You like being in control.
Control. How do I explain that it’s not even about that? For so long, taking care of Grandpa, I got used to being needed, having someone rely on me for everything. And then, one day, that was gone.
How can I tell him that it’s not control that I’m afraid to relinquish, it’s the thought of being missed? Of my decisions mattering to someone else other than me. The need of having my absences noticed, my bad days comforted, my bullshit confronted.
It’s the idea that in a big, bad, lonely world, I’m not actually alone.
“You alright?” he asks as we turn onto the quay.
I quickly neutralize my face, hoping my thoughts aren’t playing across it. “I’m fine, just hungry.”
“Then it’s good that we’re here.”
He points to a quaint restaurant, the wood painted a light sky blue, the windows overlooking the water. Jonah holds the door open for me, and I notice the stained glass above depicting a mermaid. I’m suddenly overcome with a sense of déjà vu. It’s so powerful, and yet confusing.
I’ve never been here before.
A hostess leads us to an attached conservatory. There are plants everywhere, as though we’ve stepped through to some enchanting garden. Light pours in from the glass ceiling above, casting a soft glow over the room.
“This place is incredible,” I say once we’re seated. It’s early still, and only a few of the tables are occupied, each spaced enough for privacy.
“The reviews online said the food is really good.”
I try not to overthink that he looked in advance.
The menu is a great distraction for my nervousness. Jonah dictates it to me, and we decide to share a few plates with a bottle of Merlot. Between ordering and the return of our waiter with the wine, the conversation is easily navigated, the topic circling entirely around food and drink.
The French cuisine ends up being the best I’ve ever tasted. At some point, the conversation turns to Fiona and Zoe. I tell him about the restaurant we worked at, and the trouble we used to get up to.
“It’s a weird but wonderful thing,” I say after finishing my last bite. “Seeing a friend become a parent. One minute you’re at college, getting drunk on a Monday night, and then suddenly they’re responsible for this little creature.”
Jonah refills our wine glasses. “Do you want kids?”
It’s one of those questions that can still the air between two people getting to know one another. “Maybe,” I say honestly. “I suppose I’m on the fence about it. Fiona always knew she wanted to be a mom, and Zoe always knew she didn’t. I’ve never felt strongly one way or the other.”
He traces his finger around the base of his glass. “I have a mate back in England who had a kid when he was sixteen.”
“Sixteen, wow, that’s young.”
“I remember at the time thinking that that was it, his life was over. We all went off to university, but Chris had to stay behind and get work. He started a trade, became a plumber. You know what though? Of all my friends, he’s the happiest. Married, got a good set-up, had a couple more kids since then. And Jack, his firstborn, turns eighteen this year. He’s off to Oxford in the fall.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Some of my other mates that I graduated with though, they did the whole dance, got married, had some kids. They don’t seem as happy.”
“Why do you think that is?” I ask, picking up my wine.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s that some people, like Chris, can take a difficult situation and make something great out of it. For some, though, it’s like they fall into their lives. They settle, even if it’s not what they want.”
“And what about you? What is it you want?”
His brow creases in thought. “I think it’s more what I don’t want.”
“Let me guess, marriage and kids?”
He shakes his head. “No, I’m all for that, if it’s the right thing. What I don’t want is to live by other people’s expectations. Get that job, marry that person because I’m supposed to. Because it’ll look good on some social media profile. If or when those things happen, it won’t be because I’m following some preconceived plan. It’ll be arbitrary.”
It’s not the most romantic description of love I’ve ever heard, yet there’s something in his confidence that I wish I had myself. That assuredness. Trusting that you’ll make the right decision when the time calls for it.
“What did you study at university?” I ask him.
“Computer science.”
“Have you always liked computers?”
“I like problem solving,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. “Knowing that there’s an answer, and if I find the right algorithm, then I can fix it.”
It’s not the reply I was expecting. “I’ve never loved math.”
“Music is mathematic, though, isn’t it?”
“I suppose you can draw lines of comparison, but with math you’re trying to get to an answer. It’s logical, structured.”
“And music isn’t like that?”
I consider what he’s asking. “I like to think that music is a living thing, constantly evolving. I mean, look at jazz, the way it emerged from the African American community in New Orleans at the turn of a turbulent time. It wasn’t about control and rules, but about improvisation and expression. There’s something organic to it. And you can hear that still.”
He gives me a lopsided grin. “You really love it, don’t you?”
“Jazz?”
“Music.”
It’s a simple but yet impossible question. “The only way I can explain it is that’s it’s the one language that always made sense to me.” His gaze deepens, and I pick up my glass, needing the distraction. “Do you like being an interface user...” I trail off, not remembering the proper title.
“User interface designer.” He laughs. “Yeah, I do. I like seeing something go from concept to reality.”
“But you have a bar, too, right?”
There’s the slightest shift in his expression, the subtlest shadow crossing his features. “Yeah.”
I’m curious but decide not to press it.
“What about you, do you like teaching?”
I wonder if he sees a similar shadow cross my own face. “I don’t know if I want to teach anymore.” I’m surprised at how easy the words fall from my lips.
“What would you like to do instead?”
I swirl my glass, watching the wine settle. “That is the million dollar question.”
“You should play.”
He says it so casually and yet with unfaltering conviction. “You’ve only heard me play once.”
He shrugs. “I may not be a pianist myself, but I grew up hearing what a great one sounds like. But you don’t need me or anyone else to say it. You know how good you are. Maybe you just need to remember why you play.”
It’s a profound statement, and one that hits deeply, striking the core of my grief.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asks, watching me.
I shake my head, grappling with raw emotions. “I never would have thought there’d be a time when I’d even question playing. Up until recently, it was my entire life.”
“What happened?”
The memories flood back like it was yesterday. “My grandpa got sick. I couldn’t tour and take care of him at the same time.”
He sighs in understanding. “That’s why you started teaching.”
“The job at the university allowed me the time to be there with him. I hired a nurse to help out during the day, and at night we’d listen to music, or I’d play for him. Anything to help take his mind off it. Really, I think I was just trying to pretend that things weren’t getting worse.” I down the rest of my wine and Jonah quickly refills it.
How can time seem to have passed so quickly and yet not at all? “I tried to play after, but I couldn’t feel him anymore. Not even through the music. It made it worse someho
w.”
“And what about now?” he asks.
“Now? I don’t know. The piano still feels like the only place I can make sense of things. But it’s different. Not as easy as it used to be.”
He looks at me intently. “I hope I get to hear you play again someday.”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off-guard, the air between us becoming heavy. I’m saved from having to attempt a reply by the return of the waiter.
* * *
After dinner, as we exit the restaurant, I feel my nerves firing. Walking to the edge of the quay, I stare out at the ocean, inhaling a deep, steadying breath. The sun is slowly making its way toward the horizon, a few dark gray clouds rolling in from the east. There’s a smell in the air that makes me think it’s going to rain.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” Jonah asks, coming up beside me.
All thoughts of the weather disappear. “Sure.”
We head in the opposite direction of the hotel, following the trail along the harbor. It’s quiet, with very few people on the streets. That sense of déjà vu returns, and I wonder what it could mean. I once read somewhere that it’s a sign you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. I’m not sure if I believe that, but there’s comfort to be found in the thought.
Could it mean I’m on the right path? That I’m going to find her?
Jonah gently nudges me. “Penny for your thoughts.”
“Sorry. I was thinking about my grandmother. Wondering if there’s a chance we’ll find out who she was.”
“We’re going to do everything we can.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it. “And not just for coming with me. Though it’s nice not to have to do this alone.”
The smile he gives me highlights those dimples once again. “You’re not getting sick of me yet?”
Quite the opposite. The thought comes from nowhere, and I feel my cheeks blush. “Well, it is only the first day. I’m sure you’ll do something to make me mad tomorrow.”
His laughter carries on the wind. “See, we are getting to know one another.”
We reach the edge of the town, a country road stretching out ahead. Crossing it, we choose a narrow cobblestone lane, and head back in the direction of the hotel. We’re not halfway down when the rain begins to fall.
“That came in fast,” I say, hugging my arms around my chest, the temperature dropping significantly.
“Damn, I thought we were gonna miss it.”
As though in response, the skies open up, the rain hitting the ground with fury. Within seconds my clothes are soaked through.
“Come,” Jonah says, quickly leading me over to a covered passage. “It shouldn’t take too long. We can wait it out here.”
He looks up, studying the angry clouds blanketing the sky. I watch as he runs a hand through his hair, the color even darker from the rain. My eyes slowly drift down. He’s as soaked through as I am, the material of his shirt clinging to his body.
It’s one hell of a body.
He turns and catches me looking, but I don’t drop my gaze. Instead, I dig for a little courage and keep my eyes fixed on his. We don’t move or speak, the rain falling harder as my breathing shallows.
Then all at once, he moves, reaching for me as his lips meet mine. Within seconds, my surprise gives way to need. I open my mouth to his as he gently presses me against the wall.
Gripping the wet fabric of his shirt, I draw him in, trailing my fingers across the lines of his back, his muscles tensing beneath my touch. The kiss intensifies as he braces the wall with one hand, the other moving slowly up my neck.
When he reaches my face, he pulls his mouth from mine, his breathing labored, his eyes heavy upon me. He runs his thumb across my lower lip before kissing me again, softly.
“Catriona!” The name comes sharply to mind and out my mouth before I can stop it.
Jonah stares at me, startled. “What?”
Well, I can’t take it back now. “Are you and her ... is she your—”
“She’s a friend,” he says.
“But the way your dad made it sound.”
“She’s a friend,” he repeats emphatically as he releases his hold on me.
I move away from the wall, putting some distance between us. “We shouldn’t have ... this was a mistake.”
“Why?”
I’m not sure I have an answer.
He seems to realize, and takes a step toward me, then another.
“What are we doing?” I ask, my voice barely heard over the rain.
He lifts his hand, gently touching my cheek. “This,” he says, leaning forward and kissing me slowly.
My doubts fade away, a stirring need taking their place. My fingers are at his hips once more, pulling him closer.
Everything around us disappears, his mouth on mine the only connection to time passing. When we finally draw apart, I have no idea how long we’ve been there. The rain has stopped, the world gone quiet in its wake.
“We should get out of these wet clothes,” he says, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.
All I can do is nod.
We step out from under the shelter and back into the lane. The clouds have gone, the sky turned a soft pink and orange. Everything feels different somehow, as though the world has altered slightly. When Jonah reaches for my hand, entwining his fingers with mine, I get the feeling the sky has nothing to do with it.
13
Jonah doesn’t let go of my hand until we reach the end of the hallway. Stopping in front of his door, he unlocks it, and goes into his room, indicating for me to follow. I pause, not sure if I should.
Don’t get me wrong, I want to. From the second he stopped kissing me, it’s all I’ve thought about. The way it felt, the all-consuming need it brought from me.
And that’s the reason I don’t move from the doorway.
If I step inside there, he’s going to look at me like he did back in that lane, and I won’t be able to stop myself.
Jonah steps out of the bathroom, shirtless, a towel draped over his shoulders. I groan internally. His body is incredible. My fingers recall the hard lines of his abs, how they felt beneath my touch. It’s a visceral memory, and one I wouldn’t mind repeating.
“Here,” he says, walking over and handing me a towel.
I take it from him out of reflex.
He goes over to the mini bar and pulls out a small bottle of whiskey. “You want one?” he asks, and when I don’t answer, he glances in my direction. “You can come in,” he adds with a laugh.
My internal struggle continues until my skin starts to shiver. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Jonah.
“Come,” he says, taking the towel from my hands and wrapping it around me. “You need to get dry.” He rubs my arms briskly.
Having his hands on me again does nothing to help my trembling.
Moving me over to the bed, his sits me on it, and then picks up one of the glasses on the counter. “This will help,” he says, offering it to me.
I lift it to my lips, and for reasons having more to do with my nerves than my shivering, I down the drink in one go.
Jonah looks at the empty glass, impressed. “Well, that’s one way to do it.”
My damp clothes cling uncomfortably to my body, but I don’t move. Jonah takes a seat beside me, his proximity only intensifying my self-consciousness. I feel like a teenager again, the bundle of nerves and butterflies taking me back to the night I lost my virginity. The thought has me laughing. Out loud. Like a lunatic.
“What is it?” he asks, looking at me, confused.
“Nothing,” I say, not wanting to share the awkward experience of that encounter. I exhale and turn to face him. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”
He lifts his brow. “You’re not?”
“No,” I insist. “I’m not.”
“As in ever, or tonight?” The smirk he gives me only makes him more handsome.
I open my mouth to reply but realize I don’t have an answer. I fix m
y eyes on the wall opposite, not daring to look at him lest I lose my resolve.
“It’s okay,” he says, his tone casual. “This can be whatever we want it to be. Or not be.”
“Or not be? What do you mean?”
“Just that.” He stands and places his empty glass down on the counter. “This doesn’t have to be more than it is.”
The fluttering in my stomach evaporates. “And what is it?”
He shrugs. “Could be sex, if you want. Or it could be a kiss in the rain and no more than that.”
His nonchalance is an unexpected blow to my self-esteem. I feel like an idiot. Sex or a kiss in the rain. “No more than that, huh?”
“It’s no big deal.” He stands there, all shirtless and muscular, but I find any desire on my part has disappeared.
Getting up off the bed, I pull the towel from around my shoulders and throw it over the back of a chair. “I need to get out of these clothes,” I say, heading for the door.
“Charlotte?”
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “You’re right. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Crossing the hall, I step into my room and quickly close the door behind me. My frustration and regret reign. Just this afternoon I was trying to convince myself that I didn’t have feelings for him, and now I’m upset because he doesn’t want anything more than something physical.
How could I have been so stupid?
Where did I get the idea that anything more than that was possible?
And, even more vexing, why does it bother me so much?
* * *
“Wait a second, you didn’t sleep with him?”
I lie in bed, my phone on the pillow next to me on speaker. “Of course I didn’t.”
Zoe hums in thought. “And why not?”
“Because,” I say, staring at the light streaming through the curtains, reminding me that I need to get up soon.
“Because isn’t an answer, Char.”
“Because he only wants sex.”
“And that’s a problem?”
I sigh heavily. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Char.” Zoe’s tone is gentle. “Do you have feelings for him?”
The Sea of Lost Things Page 12
