Twenty-eight

I was shattered before Chloe called. Now I’m—I don’t know what I am.

“It’s after seven o’clock,” I say as I put on my underwear, yank on a bra. “I couldn’t get to the airport before eight or eight thirty. They never have leftover seats anymore, especially not for the flights at the end of the day.”

Jonah has refastened his jeans. He holds his hands out the way a groom might try to soothe a skittish horse. “You can fly out first thing in the morning. We can buy your ticket over the phone.”

I shake my head. “That’s too long.”

“They have to operate right away,” Chloe said. “He’s scheduled for a valve replacement first thing in the morning.”

There’s no way I could spend the morning up in a plane, phone shut off, waiting to land so I can find out whether my father is alive or dead.

“Wait,” Jonah says. “Are you going to drive it?”

“I’ve driven from Austin to New Orleans before.” It’s eight hours, usually—but late at night I can make better time. I might be able to cut that down to six. I could get to my house before dawn. Then maybe I could see my father first thing in the morning, before the surgery.

Jonah doesn’t look convinced. “That’s one hell of a drive.”

“You meet the most interesting people that way.” My laugh sounds strangled in my throat. “So don’t knock it.”

“Vivienne.” He steps closer to me. “You’re shaken up and worn out. Driving through the night—you could fall asleep at the wheel.”

“While I’m freaking out about my father maybe dying any second? I seriously doubt I’m in danger of dozing off.” I yank on my sweater, step into my jeans.

Jonah’s hand closes over my shoulder, a gentle touch that seems to flow into me like a slow, deep breath. “At least eat something,” he says softly. “It won’t cost you ten minutes, and you’ll be in better shape for the drive.”

I can’t imagine a snack would make any difference in how I feel. But I realize Jonah’s trying to be helpful. To at least act like the lover he might someday be for me.

When will that be? After all your secrets are told. So, never. My illusions have been overshadowed by harsh, cold fact.

“If you can give me something to take with me, that would be great.” I kneel to pull on my socks. “But I have to get out of here.”

By the time I’m ready to go, Jonah has a plastic grocery bag filled for me—a chicken sandwich, a banana, even a plastic bottle of orange juice. Provisions for his hostage, I guess.

“You’re positive you’re ready to drive?” he asks.

I nod. I’m ready because I have to be.

“Your family—” Jonah hesitates for a long moment. “Are they going to take care of you?”

He’s seen between the lines. As little as I’ve told him about Chloe and my mother, he already knows they don’t have my back. Not even a crisis like this is going to seal the rifts between us.

Jonah’s a perceptive man. That doesn’t change anything.

“You don’t talk about your family. I don’t talk about mine. We figure how much we can share, and how much we can’t. Aren’t those the new rules?” I pause and take a deep breath. “Thanks for the food. And—this setup was great. Some other time.”

He simply nods. The man is no better with good-bye than hello.

When I sit behind the wheel of my car, lingering soreness reminds me of how perfectly Jonah fucked me only minutes ago. I was exhilarated. I was shaken to the core. But all of those emotions have been wiped away. Only dread remains.

I’m on the verge of losing the last adult person in my family who hasn’t betrayed me.

•   •   •

“Sugar, you aren’t acting like yourself,” my dad said so many times that spring and summer. “We need to take you to the doctor. I think you have mono.”

“I don’t have mono,” I would say. “I don’t need to go to the doctor.”

Even if I’d been miserable with strep throat or stomach flu, I wouldn’t have gone to the doctor then. For months afterward, I was convinced that my next medical exam would somehow reveal I was no longer a virgin. That wouldn’t make Mom believe me about Anthony. Instead she’d have assumed I’d slept with a boy from school, told me I was fast, grounded me for months. Then I’d never be able to leave my house. I’d be stuck staying in, having to sit on that sofa and pretend I hadn’t been raped there.

My father had no idea about what Anthony Whedon had done to me. My mom didn’t share my “lie” with him, and Chloe wasn’t the type to admit to anyone that she was worried about her little sister “flirting” with her boyfriend.

And, of course, I never said a word to Dad myself. He wouldn’t have been as unkind as Mom or Chloe—but he wouldn’t have believed me either. I’d heard the things he’d said when he heard news stories about a girl found unconscious in an athletic dorm, or someone trying to prosecute the five guys who videotaped what they did with her while she was passed out. If a girl gets that drunk—if she goes to a young man’s dorm room—she knows full well what’s going to happen. She wouldn’t have done any of that in the first place if she wasn’t looking for sex. Now she’s been caught and doesn’t want people calling her a tramp, so she’s making up stories. Ruining those poor boys’ lives.

I hadn’t been in a dorm. I hadn’t been drunk. I had been watching a movie on my own sofa. But I sensed there were other excuses to be made for Anthony, excuses that would come too readily to my father’s tongue.

Hearing those words would have destroyed what little sense of security I still had. The surest way never to hear them was never to tell, and I didn’t.

Instead I clung to him tightly. To some extent, I’d always been “Daddy’s girl” while Chloe stayed closer to Mom, but that summer I spent more time with him than ever before or since. Although I never cared much about sports, I pretended to develop an interest in the Zephyrs, so he’d take me to the home games. We’d sit up in the stands, cheer on the antics of the team mascot (a guy in a nutria suit, called Boudreaux), and eat peanuts. I still remember Dad sitting next to me, one hand holding his beer, the other around my shoulders. In moments like that, I almost felt like a little girl again.

Not quite. But almost.

I can’t lose my dad. If I do, then the slender thread that binds me to my family will snap. As insane as Mom and Chloe make me sometimes, even though I’ve never forgiven them for taking Anthony’s side and never will—I don’t want to be completely alone in the world.

Then I will never, ever be able to make it up to Libby . . .

Tears blur my vision, and for a moment the road seems to vanish. Fiercely I wipe my eyes and force myself to focus. This is no time to have a wreck. I have to make the best time I can without being pulled over by the highway patrol. Even if they did pull me over, I could tell them what happened to Dad. The cops would know I was telling the truth just by looking at me. So I press down on the accelerator, and my car speeds faster into the endless black landscape ahead.

My phone rings. My entire body goes cold. It’s Chloe calling to tell me Dad’s already gone—

—but it’s not her ringtone. It’s Jonah’s.

I scoop the phone between my chin and shoulder. “Hey.”

“Vivienne,” he says. “Where are you?”

“Outskirts of Houston.”

“Listen—what you said back at the cabin—”

I try not to talk on the phone while I’m driving. Right now, I don’t need any more distractions. “What?”

Jonah says, “You’re right. I haven’t told you enough about my life, and I haven’t listened to you about yours.”

“That’s not all your fault.” It’s not like I haven’t kept certain doors locked.

As significant as this conversation could be, it mostly just makes me crazy. I can’t think about Jonah right now. I need to focus. Is this really the best time for a heart-to-heart about our relationship?

But then Jonah speaks again. “If you want things to go on like they have been, we can do that. But when I saw you leaving tonight, and you were hurting, and I couldn’t help you— Vivienne, I want something different for us.”

Despite my frustration and fear, Jonah’s words touch me. “Exactly how do we get there from here?”

“I don’t know. All I can say right now is—if you need me, I can be there for you. I want to be with you. If that’s something that would help—if you’d take any comfort from that—just say the word. I’ll get on the first flight to New Orleans tomorrow morning.”

“Jonah,” I whisper. Tears threaten to overcome me again.

“But if this is the wrong time—I know you have other things on your mind, and I don’t want to intrude on your family—”

“Come.” The word comes out as a sob. “Please come.”

He takes a deep breath. “You want me there with you?”

“Yes. I do.”

Although Jonah sounded so unsure a few moments before, he turns decisive in an instant. “Okay. Next time you’re at a service station, text me your parents’ address. I’ll send my flight info as soon as I’ve booked the ticket.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“And please tell me you’ve practiced changing a flat since we first met.”

My laugh is more like a sob. “I did. Arturo went over it with me.”

“Good.” He pauses. “I should let you go so you can concentrate. But if you need to call me at any moment, then call.”

“I will.”

The line goes dead. This time I don’t mind the lack of a good-bye, because I know I’ll find Jonah again at the end of the road.

How did this man with the power to terrify me also become the one person who truly makes me feel safe?

•   •   •

Our home is in the Garden District of New Orleans. It was built by a distant ancestor back in the 1890s. Since then it’s been remodeled for the basic modern comforts of AC, cable, and indoor plumbing, but we retain the cast-iron scrollwork on our gallery, the thick, ten-foot-high doors, and even the “carriage stone” out on the sidewalk—an old, white step that once made it easier for people to step into and out of horse-drawn carriages.

This neighborhood has always been one of the most desirable in the city. A few movie stars have houses here, though they tend to appear only around Mardi Gras and Jazzfest. Our home is on one of the less fashionable streets, inhabited by the merely well-off rather than the mega-rich.

Neither term has applied to my family in a couple of generations now. My parents keep up appearances, but at the cost of their savings. For years now I’ve wondered what they’re going to retire on, if anything. They could sell the house for millions, but that will never happen. For my mother, giving up this desirable address would mean admitting defeat.

I cross the Lake Pontchartrain Bridge around four in the morning. The only other vehicles on the road are semis driven by truckers who are probably sky-high on speed. As soon as I exit the highway for local streets, the endless bumps and potholes in the road tell me I’m home for real.

When I reach my parents’ house, I click the plastic box clipped to my sun visor. Slowly the metal gate in front of the driveway begins to slide open. I take the moment to check my phone. Jonah replied to my text of my parents’ address: FLIGHT ARRIVES 10:45 WILL CATCH TAXI.

For a moment it seems like there’s still a way this could all turn out okay. If Dad makes it through, and Jonah’s here—I can bear this. I can.

I walk to the front door. At first I think no one has waited up for me, but at the last moment before I go for the bell, the door opens. “There you are,” Chloe says. She’s wearing designer jeans, a form-fitting cashmere sweater, and gold-knot earrings—glamorous even at a moment like this. “You made good time.”

“Any change?” When Chloe shakes her head, I breathe out in relief. The only change that could’ve happened overnight would’ve been bad.

As soon as I walk into the hallway, I see Mom coming down the winding oak stairs in a thick white robe, the pocket monogrammed in red. “Vivienne, darling.” She hugs me too tightly, as if we were being watched by someone she wanted to impress. “It’s all so terrible. I still can’t believe it’s real.”

“Me either,” I say. Maybe the hug is genuine. Even my mother is vulnerable at a moment like this.

Our house was built for a grander age. Twenty-foot ceilings on the first floor, French windows that stretch almost as high as the walls. In every downstairs room but the living room, my mother has decorated for that era instead of our own. Our dining room could seat twenty-four. If you don’t look too closely, you won’t notice that the long velvet drapes have become a bit shabby, or that dust has collected in the crystals of the chandelier.

The long, low sofas are overly grand as well, but right now they look perfect, because one of them has been draped with a quilt to cover a sleeping little girl.

“Libby,” I whisper. I want to brush my hand over her golden curls, her chubby cheeks. But of course I don’t want to wake her. “Why is she sleeping on the sofa?”

“Dozed off down here, and we thought we might as well not move her.” The answer doesn’t come from Mom or Chloe. It comes from Libby’s father.

I straighten and take a deep breath before I turn around. “Hello, Anthony.”