Clara smiled, thinking of the people she’d miss—her father, of course, but she already lived with that. But she’d miss Mrs. Guillot and Madame Fournier, and the myriad of people she looked forward to seeing day after day, surprisingly even a few of the other dancers who had been treating her more warmly of late. “Maybe a little, after a while.”
She rested her cheek on the soft cotton of his shirt. He’d phrased the question in a way that excluded himself, and it made her realize that he’d already been lonely for so very long, perhaps he didn’t even consider that he could ever get any lonelier than he already was. It made her heart hurt for him. All because he believed he should be an outcast.
He looks like a man who’s been terribly hurt by the world and believes there is nothing left to love about him anymore.
Oh, Jonah. She held on to him more tightly, wanting to assure him she wouldn’t let him go, but very aware that he might be the one to push her away.
She hoped with everything in her that that wouldn’t happen, that she could convince him there was a life for them outside this deep, fathomless darkness.
She would meet him here as long as he let her, but her most fervent desire was that at some point, he would take her hand and let her lead him out of the emptiness of this universe built for two, into the light of the world.
He had so much to offer. Not just to her, but to others as well. She believed it with her whole heart, even if he didn’t yet.
And he made her so blissfully happy. She wanted to share that happiness with everyone.
“Come on,” he whispered. “I’m going to walk you back so you can get home. Go to the house and call for a car. Myrtle prefers not to drive at night, but I’m sure Cecil would be more than happy to drive you.”
Clara started to protest. She wanted to stay there longer. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye. But it was late, she had early practice, and she should do the responsible thing and get the rest she needed.
“I’m going to dream about you,” she said as she leaned up and kissed the underside of his jaw, the side he’d already exposed to her. She felt his chin move and the light ghosting of an exhale from his nose and knew he was smiling.
“I’ve been dreaming about you for a while now,” he said softly, very seriously, as though it were a dangerous confession.
“What do you dream?”
“Things I shouldn’t.”
“No,” she breathed. “Whatever you dream, I promise you I want to make them all come true.”
He breathed her name. “If only you could.”
“I can, if you let me.”
He smiled again but it felt sad to Clara, even in the darkness, even without her sight. He kissed the top of her head once more and then took her hand in his.
He guided her through the forest area once more, around obstacles, and through trees that rose up in front of her so suddenly that she gasped a few times. But he gripped her hand more tightly, pulling her close to his side as he walked the path he obviously knew by heart.
Eight years, she thought. Eight years of walking this property, day after day, night after night. Again and again. His world condensed to the acreage of Windisle and nothing more.
The stars came into view first, their twinkling glow dancing through the darkness above and creating singular pricks of silvery light.
Clara could make out the movement of Jonah in front of her now, though barely. He turned very suddenly, and she let out a startled laugh as he pulled her into his arms, kissing her firmly but quickly and releasing her just as fast with a small push.
Clara took a step forward, spotting the light of the house through the break in the trees in front of her.
“Goodnight, Clara.”
She reached for him, and she saw the bare glimpse of his fingers, reaching for her too before he melted into the unlit woods. My monster. My wish collector. My love.
“I left something for you on the bench behind the house,” she called. “Goodnight, Jonah. Happy birthday.” And then she turned, heading for the light of Windisle. Away. Always away from Jonah.
When all she wanted was to draw nearer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Jonah smiled as he set the music box down, watching as the tiny ballerina spun to the tune of All I Ask of You.
He ran a finger over the blonde dancer, spinning endlessly and to his heart’s desire. If only he could ask the same of Clara. This was her sweet way, he supposed, of asking him to think of her even when they were apart. God, if only she knew. He did nothing but think of her. Ache for her. Want her with a desperate need that made his stomach cramp and his muscles clench. Heartache, he’d learned, was a very real thing. He suffered from it.
And yet there was a sweetness beneath the suffering. Torment that he kept seeking out, over and over as if Clara were not only the symptom, but also the cure.
Christ, I’m a goner for her, he thought with a pained sigh.
Jonah wondered if she’d chosen the music with purpose. He recognized it because he’d seen The Phantom of the Opera several times, once on a business trip to New York where he’d scored Broadway tickets. He’d taken a date, and yet when he tried to picture her now, he couldn’t even see the vague outline of her face.
The love song the music box played was from a story told about a masked phantom, unwilling to show his damaged face, and the woman who loved him anyway.
God, Clara.
Yes, she tormented him, but she’d also begun to loosen the immovable noose around his neck. He wasn’t sure if it was wise to even consider that. But since the very first day he’d spoken to her from behind the weeping wall, her life-giving essence had . . . infused him. Before her, taking full breaths again had been almost unimaginable.
Jonah ran a hand over his rough and ridged face, his finger tracing a particularly nasty upraised scar that ran from his damaged eye, down the curve of his cheekbone, outlining the shape of that bone.
Maybe she could learn to accept him. Myrtle and Cecil had. Yeah so, Myrtle was half blind without her glasses and Cecil had been a pig farmer for the first part of his life, so he was used to looking in the eye of less than attractive creatures. But neither one batted an eyelash at the sight of him anymore.
Did he even dare entertain the thought?
His finger moved over his bottom lip, the melted side she’d felt with her tongue. It hadn’t seemed to disgust her then. She’d even tried to do it again, but he’d distracted her from it. But of course, feeling something with the tip of your tongue and seeing the full scope of the injury front and center in the glaring daylight would be a completely different experience.
Jonah remembered the journalist who had followed Myrtle and him the day he was released from the hospital. Jonah’s bandage had come loose because of the mad dash to the car away from the yelling, spitting crowd and as part of his face was revealed—the red, raw meatiness of his wound exposed—the journalist had looked shocked at first, his expression morphing into horror as he’d stumbled back. Disgusted. And Jonah had been glad for the reaction at the time because the sight of his disfigured face had gotten rid of the guy. Or at least that’s what he’d told himself.
The music ended and the ensuing silence felt sad.
Lonely.
Normal.
He didn’t want it to end. But it would have to, wouldn’t it? He felt himself changing, emerging, only there wouldn’t be a caterpillar to butterfly transformation for him—he’d forevermore look like the back end of an insect. That was not going to change.
He thought back to the week before when he’d roamed the darkness with Clara, when he’d tasted her, felt her pressed against him. God, he longed to taste her again. Not just her lips, but her throat, her shoulders, the warm sweet place between her thighs.
He’d only spoken to her on the phone since that magical evening. She’d been busy with rehearsals, and he’d been out almost every night, patrolling with the angels for an hour here or there.
It had given him that purposeful feeling that he now coveted. Plus, he’d felt somewhat responsible for Eddy. The kid was obviously still struggling. But the guy kept showing up, just like Jonah, and he thought that was a positive sign.
He saw him walking with Augustus, talking, laughing a few times. He knew that feeling, what it felt like to connect to another person after having felt disconnected for so long, to finally have an understanding ear. And watching them, he’d felt relief that he’d made the right call that day he’d received Eddy’s wish—his silent cry for help—and reached out to Augustus rather than the police.