Chapter Twenty-Five
Vivian
Another semi blows around us as we wait for the tow truck.
“Jerk,” Jonah yells at the truck. I’m sure Maisy is the only reason he’s censoring himself. Not that it stopped him when the engine blew on the van, and he let out a string of very colorful words.
We’re in the middle of nowhere.
Pridefest is the day after tomorrow, and we don’t have a vehicle.
I’m tired and cranky. My ears hurt from the stupid window and the smoke from the engine makes my chest burn. But the thing that bothers me the most is my fight with Jonah.
Which makes no sense. Fighting with Jonah is as normal as breathing. So, what makes this time different?
Is it the sex?
But I know the moment it became real. When I answered the call from my father. Why does he ruin everything?
And Jonah. He was ready to—what? Take on my father? What good would that have done?
Stop coddling him, Carolynda. He’ll turn out like Henri.
The few memories I have of my uncle before he died are more fond than any of my memories of my father. So why do I care so much what my father thinks?
I’m not sure what’s worrying me more. That my father would have berated Jonah for trying to defend me, or the implication that I was weak. I could just hear my father’s reaction. What? Now your stepbrother has to protect you? Can’t you do anything for yourself?
I couldn’t let that happen. I didn’t mean to hurt Jonah, but maybe it was for the best.
Sure, that’s why of all the places it hurts—my cheek, my body, my head—this pain in my heart is the worst.
The tow truck finally arrives, and we all pile in. It’s tight. We’re definitely breaking a law or two, but this town doesn’t have public transportation. Or Uber.
It does have a hotel, thank fuck. Evidently, being this close to the Grand Canyon gets them enough business to stay open.
I just want to go to sleep and forget this day ever happened. And magically wake up in San Diego.
That’s not too much to ask, right?
This trip was supposed to fix everything, not make it a thousand times worse.
Mom and George check us into the hotel. “There’s a restaurant across the street. Take your stuff up to your room, and we’ll meet here in the lobby.”
Jonah doesn’t say a word to me. Not in the hallway. Not in the elevator. Not as he opens the door to our room and stops abruptly. My heart jumps. But when I go around him, I find two queen-size beds.
I grab the bathroom first because I have to wipe the grime off my face.
“Hurry up, Vivian.”
What would he do if I pushed him to the limit? Would he walk away? Or push me against the doorframe?
“Vivan. Jesus.”
But I don’t antagonize him, even though I desperately want some kind of reaction from him. Lying on the bed, I face the bathroom, waiting for Jonah like the creeper I am.
The alternative is obsessing over everything that’s happened today: my dad finding a video of Jonah and me at the karaoke bar, wondering if Mom’s going to be okay, the fight with Jonah and the car blowing up. It’s been an eventful day.
The door opens, and Jonah steps out like a god.What the fuck is wrong with me? But the description fits.
