My throat is sore and hoarse. My head hurts, too, my scalp still tender and aching. But the small, dark scratches from Jonah’s fingernails digging into my arm—the bruises from that very same, merciless grip that have barely begun to fade—are far more difficult to conceal. Especially in the summer heat.
But, under my bedcovers, I can hide everything. I can hide my mortifying injuries.
Although, intelligently, I know that Jonah is the only person to blame for what happened the other night, I can’t stop obsessing over how I could have prevented it. Over all of the warning signs, even the vaguest ‘red flags’ that, in retrospect, shine as bright and vivid as the blood spilled that night.
Mostly Jonah’s blood, I recall.
Thanks to Noah Reed.
Ah, Noah, the other thing I haven’t been able to stop myself from thinking about obsessively. So much so, that, at the risk of sounding borderline delusional—minus the borderline—I actually convinced myself I saw him walk past my front yard the day before yesterday. Which would make absolutely no geographical sense. It appears my stressed-out brain must be conjuring him anywhere I glimpse a similarly-aged, similarly-built guy who happens to pass me by.
I roll myself out of bed, determined to at least make it to the bathtub, where I can soak and soothe my still-smarting wounds, including, God-willing, the critical one to my soul. To the innocence that’s always, inevitably lost when we’re betrayed by someone we trusted. The permanent, devastating scar that makes it that much harder to trust the next time around.
Logically, I know I can’t hide from reality forever. But, at the same time, I still can’t figure out how to face it, either.
I try and try again to find the conviction to tell myself that the events of the other night were no big deal.
But deep down I know they were. They were the biggest deal.
I haven’t responded to a single one of Jonah’s text messages, and I haven’t taken any of his many calls, either. We’ve never actually talked on the phone before; we’ve been exclusive texters since middle school, so why he’d think I’d suddenly want to talk to him now, I can’t possibly fathom.
The second I got home from Jillian’s party that night, I texted Jonah’s best friend, Brock, to let him know where to find his buddy, giving him little to no further information. I figured he could take it from there, and apparently, he did.
Jonah probably didn’t deserve even that much, as far as I’m concerned.
I expected he’d come up with some story that made him look less like the douchebag he turned out to be, and when Jillian texted me about some big, bad bar fight Jonah got into after her party. I replied that I didn’t give a fuck what he did.
She probably thinks we’re just in another fight. She has no idea. And I’m not quite sure how to tell her.
I’m not sure how to tell anyone.
No police have been called, and while I find myself second-guessing that decision almost constantly, when I consider filing a report—detailing what happened to complete strangers—and all of the inevitable fallout... It just feels like more than I can handle right now.
There is another reason I don’t plan to involve the authorities.
Noah.
Jonah more than deserves whatever repercussions might have been for in store for his abhorrent behavior, but what about Noah’s role that night? His undeniable overkill when it came to subduing Jonah? Jill did mention Jonah’s bar fight injuries—that they were worse than those of his typical brawls.
I owe Noah more than that. At the very least, more than being the reason he could get sucked into a situation that could have serious legal ramifications to his future. That would certainly be one way to repay him for coming to my rescue.
I brush my teeth, taking stock of my own injuries, and am surprised to find that my formerly dark purple bruises have faded to lighter greens and yellows. It’s strange, to watch the physical reminders of Jonah’s abuse heal, while my psyche seems to be stuck at a standstill.
Well, fuck that.
I wash my hair for the first time in days, going through the motions of shaving my legs, as if it’s just a normal morning. And I suppose it is. It’s Jonah that’s all fucked up.
And suddenly my resentment erupts into anger.
I am supposed to be enjoying my last carefree summer before I leave for college in just a few short weeks. Not...whatever the hell this pathetic existence is.
I miss the beach, and my friends. But the last thing I want is to run into Jonah anytime soon—or ever, frankly—even if rationally I know I will have to face him at some point.
A shiver rolls down my spine at the mere thought, and I
resent that even more.
How dare Jonah cause me this kind of anxiety?