Nine

The first couple of days, I can’t fully believe it. I keep opening the e-mail with his out-of-office message, like I think it will say something different this time. It just seems impossible. How do you share something that intimate—demand that level of trust—and then walk off without even a word?

I don’t let people in much. Seems like Jonah doesn’t either. So I would have thought that what we shared—a connection, no matter how fucked up it is—I would’ve thought it would matter more to him.

Apparently not.

By the end of the week, I’m moody. Angry. For long hours I sit in my cramped office, grading papers without mercy, bearing down so hard with the red pen that occasionally I scratch through the paper. Nobody says anything to me about it, but Marvin and Keiko seem to give me more space in there than usual, and one afternoon Kip brings me a macchiato, placing it on my desk without a word.

Carmen calls, tempting me with a night of Tex-Mex and beer, but I tell her I don’t feel like going out. I give the same answer to Shay and Arturo when they ask me over for a movie night, and to Geordie when he tries to get me to accompany him to a wine tasting at Apothecary. For now I want the peace and quiet of my house. I want my walls around me, lined with books I can escape into, and no reminders whatsoever of Jonah Marks.

The following Monday, Doreen has returned from Florida, and it’s time for me to face the music—in therapy terms. I don’t hide things from Doreen; what would be the point of going to a counselor if I did? Although I don’t describe the sex in detail, I go through everything else: Jonah’s audacious offer, our erotic negotiation, and the night itself. Doreen must be in shock, because she keeps saying, “I see,” over and over, which is how psychologists bunt. I have a feeling we’ll be unpacking this for a while.

Two weeks after my night with Jonah, it all changes. The emotion I least wanted to feel creeps in, takes over.

Shame.

I let a near stranger pretend to rape me. I play-acted something so horrifying, so violent, that it ruins people’s lives; I ought to know. Jonah came to me with the most indecent proposal of all, yet within a week I was in a hotel room, at his mercy.

A connection—is that what I thought we had? Now our encounter seems like nothing more than a sick joke. Maybe that’s Jonah’s game. He figures out what women want, whatever fantasy they’re into, and uses it to get some no-strings sex. Then he walks off, looking for his next target.

(It’s hard for me to really believe that. Whatever else Jonah might be, I don’t think he’s a player. But I don’t trust my judgment these days.)

Besides, as outrageous as Jonah’s behavior might be, as angry as I am with him. . . . I’m angrier with myself. For someone who’s spent a lot of her life being guarded, I folded pretty fast when the right temptation came along. And that temptation is repellent. Wrong. I should have kept fighting it instead of instantly surrendering.

Every memory I have of that night with Jonah changes within my mind. At first it seemed so perfect. So liberating. So fucking hot.

Now I can only think I made a fool of myself.

About three weeks afterward, I finally decide to stop moping. Back to reality. I pick up an extra macchiato for Kip one morning, to return the favor. “I see your evil twin has finally left the premises,” he says between sips.

“Yeah, she has a time-share in the Florida Keys. She tries to make the most of it.”

“Good riddance.” He smiles. “Welcome back, darling.”

And maybe it’s just that simple. I walk on, and I hold my head high. Nobody except me, Jonah, and Doreen will ever know what happened that night, so I can pretend it was just a really disturbing wet dream. Things would be easier that way.

Saturday night, I even go out.

“Oh, come on. It’s almost sunset,” Geordie says as he glances out at the bridge. “When are they going to get started?”

“Patience,” Carmen says between sips of her wine. We’re sitting on the grassy bank of the lake, a bottle of wine in the open ice chest at the center of our blanket—the perfect vantage point for the best free show in town. It always begins around the time darkness falls, but there’s no predicting the exact moment.

My wineglass is cool against my palm; the sauvignon blanc gleams the color of candlelight. I’m wearing gray leggings, a long boho top, and more jewelry than I usually bother with. It feels like a special occasion, not that I can explain why to Carmen and Geordie. But I don’t have to explain. I can simply enjoy the moment.

“So, how was your meeting with Dr. Ji?” I ask Carmen. The graduate program in mathematics is dramatically different from the art department—understandably—and I still don’t quite get how it works. All I know is, Dr. Ji has a lot of say over whether Carmen gets to go on for her PhD.

She folds her arms in front of her, and her fingers tug at the sleeve of her peasant blouse. When Carmen fiddles with her clothes, it’s a sure sign she’s nervous. “Okay, I guess. He’s so hard to read.”

“But your paper is solid.” Not that I’m a great judge of higher mathematics. Still, I know Carmen—how thorough she is, how bright. There’s no way she would ever turn in anything less than top-notch.

“The work has to be more than solid,” Carmen says. “It has to be brilliant.”

“It’s not like you’ve got to win a Fields Medal to get your PhD,” Geordie says. When Carmen gives him a look, he laughs. “Yes, some of us math civilians know what the Fields Medal is.”

I have no idea what that is, but it doesn’t matter. “Come on,” I say to her. “You’ve got this. You always do.”

Carmen hesitates. In that moment, Geordie gulps down his wine and points to the bridge. “Here they go!”

At first we only see a couple of black shapes fluttering upward. Then a few more. Then a dozen. And then an enormous wave, dark, chaotic, and swirling like a tornado rising from the river—a hundred feet high at least, and spiraling outward, wider every second.

Geordie lifts his glass. “To the bats.”

“To the bats,” Carmen and I repeat, and we clink our plastic wineglasses together.

Years ago, when the bridge across Lake Austin was built, nobody realized that something about it would really, really appeal to bats. Now we have one of the largest bat colonies in the world. Sometimes their nighttime rush from the bridge results in guano raining down on the unwary. (We’re sitting beneath a shady, broad-leafed tree for a reason.) But everybody loves the bats anyway. For one, they eat the mosquitoes that would otherwise bite all summer, which is definitely a public service. Mostly, though, they’re just an essential part of the overall bizarreness of this town—one more reason our unofficial slogan is “Keep Austin Weird.”

I always wish I could show Libby the bats. She would love that. But that would require a family visit to Austin, which means it’s probably never going to happen.

The bats disperse for the evening’s hunt. Geordie tells us a funny story about some court case where a house was somehow declared haunted as a matter of law. By the time I’ve finished my glass of wine, this actually feels like a good night.

“Thanks for the lift home. I know it’s a hassle. Tell me, does anyone remember why I decided to live across the lake?” Geordie says as we head out onto the sidewalk.

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad,” I say. My keys are in my palm, and I’m grateful that I’m the one driving. One glass of wine followed by dinner, and I’m okay to get behind the wheel. Geordie had three glasses, and he’s weaving on his feet. “This time of day, I can get you guys home in . . .”

I’m parked in front of the bank. As we walk toward my car, someone steps out after a night run to the ATM.

And it’s Jonah Marks.

“. . . half an hour,” I finish, without thinking. It’s like my voice has decided to operate independently of my brain.

He’s wearing jeans that hug his ass, outline his powerful thighs. His white T-shirt is cut in a deep V down his chest. Every ridge of his muscles shows through, reminding me of how powerful he is. How I turned myself over to him, completely.

I stop in my tracks. Geordie bumps into me from behind. He laughs and says something I don’t even hear. At the sound, Jonah turns his head and sees me too.

He smiles. He smiles at me, like nothing ever happened. As if he’s glad to see me.

But only for an instant.

I don’t smile back. Jonah stiffens. His gray eyes turn stormy, and he turns away, stalking past us without a word.

“Earth to Vivienne,” Geordie laughs. “Are you all right?”

“. . . yeah. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure you should drive?” Carmen gives me a worried look, then glances after Jonah. “Isn’t that the professor Shay invited to my party?”

No way am I answering that question. “I’m fine. Let’s go, okay?” I want to get as far away from this place—from Jonah—as possible.

•   •   •

“How could he act like nothing happened? I mean, was it that meaningless to him? That irrelevant?”

Doreen puts her hands up in the time-out sign. “I want you to take a deep breath, okay? Pause. Just for a moment.”

I realize I haven’t stopped ranting since my session began fifteen minutes ago. My cheeks are hot with pent-up anger and embarrassment. So I force myself to lean back on the sofa. Relaxing is out of the question, but at least I can calm myself.

When I know I can speak more rationally, I say, “I know you don’t approve of what I did with Jonah. You probably think I deserve this. Getting blown off.”

“Hey.” She leans forward. The tagua-nut necklace she wears dangles from her neck, turquoise and brown. “It’s not my place to approve or disapprove of your life. You get to make your own choices, Vivienne. All I do is try to help you see things clear.”

“I let a near-stranger pretend to rape me. You can’t tell me that’s not fucked up.”

“Honey, I spend all day, every day, listening to fucked-up. You’re not even in my top ten. All right?”

I laugh despite myself. Although I suspect Doreen is lying—rape role-play with a guy who’s practically a stranger has to make the top five, at least—I realize that she’s telling me to stop beating myself up.

The worst part of the past three weeks hasn’t been Jonah’s rejection. It’s been my own self-loathing. Maybe that’s what Doreen is trying to get me to see.

She says, “It upset you, seeing him.”

“Yeah.”

“But you’ve been at UT for years without ever running into him before. So there’s no reason to assume this is going to be a problem, going forward.”

Now that I think of it, Jonah and I must have crossed paths several times before we met. Maybe we walked by each other on campus, or went to Whole Foods on the same afternoon. Although it’s hard to believe I wouldn’t have noticed a guy like Jonah anytime, anywhere, maybe I’m wrong.

Maybe I’m going to see him all the time from now on.

“I want to talk to him again,” I say.

“What do you want to tell him?”

“I just want to ask why.”

“In my experience, the answers to questions like that usually fail to satisfy.”

Jonah could say that he didn’t want me enough to do this again. That I disappointed him that night. Or he could have met someone else, somebody he wants more than me. But I keep thinking of the look in his eyes when he first recognized me. I keep thinking about his smile.

And about the way he laughed that night, as he thrust deeper inside me. The way he claimed me.

“There are valid reasons he could have gone off the grid,” I say. This is the first time I’ve admitted this to myself; as usual, Doreen gets me to see the truth. “I worried that the fantasy would be . . . too intense, too much. It wasn’t for me, but it might have been for him.”

The dark, powerful figure he became that night—how he dominated me so brutally—that could have frightened Jonah. Maybe he’s scared that’s the person he really is, down deep.

I ought to be scared of that too.

“He may have his own limits,” Doreen agrees. “Isn’t it possible that what you’re seeing is his reaction to the fantasy, and its place in his life, rather than his reaction to you?”

I nod, because I know that could be true. Still, though, I feel sure that’s not the whole story.

Something else is going on in Jonah’s head. Something I haven’t even guessed at. And I want to know.

•   •   •

In the afternoon, I head onto campus. The undergrads have an essay due on Wednesday, which means my inbox is due to swell with requests for extensions, not to mention the reported deaths of a statistically unlikely number of grandmothers. As I walk in, Kip is on the phone, bartering what sounds like a deal to get our department a new copier. He gives me a wave—complete with blueberry-colored fingernails—which I return before going into my cramped little office. At least I’ve got it to myself for a while. I sign in to my university e-mail to see some of the expected excuses, a couple of campus announcements—

—and an e-mail from Jonah.

The subject line reads Re: Take Two.

He’s answering the e-mail I sent three weeks ago, like nothing ever happened.

His reply contains only two words: What changed?

Between my sending this e-mail and our encounter Saturday—that’s what he means. I know that much. But I don’t understand anything else.

I know what Doreen would tell me to do. What Carmen or Shay would tell me to do, if I’d confided in either of them about this. Any sane, rational person would say, Write back, tell him you’ve thought better of it, and leave it there.

Walk away.

My fingers tap out the message on the keyboard, and I hit send before I can think better of it. My reply: We need to talk.

I don’t know what happens next. But I’m going to see Jonah Marks again.