How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [97]
I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should leave him here, go home and let him work it out, whether he’s going to live or not.
But I can’t, not yet.
Not yet.
Ramona
I am lying awake, doom heavy in my gut, when my cell phone rings. Snatching it off the side table, I answer, “Sofia?”
A man’s voice says, “It’s Jonah. Did I wake you?”
“No.” Sitting up, I peer at the clock. One a.m. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m outside.”
I think of walls falling down, letting all the good and all the bad come rushing in. “I’ll be down in five minutes.”
“Thank you.”
I tug on my jeans and a sweatshirt, splash water on my face. Staring at my bleary eyes in the mirror, I promise myself that I won’t get too tangled in this. The last thing I need in my life is a man with a yawning wound. There are quite enough wounded people in my world already.
But, once upon a time, he was so very kind to me that I cannot possibly turn him away now.
He’s sitting on the front-porch step and turns as I come out the door. In a quiet voice, I say, “Hi. Is everything okay?”
He stands. He’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and his hair is brushed back from his face as if he’s been running his hands through it. “Yes. I’m not sick or anything. I just thought you might be awake.”
Tugging the door closed behind me, I sit down on the step and reach for him. “Sit. Tell me.”
He perches beside me and picks up my hand, places it against his thigh, palm up. “This line here is the one that says we’ve known each other in many lifetimes.”
His light touch makes me shiver, makes me conscious that I am not wearing anything beneath my sweatshirt. “This line marks the day we met, all those years ago.” He holds up his hand and places his palm against mine. “I know you were worried about my sad story, Ramona. Maybe it seems the timing for us is terrible again, but it isn’t.”
“It is, though. I’m overwhelmed by my life right now.”
“Mmm.” He looks at me. “Is that really why?”
His thumb is moving on my inner wrist, igniting a million nerve cells. It moves higher, through that center line, and I almost think I can see phosphorescence wherever he strokes my skin. “I don’t know.”
“I think you’re afraid.”
I let go of a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, with good reason. I’ve not had good luck in this department.”
“That doesn’t mean you’ll always have bad luck.” He curls my fingers and covers them with his other hand. “I’ve been writing music for three days. Nonstop, practically. It’s terrible. It’s wonderful.” He pauses, looking into the darkness. “It’s Ethan.”
“Your son.”
He nods. “The thing about a sick kid is that they don’t live in the sick part. They’re still growing and making funny faces and learning to talk, all those things. He had his favorite toys and breakfasts and cartoons, you know?”
“Yes.” Again I think of Sofia at five, her black curls and wicked eyes. “What did he love, Jonah?”
“Fish. We had a saltwater tank, and it was his joy. He knew the name of every fish and coral in that thing. They’re beautiful, so colorful and peaceful, and it always seemed to me that something like that could heal you.”
“I believe that.”
He nods again. Starts to say something and then stops. “I hadn’t written anything since he died. Not one note.”
“Maybe you needed time to grieve.”
“It’s been fourteen years, Ramona. The trigger was you.”
I give him a smile. “Ah, so I’m a muse. That’s cool.”
“I’ve noticed you do that little joking thing when you’re feeling something strong.”
I look down.
He pushes back my sleeve, strokes up and down my inner arm, and an answering swirl of nerves moves up my spine, around my ribs, across the tips of my breasts. I pull away, tuck my arm against my body.
He chuckles. Scoots close to me. “You like me, Ramona.”
I bend over my knees, my hair falling down around me like a tent. “I do, but that’s besides the point.”
“What is the point?”
His arm comes around my shoulders, and our hips are touching. “I can’t remember.”
He says, “I came here to kiss you.”
“I think we shouldn’t.” I close my eyes, trying not to think about it, so