Chapter 11: The Safe Room

Ruth went to her sister's house in Beaverton, which she said had a shotgun and no Wi-Fi.

Jonah drove Maren to a flat above a dry cleaner on the east side.

He had rented it for cash a week ago, with no paperwork. He did not say why, and she did not ask.

It was one room, with a mattress on the floor, a kettle and a window that fogged from the steam coming up through the boards.

The door shut behind them.

They stood in the dark with the rain loud on the glass, both of them dripping.

"You kissed me," Jonah said.

"I did."

"If it was because I quit..."

"It wasn't gratitude." Maren pulled off her other glove and dropped it on the floor. "Do I look grateful?"

He looked at her.

His eyes went over her wet hair, her mouth, her bare hands.

"No," he said. "You look like you're about to take something."

"Then keep up."

She crossed the room and put her palms flat on his chest.

His shirt was soaked through. Under it his heart was slamming.

She felt nothing from him but heat.

No picture came, no hallway, no hospital room. Just the white wall of his count, a steady quiet hum.

It was the only silence she had ever touched.

"Jonah," she said, and her voice shook. "I can't hear you."

"Is that bad?"

"It's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

His breath went out of him all at once.

He bent his head and kissed her, and this time it was not careful.

His hands came up into her wet hair. Her fingers tangled in his shirt and dragged it open, button after button popping on the floor.

He backed her against the wall.

His mouth moved down her throat, hot and slow, and she heard a sound come out of her that she did not recognize.

"Tell me," Jonah said against her skin. "Tell me what you want."

"Your hands."

"Where?"

"Everywhere. Now."

He peeled her sweater over her head and dropped it.

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