I press my back further into the passenger seat, thinking about the stone in my chest: the dreams I have been having about him. Please don't bring it up. It's so embarrassing. I don't want to talk about your eyes or your hands or the tone of your voice sending chills through me as you tuck me into bed. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, but the thought of falling asleep again jolts them open again. I need to stay alert.
I turn my attention to him instead, watching him tap his index finger against the wheel, a tremor of nervousness rises up in my chest at the restlessness of him. He lifts his hand off the wheel for a moment, hovers, then returns just as quickly. I take in a sharp breath as he clears his throat then starts to speak, "Can I take you home tonight?"
The words send a jolt through me. Take me home? "Isn't that what you're doing?"
His hand lifts from the wheel again as his eyes dart toward me, his eyes flicking between the road and me. A swarm of butterflies beats at the walls of my ribcage as his hand lays itself over mine. He wants to hold my hand? The butterfly sensation softens, but he's…he's being weird. I wonder if this is what I look like to others with my own flighty shyness. I twine my fingers in his, and he pulls his arm close to his chest. "I meant, like, my home."
"Oh." He scoffs in what I assume to be disbelief, yet the pressure of his fingers against mine grows. "You want to like hangout?" He swallows, stifling a smile. I watch the rise and fall of his Adam's Apple, meanwhile my arm is starting to feel a bit uncomfortable like this, the edge of his thumb pressing further into my knuckles.
"You're really going to make me…," he lets out a slow breath, "I was thinking maybe I could make you dinner."
He releases my hand to make a turn. There were needles starting to press into my arm, so his timing is perfect. "Jonah, dear, when was the last time you ate dinner." The words leave me before I can think to stop them, a boldness in them that feels foreign.
"For you," he starts to explain. "It would be for you. Forget it. It's dumb." He's starting to sound like me. I can't let that happen. Two of me would just be so insufferable.
I poke a finger at his arm, teasing, yet also making sure I have his attention. "Take me home with you?"
His grip on the wheel tightens for a moment, then he relaxes. The car ride continues in a comfortable silence, the hum of the engine and the rhythm of the road beneath us providing a soothing backdrop. I watch the city lights blur past, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and warmth settle in my chest.
His home looms over us, painting shadows and contrast across us. I am still admiring the shadows that watch us when he opens the passenger side door, "Earth to Helen?"
Without thinking, I loop my arm through his, and his reaction is immediate. He pulls me closer, his arm firm yet careful, as though I'm something fragile he doesn't want to shatter. My heart stumbles, the rhythm catching in my chest, and my stomach swirls like leaves caught in a gust.
Inside, his home is neatly organized, with whispers of centuries past in the design and deep, rich colors that create a sense of timeless elegance. A sense of stillness settles over the air. The dim lighting casts a muted glow, shadows stretching and twisting at the corners of the room. His eyes catch mine, and their depths contain something unreadable as they linger on me. The moment passes; however, and he moves with a measured grace, heading straight to the kitchen, and I follow him, curiosity piqued. As he sets about preparing dinner, I take in the small details that make his home uniquely his. Antique furniture, carefully chosen and arranged, speaks to his refined taste and an appreciation for history. The muted lighting seems almost warm and inviting now.
His usual grace and well-oiled machinations seem to be running into impurities and obstacles today. He opens another bare cabinet, pausing. I watch his shoulders tense up, a crease forms on his brow. "Dinner might not be happening," he says in a voice that sounds strangely hollow, as if he is speaking through a thin panel of glass. If it were me, I would be freaking out right now, trying not to cry. I doubt he is about to have a meltdown, but I can't help the way that I want to comfort him now, even if I can't shake this unease that shifts beneath my skin. I slip my arms around him, pressing my cheek to his back. "It's fine."
He catches my hand, lifting it to his lips, his breath warm against the tips of my fingers. My heart squeezes and throbs beneath my skin, and I can feel the blood beneath my skin pressing against me, rushing through me. I shiver, the sensation sending sparks through me. Is this really happening?
He turns slowly, pulling me into his arms, his eyes searching mine. There is a sharp intensity to his gaze. Before I can say anything, he leans in, capturing my lips with his. The kiss is tender at first, but it quickly deepens, becoming more urgent and passionate. He swallows my breath as if he is starving for it.
My hands find their way to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as he hums into my lips. His arms wrap around my waist, drawing me closer, eliminating any space between us. The room starts to spin as I pull myself away to catch a breath and sink into him. His grip on me is tight, my heart feels fit to burst in my tightening chest, for I can't fight the feeling of being possessed by him in this moment. A heavy weight against me prevents me from catching my breath as I push him away. He brushes a thumb over my wrist, our gazes matching, a question in his eyes. The way he holds me is out of the pages of a book. I can't fight a gnawing ache inside me that screams everything is too easy for him, that it's all really about him. "I can't," I whisper, my voice leaves my lips lower than I thought was possible. It doesn't matter though, not to someone like him.
His touch has suddenly become something suffocating and awful. I can feel goosebumps and hairs raising, and the idea that I'm scared feels so ridiculous that it takes me a moment to face the rising fear within me. His voice is flat, "You…can't." There it is. His words are as empty as the expression that settles over his face.
You can't. This isn't love. It's need, and it's not mine. I have never been more than what I can be for the people around me, and I am sure it is the same now. I am sure that though I think I want this, what I want is to be loved, and I have a deep ache at this moment as I consider that Jonah Magnus will never be capable of loving anyone except for himself. I have doomed myself my whole life with this yearning.
"I don't understand," he says, his tone falling short of what it ought to. It doesn't even crack or warble for a fraction of a moment.
You don't eat food. We don't need to eat the way people do, the way most animals do. Are we even capable of love? I was always raised to be Alone, am I sure that this is even possible for me to do, let alone an egoist like Elias.
"I know," I say.
I step away, grasping the door handle behind me. My name leaves his lips, but it falls flat, wrong. It sounds foreign from his lips. I can't even look at him right now. "This is your need."
He stands there, expressionless, like he does so often. He could be asleep with his eyes open. I am torn up inside, and he is a beautiful still portrait painted with a steady hand. "Will you run back to that lonely flat of yours?" He says that, but his eyes that don't belong on his face cut me with their gaze. No. I need to be alone. I need to think. This isn't…right. Who am I to speak of right?
How dramatic can I be? How emotional and awful and sensitive I am! I want to scream and cry and rage. I want to make a scene. I want him to understand, to know, but I can see that he doesn't. All I want is to be understood, but maybe the unknown is meant to be left alone.
I step back out into his front step, the door bounces shut in front of me. I do know that he stayed in that spot, but if he had opened the door, I wouldn't have been there. The phrase "lonely flat" sticks to my skin, needling into me as I move through the mist and chill. My heart clenches tight and my breath picks up as I take the fast route home, fog curling around me like a phantom embrace.
The cost of being understood feels steeper than my yearning for it tonight.