That’s the first time I’ve uttered those words. The first time I’ve even allowed myself to think them. Doreen’s endless patient questions finally connected and broke me open.
“There’s a world of difference between your fantasies and what Anthony did, because he raped you,” Doreen says. “You choose your partner in the fantasy—whether that’s a figment of your imagination or a willing lover like Jonah. You didn’t choose Anthony. He took that choice away from you.”
“I know. I know.” Tears have started to well.
That’s Doreen’s cue to tell me that I shouldn’t beat myself up over my fantasies, but today she goes in a different direction. “You still haven’t told Jonah about your rape?”
“God, no.”
“Do you think keeping this secret from Jonah is different than keeping it secret from others?”
“Jonah’s the last person I could tell.”
“And why is that?”
The answer is obvious, but Doreen wants me to say it out loud. Fine, then. “I’m scared he’d get off on it.”
Doreen sits back in her chair. “Vivienne, I want you to think about what this says about the trust between you and Jonah. You’ve given him a great deal of power over you; so far he hasn’t abused that. But how much trust can there be when you’re afraid he would enjoy hearing about your real-life rape?”
I have no answer for her. The clock ticks on, measuring the silence.
? ? ?
Those words of caution linger in my mind, but they don’t make me stop wanting Jonah.
No, I’m even more turned on than before. That’s how fucked up I am.
But Doreen reminded me that, on some level—one that goes deeper than a nice dinner out, or his admiration for my artwork—I’m still a little bit frightened of Jonah Marks.
The fear is what makes it so good.
I get home just at sunset. As soon as I’ve shut and locked the door behind me, I call Jonah.
“Are you all right?” he says. Still no hello.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Is this about my e-mail earlier? Maybe that was—abrupt.”
“No, it’s good that you sent it. I’m glad, really. My records will be headed your way as soon as I can scan them.” I run one hand through my hair, restless as I pace my floor. “Are you free tonight?”
“. . . I can be.”
“Do you want to play?”
He knows what I mean. I can tell by the long silence that follows, and the huskiness of his voice as he finally answers, “Yes.”
Tonight, I’m going to test my limits.
I’m going to prove how far I can trust Jonah Marks, and how far I can’t.
Twenty-two
Quarter ’til ten.
Keiko’s pottery—put that away. Breakables have no place out in the open, not tonight. What about the lamp? If I move it to the center of the table, that’s probably okay.
I took a shower just after a light dinner of toast and eggs, plus the last of the peaches I bought a few days ago. The juice was still sticky on my chin and fingers as I stood under the hot spray of water, rubbing in something that promises to be “ultra-moisturizing.” My skin feels soft, anyway, and the faint lavender scent lingers.
I wonder if Jonah will even notice. Probably not. If tonight goes according to plan, his mind should be on other things.
“Unlock your door at ten P.M. No earlier. I don’t want you to do anything unsafe.”
Protecting me as he plans to terrorize me. This is the paradox of Jonah Marks.
Nearly everything that could break during a struggle has been put away. Now what? Lights on or off? He’ll want to see me—and I want to see him—but the dark would sharpen the edge of my fear. Finally I turn down one of the floor lamps in the far corner of my living room, so only a faint shadow of amber-tinted light falls across my bedroom floor.
“I should warn you,” I said. “When I said I’ll fight, I meant it.”
Jonah’s low voice made me shudder. “Struggle all you want. It won’t matter.”
My hair is down. Wearing makeup would be sort of ridiculous, but if I went to bed like it really was any other night, I might have acne cream on my chin. Let’s not. I settle for clean-scrubbed skin and cherry ChapStick. My shoes have all found their places in my closet, instead of their usual line near the side of my bed. This tank top is a soft shade of apricot—seemed like a good idea on the clearance rack, but it doesn’t really match anything else I own. It’s been sleepwear for a while now. My nipples are just visible through the thin ribbed cotton.
Simple cotton panties. If they get torn, so be it.
I should probably shop at the Salvation Army for more clothes I wouldn’t mind being destroyed.
“If I haven’t come in by ten thirty, something’s held me up. Lock your door and wait for me to call.”
Five until ten. On the back of my bedroom door, I’ve hung a series of hooks, which gives me a handy place to keep belts, scarves, accessories like that. I run my hands through the scarves, feeling the various fabrics against my skin—then close my fingers around pale pink cotton. This scarf is sturdy enough to stand up to some abuse. Yet thin enough to serve as a makeshift rope—if that’s something Jonah wants.