“I’m sure that’ll make all the difference in the worlds to Kellan.”
He looks up at the sound of his name. Cora rolls her eyes and kisses me on the cheek. “I have your back. Remember that. You need my help, I’m here for you. Always.”
“I know,” I tell her, and I do. Maybe I need to start leaning on my friends to help me get through this. Maybe I don’t have to suffer in my self-imposed silence.
“You were talking about me?” Kellan asks as we walk back to my apartment.
“I told her,” I explain. “I was tired of having to defend me and you to her.”
His eyebrows rise slightly.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Why is this a secret?”
He doesn’t answer.
“It’s stupid,” I grind out. “Did you know that Cora thought you were a jerk because you like me?”
“Love you,” he corrects.
“She thought you were a jerk.”
“Sorry, but Cora’s opinion means less than dirt.”
“That’s not the point!” I stamp a foot like a toddler.
“Then what is?”
“This secret. It’s stupid. I’m tired of people constantly thinking I’m some sort of whore because I love you—”
He’s amused. “I highly doubt anyone thinks you’re a whore.”
“And that you’re some kind of rakish ass because you like to be around me.”
“Love to,” he corrects. And then, lips curving, “Rakish?” He shakes his head. “You read too many romance novels, C.”
“You know what I mean. Wouldn’t it be easier to just let it be in the open?”
He reaches out and touches my arm. “No. And you know why.”
“It’s not fair.” Tears blur my vision.
“No,” he agrees. “It definitely isn’t.”
Jonah’s waiting by the door when I come in. Before I can say anything, he’s kissing me, hauling me against him, lacing one hand in my hair and then splaying the other across my lower back. He leads me to the couch, tugging me down and rotating so I’m under him. He continues kissing me until I’m completely and utterly breathless. His hands are everywhere, making it hard to focus on anything at all but him.
Kissing Jonah is always a good thing. But tonight, it’s amazing. I think we’re going to finally make love, but he pulls away from me the moment my hands go to the buttons on his jeans.
“You need to understand something.” His voice is quiet against my ear. It’s sort of hard to focus on his words, since he’s slowly unbuttoning my shirt. “No matter what, I would never, ever call off our wedding.”
I clamp a hand down over his, two buttons down, so I can gather my thoughts. “You said cancel.”
His breath is so soft and heavy at the same time against my exposed collarbone. “You didn’t let me finish, Chloe. You just got up and ran, and I hadn’t even finished what I was saying, leaving me to wonder what in the hell was happening. What I was in the process of saying was how we had to cancel all of the reservations we have now and postpone the date until a little while later. But I never, ever would cancel it entirely with you. Why would I? You’re everything to me.”
I’ve never been able to handle seeing Jonah in pain, and I know he is now, so I let it go. Because I think, for the first time, his cracks are beginning to show, too.
The cracks expand over the next few days. Jonah doesn’t say anything, but he no longer carries himself in the normal, calm way that makes him who he is. It’s little things that highlight his stress—his knuckles, white against whatever he’s happening to be holding onto when they’re not flexing over and over again, the raw hangnail on his thumb repeatedly chewed on, his foot tapping every so lightly against the floor in an irritated pattern, his smile forced and strained, and his eyes, hooded and distant, when he doesn’t realize I’m watching.
Something is wrong, but he doesn’t talk to me about it. And because I’m so tired and stressed myself, and terrified of us fighting further, I selfishly let it pass without pushing the matter. Oh, that’s not to say I haven’t tried. Halfheartedly, I’ll ask every so often, “Are you okay?” There’s always a quick affirmation that all is well, but I know better, because I do the same to him. I feel like crap for not demanding more truthful answers, but on the other hand, I don’t know if I can handle much more stress without shattering entirely.
I’m getting ready to go to bed when Jonah walks into the room, a week after I fled to Hawaii, his hair wet from a shower. He’s antsy, edgy, almost as if he doesn’t quite know where to stand or sit. I set the book I’ve been reading down and wait for him to say something.
“I’ve been thinking we should get married.”
I smile up at him. “We are getting married. We just have to pick a new date.”
“No.” His hand is flexing like crazy. “I mean, we should get married. Now.”
“Now?”
“Tonight.”
I sit straight up. “What?”