paperback. There’s also a collection of short stories, a variety of biographies, autobiographies, and memoirs of famous musicians. There’s a book about world religions. And then...
“Auden?” I flip the book to read the back cover. “I’ve never seen you read poetry.” I shrug. “I guess it shouldn’t surprise me. Music is poetry, after all.”
“That one’s for you.”
I glance at Jonah. I wish he’d look back, but he’s scrolling through his phone.
“For me?”
“Yeah, Trouble. I told you I’d get you something.” He puts his phone in his lap, then rests his head on the seat back with his eyes closed. “I got you a collection of poems by W.H. Auden.”
“Oh. Well, thank you. That was really kind.”
I slide the book into my bag, then mimic his posture. Leaned back. Eyes closed. Slow, even breathing to hide the emotions swirling under the surface.
Later, after we’ve both gone to bed, I roll onto my side, turn on my phone flashlight, and thumb through the poetry book. I scan the titles of a few poems, and then I come to a folded receipt stuck between two pages like a bookmark.
My pulse speeds as I look over the receipt. It’s from today, and it lists a seventeen-book transaction. My fingers start to tremble. Jonah put this in here, I know it, and he never does anything without reason. When I inhale, it’s shaky and shallow. I’m afraid to read what’s on the page, but I’m also curious. So damn curious.
I close my eyes and try to wrangle my emotions, but I can’t. It’s a failure. So, I give into temptation.
The poem is titled “The More Loving One,” which is enough to bring tears to my eyes. But the rest of the poem...
It’s beautiful and heartbreaking. Not just a poem, but a confession. Teardrops fall as I blink, dotting the pages of the book. I wipe them away, but I read it again. I read the poem over and over, my body absorbing every word, and each time I fall a little harder. I sink a little deeper. I lose more and more of my good sense until it’s gone. Until I’m no longer thinking but feeling. Until I’m nothing but adoration and awe. Then, despite all the reasons not to, I let go, and I give in. I can’t ignore these feelings anymore.
I have never met a man like Jonah Hendrix.
I know I never will again.
26
JONAH
Our last morning in Liverpool,I’m awoken by ice cold water.
I jolt upright, ready to pretend I’m pissed, but my threats evaporate. Instead of finding Claire in her usual bike shorts and sports bra, she’s standing in front of me in blue, lacy lingerie. That’s all it takes for me to get hard. I haven’t even touched her.
I start to move toward her, but she throws up a palm.
