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Jonah’s mom hushed him. “No, this is the one who Jonah was protecting,” she faux-whispered.
His stern, disapproving demeanor melted away in an instant, and he opened the door and gestured me inside. “Come in, come in. Welcome to our home. I’m Terrence, and this is my wife Emma, and this here is Polly, our youngest. Say hi, Polly.”
“Hi,” Polly dutifully recited, then wriggled her way down from her mom’s hold and vanished into the bowels of the house.
“We met today,” Emma said, then grasped my upper arms and peered at me as if she was checking me for damage. She had the clearest blue eyes, and they were brimming with worry. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, it was Jonah who…”
She released her hold and patted my arm. “Good.”
“I haven’t brought anything, like grapes or whatever.” Maybe I should have asked Soren’s grandpa to stop at a gas station for flowers, or chocolate, or a teddy, or something that said, thank you for taking a punch meant for me after I confronted the school bully and caused him to go nuclear.
“He’s feeling sorry for himself, and I’m not sure grapes would help,” his mom said, then tugged her husband to one side and gestured at the stairs. “First door on the left, the one with theFortniteposter. I’ll bring up some snacks and drinks soon.”
“Thank you, I don’t want to be a bother.”
“It’s been a long time since Jonah had friends over,” she said and exchanged glances with her husband, who pulled her into a sideways hug. “Anyway.” Her smile brightened. “Go on up and see Grumpy McGrumpy.”
I slipped off my bag, and she took it and my jacket from me and added it to the pile of stuff hanging on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, smoothing it flat. She didn’t comment on the badges or stare at me weirdly. If anything, Jonah’s parents were cool as hell. Kind of like my mom, really. I stopped at the top of the stairs, sent a quicklove youto my mom, adding to the earlier message where I’d explained I was visiting Jonah. I knew she and I needed to talk about what I’d said to the principal, and about Dad, and God, so many things. She sent me a message back, just as quick, to say she loved me too, and that she’d sent me some money to order pizza when I got home.
I smiled at that—seemed as if food was the story of our family, as well as Jonah’s.
Taking a breath, I knocked on the door.
“No, I don’t want to play tea parties, Polly!” a nasally voice that sounded completely unlike Jonah came from inside.
“It’s not Polly, it’s… uhm… me,” I said.
I heard some banging, crashing, and scurrying, and then, after a wait of at least a minute during which I stared at the poster of Deadfire on his door, admiring the beautiful lines of the artwork, Jonah cracked open his door, much as his sister had done. Then, he opened his wider and stepped back.
Shit, he was a mess.
“Shit,” I said, then placed a hand over my mouth, remembering belatedly that his little sister might lurk somewhere close by.
“How bad is it?” Jonah asked mournfully.
“Super bad, like all…” I waved a hand at my face, “blotchy and cut, and there’s blood there.”
He went cross-eyed trying to check out his nose, which was cute and stupid. Then, he laughed, not a big belly laugh, but a soft, almost shy sound that made my chest tight.
“It’s not broken, but I think my modeling days are over,” he said after a moment and smiled, but then winced before shuffling back even more. “You want to come in?”
I stepped inside, took in a tidy space—small, but perfectly formed—then stood, not sure what to say or do. I saw a plate of rice and chicken. “Am I interrupting dinner?” I asked. Doh. Of course, I was.
“I couldn’t manage it,” he said ruefully and nudged it to one side. “Not hungry anyway.” He left the door open. “Rules, when I have people over,” he explained.
“Even when it’s a boy?” I asked with a smile, and wished I hadn’t when he raised an eyebrow, then winced.
“Yep,” he said, and my chest tightened at the thought of other boys coming over which forced an open door policy. I massaged the ache as he explained. “Mom and Dad are all equality rules in this house. No boys or girls over with a shut door until I either marry or leave home. Dad’s words, not mine.” He laughed then, and groaned because it must have hurt. He patted a chair at a small desk, which I sat on, then he took the bed, cross-legged, and stared at me. Where had that flash of jealousy come from? Why was I thinking about Jonah with another boy and feeling so wrong about it all.
I met his steady gaze, and the jealousy became guilt about his face, and the punch, and that I was the one who’d wound up Miles.
“Fuck, Jonah. I’m so sorry.”
ChapterNine
Jonah
