by Lauren Rowe
“Whatcha doin’?” I ask.
“Thinking of you. Thinking about what I wish I was doing to you right now.”
I hope he can hear my smile across the phone line.
“Where are you right now?”
“At school. I just got out of con law and now I’m going to the library to study. You?”
“Still in my meeting. It’ll probably keep me busy the rest of the day—but maybe I can see you late tonight?”
What I’m about to say is going to make me sick to my stomach, I know, but it has to be done. “I’ve got to study all night. I really, really do.”
“Maybe I could come over and help you study?” Oh, he’s smirking; I can feel it.
I pause. “Here’s the thing—and it kills me to say this, believe me—but I really, really have to get my work done before we go on our trip so I can run off and feel zero stress about it. I’ve got a lot riding on my grades.” I want to slap myself for turning him down, but oh my God, I have to do it.
“I totally understand.” He sighs. “You know what? It’s for the best. I need you totally relaxed on our trip—and, hey, not seeing each other for a couple days will help build the delicious anticipation.”
“‘Build the delicious anticipation.’ You’re such a poet.”
“Fuck, yeah, I am.”
I laugh. Oh God, this man makes my pulse race like nobody else, even over the phone. But no, no, no, I have to keep my eye on the prize. Study now. Sexy time with Jonas later. I have to do everything in my power to get that scholarship at the end of the year or I’ll never forgive myself.
“I really do want to see you, but I have so much studying to do.”
“No, no, it’s fine. No worries. You’re right. I’ll see you when I pick you up for the airport on Thursday morning. Our slow burn starts now, baby.”
“Oh, you’re cooking up another strategy?”
“Of course. And this time I’m sticking to it. I’ve made a solemn oath.”
I smile broadly.
“I’ll send a courier to your apartment with the paperwork for your passport this afternoon. Our flight leaves early Thursday morning, so we need to get your passport back by Wednesday night. Can you be home in the next couple hours to meet the courier?”
“Yeah, does four o’clock work?”
“Yep. Four o’ clock sharp, okay?”
“Got it. Thank you for taking care of that. I’m excited.”
“It’s my pleasure.” His voice lowers. “I’ll be counting the minutes ‘til Thursday morning.”
“Me too.”
“Well, I’d better get back in there. I’ll send you the details about Thursday.”
“Okay. Hey, Jonas?”
“Hmm?”
I’m not sure how to ask this. “Um, since we’re not seeing each other for three whole days, can my month officially start Thursday?”
He pauses, not understanding my concern.
“I mean, I wanted to mark the end of my month on my calendar . . .” I don’t finish the sentence. Does my month with Jonas end a month from today, or a month from Thursday? I want as much time as I can get.
“Oh,” he says, suddenly understanding my concern. “Well.” He’s considering something. “Your membership is locked in now—no changing your mind—but your membership period officially starts on Thursday morning when I pick you up for the airport.” His voice is oozing with reassurance.
I exhale in relief. “Sounds good.”
“And, hey, how about this—any days we’re apart won’t count toward the month. Good?”
My cheeks hurt from smiling. “Good. But that’ll make it kinda hard to mark the month on my calendar.”
“Well, I guess you just won’t mark it, then.”
We’re both silent on the line, but I’m sure he’s smiling as broadly as I am. My heart is soaring. Jonas doesn’t want to envision the end of this any more than I do.
“We’ve got all the time in the world, baby,” he whispers.
“Okay,” I whisper. My eyes are suddenly moist.
“We’ve got plenty of time.”
“Okay,” I say again, lamely. “Talk to you later,” I manage.
I can hear his humongous smile on his end of the line. “Bye, baby. I’ll call you later.”
My doorbell rings at four o’clock on the button.
I open the door to find a delivery guy holding a medium-sized box and a middle-aged woman in a post office uniform standing in my doorway. Both of them are smiling broadly at me.
“Sarah Cruz?” the courier guy asks.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Here you go.” The guy hands me the box in his hands. “I’ll go get the rest,” he says. He rushes off.
The rest?
The woman in the post office uniform is holding some forms. She’s got kind eyes and skin the color of a Hershey’s kiss.
“Hi, Miss Cruz. I’m Georgia. I’m here to help you fill out your passport application and get it processed as quickly as possible.”
“Wow, thank you. Yes, come in.” I show her to the kitchen table, where I put the box down.
I offer her something to drink, which she gratefully accepts.
“I didn’t know the post office made house calls. Thank you so much.”
“Oh no.” She laughs. “We don’t make house calls—but anything for Jonas.” She smiles like we’re sharing some sort of inside joke, even though I have no idea what she’s talking about. Why “anything for Jonas”?
“He was so excited to make this happen.” She smiles again. “I told him there’s no way you’re gonna get the passport back in time without a little nudge from me on the inside—and, honestly, I was thrilled to finally get to do a favor for him for a change.”
“Oh, you and Jonas are friends?” This is already abundantly clear, but it’s so unexpected, I can’t help asking the question nonetheless.
A look of pure gratitude, or maybe even love, flashes in her eyes. “Jonas is a godsend.” She smiles wistfully, but then quickly looks at her watch. “Okay, honey, we’re really cutting this close.” She spreads out the papers. “Let’s do this.”
I’m floored. Jonas is a godsend? I’m dying to know more. But she keeps looking at her watch anxiously, so I don’t ask her to explain.
The courier returns with several vases of flowers—a ridiculously excessive gift considering the “Valentine’s Day” roses already crowding every countertop and dresser and table of my apartment. The courier places one of the vases on the table next to me, and I smile from ear to ear when I see what flowers Jonas has selected this time—daffodils, lilies, and daisies—the exact ones I named when he painted his poetic picture of us basking in the post-orgasmic light outside Plato’s cave. I can’t help but giggle.
Despite how stressed she must be about getting my paperwork done in time, Georgia flashes a wide smile when she sees the flowers. “Jonas,” she says, shaking her head, as if this is exactly the kind of thing she’d expect from him.
Why? Why would she expect such a romantic gesture from Jonas?
She draws my attention back to the forms. “I’m sorry to rush you, but we’re really short on time.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry.” I blush.
The delivery guy returns with bunches of helium balloons emblazoned with messages like “Celebrate!” and “Welcome!” and “Congratulations!” which he releases like doves into my small apartment.
Georgia laughs with me about these latest gifts from Jonas, and then she proceeds to usher me through completing the forms and taking my headshot in front of my white wall pursuant to precise passport specifications.
“I’ll head back to the post office and get this submitted for processing right away,” she says, gathering everything up. “You should have it back just in the nick of time on Wednesday.”
“Do you have far to go?”
“No, not too far. I work at the downtown branch. I’ll get everything taken care of in time.”
“Thank
you so much.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, running out the front door. “Have a great trip.”
“Hey, Georgia?”
She turns around, clearly anxious to get going.
“Did Jonas happen to tell you where he’s taking me?”
“Yes, he did.” She beams at me. “But I’ll never tell.” She winks and leaves.
I look around. Wow. My bursting apartment looks like a flower shop. Or a Hallmark store. Or maybe the aftermath of a Valentine’s Day-baby-shower-birthday-housewarming-graduation barf-o-rama. It’s nuts.
I sit down in front of the box with a pair of scissors, my pulse racing, and open it. I pull out the bubble wrap on top and peek inside.
“Oh gosh,” I say out loud. There’s a package of Oreos. I pull it out, grinning. Oh, Jonas. I peek inside the box again. Two envelopes—a tiny one with something bulging inside it and a flat, letter-sized envelope. I open the flat envelope first. It contains a typed note:
“My Magnificent and Beautiful and Funny and Sweet and Classy and Dirty and Irresistible and A-Little-Bit-Crazy and Smart and Sexy-as-Hell and Ass-Kicking and Insightful and Oh-So-Talented and Fucked-Up (like me) and Tasty (holy fuck!) Sarah,
“Congratulations! Your membership in the Jonas Faraday Club has been approved! Your sexual preferences have been duly noted and meticulously vetted against our sprawling database of potential candidates and, lucky you, you’ve been assigned one, and only one, uncannily compatible match: Jonas Faraday. Yes, it’s true! From here on out, Jonas Faraday will make it his mission (from God, of course) to deliver unto you sexual satisfaction and ecstasy beyond your wildest wet dreams. In other words, you’ll be getting nothing but sexcellence from now on, baby.
“In order to receive the coveted bounty you so richly deserve, you need only follow the club’s singular (but non-negotiable) rule: Member Sarah Cruz must do whatever Club Master Jonas Faraday demands. (That means no bossy bullshit, no hijacking, no hard and fast, and no going for the jugular. Got it?) Again, Miss Cruz, welcome to The Jonas Faraday Club!
“Sincerely,
“Your Hopelessly Devoted Intake Agent,
“Jonas
“P.S. I’ll pick you up for the airport this Thursday at 4:30 a.m. Pack casual clothes for tropical weather, including a bathing suit, sturdy hiking boots with ankle support and the thickest tread possible, long pants with moisture-wicking technology, a hat for strong sun, and, of course, something pretty (and easily removable). Please use the enclosed card to purchase anything at all you might need or even remotely desire for the trip—and don’t even think about refusing to use it because you absolutely must have the appropriate gear, and, anyway, you promised to do everything I say.”
There’s a pre-paid Visa card folded into the letter, loaded with $3,000.
This is too much. Too generous. Over the top. But how else can I possibly afford all the stuff he’s telling me to pack? I guess I’m going shopping. My stomach is leaping and twisting with excitement. I can’t believe this is my life right now.
I pick up the small envelope with the little bump inside of it. Handwriting on its face declares: “Delicious Anticipation: The Soundtrack.” When I open the tiny envelope, there’s a flash drive inside. I insert it into my laptop and music files pop up onto my screen. My heart leaps. That boy made me a mix tape.
The first song is a classic I know well—“Anticipation” by Carly Simon. I click on the song and listen to Carly sing about the torture of anticipation for a moment. You can say that again, Carly. The next song is called “Slow Burn” by David Bowie. I’ve never heard of it. I click on it. Sexy. I like it. And, yes, Jonas, I get the message loud and clear. We’re going to do this your way, whatever that means—no more hijacking. I smile. The next song is “Lick It Before You Stick It” by Denise LaSalle. I roll my eyes. If the song title is any indication, it’s clear what this one’s going to be about. I press play on the song—and, yep, the saucy blues singer is singing explicit instructions on how to give a woman premium pleasure through oral sex. Oh, Jonas. Where on earth did he find that one? And, really, would a traditional love song be too much to ask? As if he can read my mind, the next song is utter perfection: “I Just Want to Make Love to You” by Muddy Waters. The title alone feels like a special kind of valentine from Jonas—I’ve never heard him use the phrase “make love” (except, of course, indirectly, when he selected the Modern English song last night—but in that song the phrase is tucked away in a verse, not front and center, as it is here). I click on the song, and I’m instantly blown away. This is old-school blues—pure and raw and effective. Oh yeah, this song is, most definitely, the musical embodiment of delicious anticipation—sensuous, pained, yearning anticipation. Delicious, indeed.
There’s no topping the Muddy Waters song—no way—and yet, there’s another song on the playlist. “I Want You” by Bob Dylan. I’ve heard of Bob Dylan, of course—one of the most influential singer-songwriters of all time—but I don’t know this particular song. I click on it. The verse is poetic madness—a jumble of disconnected, almost nonsensical, ideas—and Dylan’s delivery is slurring and hard to understand. I know Dylan’s one of the greats and all—and he’s obviously got a lot to say here—but, honestly, I’m not sure why Jonas picked this particular song. It’s definitely not hitting me like the Muddy Waters song did, that’s for sure.
But then, oh my gosh, the song arrives at its chorus, and, in the midst of rambling incoherence, there’s sudden and succinct clarity. Bob Dylan confesses, quite simply, what he wants: I want you. The simplicity of the words combined with the authenticity of Dylan’s yearning delivery hit me like a ton of bricks. This song makes me feel like Jonas wants me in a way that transcends our (off-the-charts) physical attraction—it makes me feel like he wants me outside of his bedroom. Or, hell, maybe I’m just hearing what I want to hear.
I grab my phone. “Jonas,” I breathe when he picks up. “Can you talk?”
“Of course. Hi.”
“I just got my welcome package.” My voice is bursting with excitement. So many emotions are swirling around inside me, and hearing his voice is tipping me into near-euphoria. “Thank you.”
Jonas chuckles, obviously amused by my exuberance. “Welcome to my club.”
I let out a loud sigh. “The music, Jonas. Oh my God.”
He pauses. “Sometimes, music says things better than words.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“I want you,” he whispers.
I bite my lip. I wish I could leap through the phone line. “I want you, too.”
“Talk about delicious anticipation—I’m already losing my mind.” He sighs. “So, did you get your passport worked out?”
I take a deep breath. Okay, normal conversation. Yes, I can do that. “Yeah, Georgia said I’ll have it on Wednesday.”
“Good.”
“I really liked Georgia.”
“Yeah, she’s great, isn’t she?”
I wait a beat, but he doesn’t say anything more about her.
Come on, Jonas, tell me why you’re Georgia’s godsend. “How do you know Georgia?” I finally ask.
“Oh, we met a few years ago.” There’s a beat. “It’s a long story.”
I’m quiet. I’ve got time for a long story.
“Her son interviewed me for this thing at his school.” He audibly shrugs over the line.
Hold up. Georgia’s son was the kid who interviewed him for that middle school career day thing? My brain is having a hard time connecting the dots.
“So are you slipping into an Oreo-induced coma right now?” he asks, clearly changing the subject.
How did Georgia’s son wind up interviewing him at his school? “Yeah,” I answer, “I’ve already scarfed down a whole row of Oreos—I can’t stop,” I answer.
He laughs.
I guess he’s not going to tell me anything more about Georgia and her son. I’m dying to know, but I’ll let it be. For now. “And, Jonas, t
he flowers and balloons and the shopping spree—oh my God, the shopping spree. You’re too generous. I’m sure I won’t need more than a couple hundred dollars.”
He scoffs. “No, I want you to get the best hiking shoes you can find—good ones with really deep tread—and those alone will run you a couple hundred bucks. Plus, get some moisture-wicking socks so you don’t get blisters—just go to REI, they’ll know exactly what you need. Oh, and make sure you get long hiking pants in a breathable fabric.”
Why the heck do I need all that stuff? His note said we were going to a tropical place. Doesn’t “tropical” mean drinking piña coladas on a beach by day and making hot, sticky, moonlit love by night? Where do hiking boots with deep tread and moisture-wicking socks fit into any of that?
“Where the hell are you taking me?” I ask.
He ignores my question. “And besides all that, get yourself anything else you want, too—maybe a pretty dress, oh, and a teeny-tiny string bikini would look so hot on you, and lingerie, definitely lingerie.”
“Wow, you’re my very own personal shopper.”
He chuckles. “I want you to go crazy, get anything you like. And if it turns out it’s not enough money, let me know and I’ll—”
“Oh my gosh, no, you’re insane. We’re only going to be gone for four days, for Pete’s sake. I’m sure I’ll return the card to you with lots of money left over on it—”
“No, no, spend it all. I won’t take the card back.”
I’m trembling. I don’t know why. “Jonas, you’re overwhelming me.”
“Good.”
“You’re sweeping me off my feet.”
“That’s exactly what Valentine’s Day bullshit is meant to do.”
I’m reeling.
He sighs. “Sarah, just let me . . .” He pauses. “Hang on.” There’s an insistent male voice in the background. “Okay,” he says to someone. “Just a sec.”
Is he talking to Josh? Oh my gosh, he’s still in the middle of his meeting. Why on earth did he even take my call?
His voice comes back on the line. “Sarah, just let me do this stuff, okay?” He lowers his voice. “It turns me on to do it—like, seriously, I’ve got a boner just hearing the excitement in your voice.”
