Joanna looks me straight in the eyes the entire time I’m speaking.
“I hate having my father try and dictate how I should live my life. He’s a patriarch, and he’s used to everyone dancing to his tune. I put up with it to a certain extent; I mean, he is my dad after all. But I’m not having him determine the lives of people who mean a lot to me.”
Is this the part where I get hit with the sobering reality? “Does that mean you only stayed because you wanted to defy your father?”
Joanna shows no reaction whatsoever, and I’m just wondering if she even understood the question when she grabs hold of my hands.
“You must have blocked out part of what I just said.” Her voice doesn’t sound reproachful, but gentle. “The most important part, at that. Is that one of your character quirks? I’ll gladly repeat myself in case you didn’t understand. I said that I’m not having my father determine the lives of people who mean a lot to me.”
Sometimes, words can really do a world of good. I think of everything Joanna said, all the things she did over the past few days. Of all the times she pushed me away when I tried to get closer. And now …
“I mean a lot to you? After such a short time? After everything that’s happened?” My hands are still in hers. They feel very warm, all of a sudden.
“Yes, you do. But that’s not really a surprise, is it? I don’t know what happened to me, but whatever it was, it seems like I’m still essentially the same person. And if what you say is true, I’ve fallen in love with you once before. So why shouldn’t I do the same thing again if, from my perspective at least, we get to know each other all over again?”
41
I wait for Erik to say something, but he doesn’t. He leaves my confession hanging there in the air, and just looks at me silently, with a mix of hope and distrust.
I can hardly blame him. I can still see the bandage under his right sleeve; I imagine the pain is still troubling him, even though he never complains about it.
And yet we make physical contact, without him flinching or freezing up, for the first time since the knife incident. He gently squeezes my hand back, but lets go immediately when I stand up to draw the curtains. We’re on the third floor, but I still feel more comfortable if the windows are covered. And the door locked, but Erik has already seen to that.
For a moment I just stay there by the window, looking at him.
I wasn’t lying. He means a lot to me; more than I can explain even to myself. My decision back then at the airport was neither made on a whim nor based on an act of spite. I wouldn’t have been able to bring myself to get on the plane without him. Not just because I would have been abandoning him. But because the thought of being separated from him was, all of a sudden, unbearably painful.
I go back over to him, sit on the broad arm of the chair he’s in. Right now, nobody should have any idea of where we are, even if my father can check up on the booking via the credit card—that would only be possible once we check out. Until then, we’re safe. I had completely forgotten how that felt.
Was Erik feeling the same thing? Probably not, after all, he was in a room with the woman who had almost stabbed him to death. Who could become violent again at any time. Hurt him. Hurt herself. A woman who wasn’t right in the head. It was no wonder he was being cautious about the confession I’d made.
“What I said just then, I meant it.” I brush a strand of his hair off his forehead, letting my hand linger for a moment longer than necessary. “I can’t tell you exactly when it started, but it’s getting stronger all the time. You’re becoming more and more important to me…”
Erik closes his eyes for a few seconds at my touch. “Jo, I…” He interrupts himself. “Does this room remind you of anything?”
I look around. It’s a five-star hotel, the furnishings are tasteful and expensive—but not particularly memorable. “No. I’m sorry.”
He nods, as though that was the response he had expected. “Of course not. I shouldn’t have asked you. It’s just—it looks very similar to our hotel on Antigua; even the lighting is the same.” He gestures toward the funnel-shaped lamps on the walls, which cast their warm light over the cream-colored carpet. “Back then you said those things looked like torch holders.”
Something inside my rib cage tightens. Torch holders, that was the first thought I’d had when I saw the designer lights upon walking in. Except that, in my mind, I’d only just thought of it now.
“I proposed to you on that vacation. Beneath one of the most beautiful and tacky palm trees I could find. We had just done a cocktail class at the beach bar together, and you’d single-handedly broken five bottles of rum because you were absolutely hell-bent on throwing them around like the barkeeper. We had our first fight too because at some point you decided to go off and explore by yourself, without telling me. I was out of my mind with worry, and you simply couldn’t understand why.”
I can see how vivid the memories are for Erik, while none of the things he describes ring a bell with me, not even a little.
“It was ours, all of it. Our life, our story. Sometimes we’d only have to look at each other to know what the other was thinking. When you tell me now that you’re starting to fall in love with me, I know that’s wonderful, but…”
This time, I’m the one who doesn’t let him finish. It hurts me to see him grieving for our shared past, but I can’t change that—I can only share the here and now with him, that’s all we have. Who knows for how much longer.
I rest my forehead against his. “Our life,” I say, “is this, right here.” My lips brush against his, as if by instinct, very softly. A touch like a whisper, but it suddenly makes me aware how much I’ve been longing for him. Longing to be as close to him again as on that one precious afternoon.
For what feels like an eternity, the kiss is mine alone. My tongue tentatively moving forward; my hands stroking over Erik’s shoulders, his neck, his hair. He doesn’t move, as though he’s waiting to see whether there’s anything else hidden behind my attempt to get closer to him. As though he has to stay alert and be prepared for anything.
Gradually, though, the tension starts to leave his body. His hands glide down my back, around my waist; then he pulls me so close to him that I almost gasp for air.
I bury my face in his neck, begin to open the buttons of his shirt, breathing in his scent, which for me is the most familiar thing about him.
“Joanna.” He holds me, like he has to make sure I don’t slip away. “I’ve missed you so much.”