“Brighton, wait. I’m sorry”
I’ve cut diagonally across a driveway and reached the street. Now I need to decide which direction to go. With Jonah’s words about unsafe sections of town in my head, both look equally menacing.
“Really sorry,” he says.
“Sure.” Left. I’ll go left. The street lamps look a little brighter that way.
“Will you stop and listen for a minute?” Jonah demands. “I’m trying to apologize!”
“There’s—what?” I bite my tongue in surprise. I’d been planning on telling him there was nothing he could say that I wanted to hear, but I hadn’t expected a real apology.
“You’re right.”
He’s looking directly into my eyes, all the walls down and nothing but sincere regret reflected there. After spending the night watching him add layers to his emotional armor, this level of vulnerability is unnerving. I drop my phone back into my purse and breathe a cautious, “I am?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been a bast—an idiot all night. I shouldn’t have brought you here, at least not without telling you about Carly. And Digg”—he clenches his jaw for a second and takes a deep breath before continuing—“I didn’t—I’m really sorry, Brighton.”
I can still hear crickets and a dog barking. A sprinkler, muffled party noise. Cars passing and a TV blaring from the closest house. But all these things, and even the grass, trees, and houses, seem removed from this moment. It’s just Jonah and me, eyes locked, as things shift in ways that can’t be measured.
“Thank you.”
“Are you okay?”
I nod.
“I can’t believe you dumped a drink on him. That’s priceless. I wish I could’ve seen his face.” He claps a hand on my shoulder as he praises me, and the touch seems to surprise us both. He grins and I find myself smiling back, my cheeks flushing.
There’s a flash in the distance to our right. A sharp bang. My body decides to jump and gasp. It decides that it’s going to breathe in quick, inefficient inhales and exhales that make me feel like oxygen is missing or that none is getting to my lungs. The air is smoky, and Jonah’s hand is still on my shoulder. I’m trembling.
“Hey. Brighton.” His voice is soft, like how you’d speak to a frightened animal. How he probably speaks to Sophia when she’s upset. “It’s all right. It’s just Felix blowing up the mailbox. You’re okay.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s an idiot and he thinks it’s funny. That’s a good enough reason if you’re Felix.” Jonah squeezes the back of my neck. “Brighton, you’re all right. Really.”
I could care less about the mailbox, but suddenly I’m almost crying. My mouth tastes sour, and I can’t stop shaking. It’s too much. What could’ve happened. The stress of tonight. All of it.
“You okay?” He stoops to look into my face, and I know my quivering lip is a dead giveaway.
“I just … I just feel so dirty. Like I need a shower. He was such a perv. And the way everyone in there was looking at me …”
Jonah’s face creases for a second. “You’re probably going to say no to this, but … follow me.”
The way he says “follow me” isn’t an order. It’s more of a question. As if he’s asking, “Will you?” As if he’s asking, “Do you trust me?” He’s waiting for me to take the first step.
I do.
“How’s your foot?” he asks.
I start to say “it’s okay,” then change my mind and go with the more honest, “It hurts less than it did.”
“It’s not far.” He crosses the street and turns down a side road.
“What is it?” I ask. I hate surprises. And after everything that’s happened tonight, I’ve earned the right to be wary.
“Signey Park,” Jonah says, as he steps off the street and onto a sidewalk bordering a grassy field. “More specifically, this. It’s nearly as good as a shower.” He points toward a sprinkler that’s rotating and watering large swatches of the field.
“What?” I half laugh. He can’t be serious.
“C’mon. I dare you.”
“You dare me? I’m hardly dressed for—” My words fade off as Jonah runs across the grass and plunges through the jets of water. Then he swoops back across the lawn to me and shakes off like a dog.
“Any girl who can take down Digg can’t possibly be scared of a little water.” He cups a hand and beckons me closer.
My mind is listing all the reasons this is a bad idea. The consequences if we get caught. The impracticality of what I’m wearing. My hair. My makeup. My sore toes. The general wrongness of it.
I place my purse on the ground and head toward him, gasping as the first drops of water splash against my calves. “It’s cold.”
“Quit being a chicken.” He holds out a hand, and I accept it. My fingers are warm and secure in his—the only warm part of me—as we step through the direct spray of frigid water.