09 | Half Measures

I RESOLVED TO SPEND MY days trying not  to think. That was the only way I could function; the only way to get by.

When I finished eating dinner with dad, I washed up our dishes as slowly as I could manage, meticulously rinsing each one and then polishing it with a kitchen towel. They were probably cleaner than when I'd first bought them.

Then, to procrastinate a little more, I ran myself a hot bubble bath and soaked in the boiling water until my skin wrinkled. I was still feeling hungover, but at least after that I thought I would feel clean. It turned out, though, that I couldn't wash away the feeling that last night had left me with. Guilt and shame and fear mingling on my skin, untainted by water or soap.

I knew I should call Jonah. I had a lot of apologising to do, a lot of making-up. He was always there for me, he stuck by me no matter what I wanted to do. Even that stupid club was his idea of a worst nightmare, yet he'd come along for me. Or he thought he was doing it for me, anyway. But for some reason I couldn't bring myself to contact him.

I hadn't cheated on him. So why did it feel so much like I had? All I could think about was Alex; his hands on my shoulders, guiding me outside. His perfectly pressed suit the next morning. I'd slept on a shitty sofa. There definitely wasn't room for two on there, and it didn't even look like Alex had stayed the night. It wasn't like I'd stayed at his house, in his room. So why couldn't I wash away these feelings of guilt?

Yeah, it turned out that not thinking was harder than it seemed.

When I finally got out of the bath, wrapping my hair up in a towel and padding across to my bedroom, I decided I should check my phone again. There were a couple of missed calls from Lena and a text:

Home safe? X

Lena was my best friend because she didn't fuss and she didn't panic; in that respect she was the opposite of me. I at least could reply to her message without having to explain my gnawing guilt. I reassured her I was fine and then checked my other notifications. I had eight missed calls from Jonah, and one text:

Please answer, Grace xx

The key difference between my best friend and my boyfriend was that one of them was easy, the other not so much. Lena was low maintenance. All she needed to know was that I was safe and home. Jonah, on the other hand, required a full blown conversation which I was sure would include how was your night and when did you get home and who did you speak to?

Jonah didn't know about the mysterious man Lena and I had helped escape from the police. I'd never even had to ask my best friend to keep her mouth shut; she'd always just done it. Like I said, low maintenance. So, of course, Jonah also didn't know that I'd spent the better part of two years wondering who he was, searching for him.

He didn't need to know that now I'd found him.

And, of course, if Alex were to dispose of me prematurely, he also didn't need to know about that. Better he thought a car had smashed into me than a man had done away with me to cover his tracks. Because, the thing was, I knew Jonah almost as well as I knew myself. Some men might have been fuelled by that knowledge, filled with vengeful thoughts by it. For Jonah it would have torn him apart.

To soothe my splitting headache I grabbed some paracetamol from the kitchen and a glass of water. I threw the tablets back and swallowed them with a shudder, then crawled into bed at long last.

Sleep took me quickly, and I didn't resist.

I awoke to the sound of a phone ringing. More specifically, my phone was ringing out the same irritating marimba chime that I'd hated from the moment I first heard it. I fumbled in the darkness to pick it up before it vibrated itself off the bedside table.

Assuming it was Jonah, I answered without even checking the ID, "hello?"

"Grace," a deep voice answered, one I knew by heart but one that was not - not by a long shot - Jonah's.

A shiver tingled up my spine.

"Grace," the voice coaxed again, low and urgent. "This is me calling. Answer."

I snapped the phone shut and threw it onto the floor like it might bite me. For several beats I waited with bated breath, everything stilled in the air around me, anticipating the shrill outburst of another call.

It never came.

Two years I'd been hoping for that call, to hear his voice on the other side. Two years and all I'd done was end it. It was all I'd ever do. The truth was, I wasn't ready to process what I'd seen at the club and what it meant. I didn't want to shatter the illusion of Alex that I'd so perfectly crafted in my head; the banker, the mysterious but kind and thrilling guy who ran from hospitals and hid in cafes with me. I didn't want to think of him as the man with guns, the man with dangerous friends, the man who shot people.

The moment I saw him, or heard his voice for just a hint too long I knew my perfect illusions would be shattered. So instead I kept them boxed up, hid them away in the back of my mind untouched and untainted.

Tomorrow I would go back to work - a five a.m. shift - and I'd see Lena, and we'd talk, and it would be fine. Like nothing post-fishbowl had ever even happened.

Because it hadn't, I reminded myself sternly.

My splitting headache had returned by now and my mouth felt like sandpaper. Still, I wasn't willing to go to the kitchen to medicate myself. I wasn't willing to climb out of my darkened room. Instead I crawled back into bed and let myself fall into sleep gently.

A knock at the front door snapped me into consciousness only seconds after I'd drifted off. I closed my eyes firmly and rolled over, groaning in protest. Maybe if I ignored everything then whoever it was would go away.

No such luck.

"Grace!" my dad yelled from the front room. "It's for you!"

My eyes flew open and with a huff I shoved the quilt off my body. "Of course it is."

I wore my baggy tracksuit bottoms and tank top to the door, pulling my hair up into a messy bun as I went. Right now the last thing on my mind was how I looked. Dad had wheeled himself over to the telly where he sat watching me out of the corner of his eye. He held a hand up to his face and mouthed, "Jonah" with a smile.

Hand on the door handle, I took a couple of seconds to close my eyes and exhale heavily. Maybe if I thought peaceful thoughts my hammering headache would go away. Yeah, right.

I pulled open the front door and revealed Jonah, dressed in his usual blue jeans and a maroon v-neck sweater. He had a pair of Ray-Bans tucked in to the v.

"Hey," he greeted brightly, and I couldn't help but return his smile despite my hangover. There was something about Jonah's happiness that had always been infectious.

"I'm so sorry about last night, I just lost you and-"

"Don't apologise, Grace, you had a good night." He took one of my hands in his and squeezed it gently. "Didn't you?"

"Uh, I, um...yeah?"

Jonah nodded, seemingly pleased. "So I thought you might be a little hungover this morning..." From behind his back he produced a pale pink, square gift bag. He held it open and I peered inside. "Aspirin, because I know you never have any when you need it, rose lemonade because I know you love it even if you'd never justify spending money on it, a bag of peanut m&ms and, of course..."

"A sappy girlie movie," I filled in with a smile as he handed me the bag. "You know me so well." Even as I said it I felt Jonah's knife of guilt driving deeper into my stomach.

"Of course I do," he shrugged. "I thought maybe you could stay at my flat tonight."

I felt my smile freeze on my face. I'd already abandoned dad for one night, and that had resulted in less than favourable consequences. I couldn't possibly justify leaving him alone for two nights.

"Jonah, I'd love to, but I can't." I glanced over my shoulder out of habit to make sure dad was still okay. Jonah's eyes followed mine and the moment he and my dad saw each other they both grinned.

"Jonah!" Dad called, turning his chair around. "Don't just stand in the doorway, Gracie, let the man in!"

Jonah's eyes flickered to mine momentarily and I shot him a forced smile which he took as permission. He made his way into the living room and immediately picked up a conversation with dad about their favourite rugby team, the name of which I failed to recall.

I stood in the doorway looking in, feeling like a stranger in my own home. Jonah and dad had always just clicked. In fact, he regularly made cracks about when he'd be receiving grandbabies. It was a thought that terrified me beyond belief. As I loitered on the edge of their conversation, I tried to picture Alexei in the same position.

I couldn't.

No matter how hard I tried, I could never imagine him confined by a house. He was the sort of person who expanded beyond boundaries, who always seemed larger than life. Or maybe that was just the way I'd imagined him. Either way, I now knew him to be the antithesis of my father; he took lives, he didn't save them. Alexei picked up guns like they were extensions of himself. My dad vehemently fought against them. I couldn't picture them in the same room, let alone conversing.

Alexei was the sort of thing I could never do to my father.

"So how about it, Gracie?" Dad interrupted my stormy thoughts. I looked up and found them both watching me.

"How about what?"

"I asked your dad if he'd be okay with you staying out tonight," Jonah chirped, placing a friendly hand on the other man's shoulder. "If you want to, of course."

I was suddenly reminded of last night, and my complete abandonment of Jonah. I hadn't thought about him once in the whole night, something I was less than proud of.

My gaze flickered to dad. "And you'd be okay with it? I can stay, if you need me to..."

"It was just an accident, Gracie," he declared. "You've already made your old man dinner, you should go. I did spend the majority of my life independent before I became a cripple, you know."

"I know," I reminded him lightly. "I just worry about you."

"It's my job to worry about you, not the other way around."

"Doesn't stop me, though," I grinned, padding across the room to kiss his cheek. I tried to detect some form of regret or hesitance in his face, but I saw nothing other than warmth. I switched my gaze to Jonah. "I'll go grab my stuff."

"Sure."

I threw my work clothes into a duffel bag along with my phone charger and met Jonah out front by the car. He took my bag and loaded it into the boot of his white Audi TT before climbing in beside me.

Jonah was the type of guy who lived and breathed privilege; his parents were professionals - one a barrister, one an accountant to some big company split between London and Hong Kong - and so he'd lived with money most of his life. He had it handed to him in the form of a private education, a nice car, a large apartment.

I'd always hated his stupid car.

"Did you get my text this morning?" Jonah wondered, turning the radio down a touch so that it was low enough for conversation.

I fought the urge to turn it back up.

"Actually, my phone ran out of charge and I fell asleep before I had the chance to plug it in," I lied effortlessly.

"Oh."

"Sorry." I reached out to touch Jonah's arm but pulled back quickly. "I didn't mean to worry you." That, at least, was sincere. "If it makes you feel any better, the whole thing got kind of boring towards the end anyway."

If by boring you mean someone was shot and I slept in my own vomit on a sofa...

"Did Lena have a good time, at least?"

His comment was loaded, I could hear it in his tone. While Lena kept her opinions about Jonah to herself, Jonah was not quite so forgiving. He regularly voiced his thoughts - and my, were they bad. He saw her as a bad influence, a good-for-nothing waster who was going to remain in the same shitty job the rest of her life blowing the little money she did earn on nights out. Plus, she had a little chihuahua that Jonah just hated, mainly because it peed on his leg the first time it saw him.

Half of me didn't even understand why Jonah was with me. After all, how different was I really from Lena? We both had the same crappy job, we both had zero money and zero chances of promotion. I was stuck going nowhere just the same as her.

"Yeah," I agreed, "she had fun."

"Of course she did."

I rolled my eyes at his bitter comment but didn't offer a response. We were almost at Jonah's swanky apartment, now, anyway.

Jonah carried my bag inside the building when we arrived and slung it down by the side of his unmade bed. Though his apartment was large and furnished expensively, for the better part of a week it remained in a constant state of mess until his cleaner came around and tidied it all back up.

I lingered in the doorway. "Should we order takeaway?"

"No, I'll cook."

"Are you sure?" I frowned. "It would be so much easier if-"

"Cooking will give you time to go and shower."

I refrained from telling him that I already had showered when I saw the look on his face. He eyed my scruffy pyjamas and messy bun wearily - not distastefully, but as though he might catch a disease from them.

"Okay," I agreed. "I'll go shower."

Jonah nodded and headed into the kitchen to prepare dinner while I padded back into the bedroom. If he didn't like my sloppy pyjamas, then I'd just have to try something else...something he'd never seen before...

I pulled open the bottom drawer of his dresser which was reserved solely for the clothes I'd moved into his apartment. Sometimes it was like half my life was split between two existences.

Rifling through the neatly folded piles, my fingers finally clasped something soft and silky. It was a dusky rose night dress I'd bought well before I even met Jonah - in fact, I bought it the night after I'd first met Alex. I suppose I was searching for that feeling he'd given me; the feeling of being alive, free and careless.

In the bathroom, I showered quickly but efficiently, slipping lavender body wash over my skin, up my arms, my chest. I hadn't spent time like this with myself for years. I simply hadn't had time for luxuries, or I hadn't given myself time for them, but now I couldn't remember why.

When I finally stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around myself, I smelt like a botanical garden. It was nice. I felt good in my own skin. Even better when I slipped on the night dress, its silky material caressing my body. It had thin spaghetti straps and a low v neck, dipping between the valley of my breasts, with the bottom just further than the tops of my thighs.

Through the silk, I felt the hard ridges of my abs as I traced my fingers across my stomach. Three nights a week I went to the gym, though I hated every second of it, in order to attain what I'd always thought was the "ideal" body. For a year now I'd been slaving away, thinking somehow that I'd feel happy if I could just lose that extra pound, tone this muscle or that.

The truth was that I still couldn't bare to look in the mirror for too long, scared that the girl staring back at me would reflect how I felt; trapped and dull, destined to live out my days in perpetual half measures.

Half happy. Half satisfied. Half getting by. Half alive.

I turned away from the mirror and exited the bathroom, following my nose towards the kitchen where Jonah was cooking something that smelt fantastic.

I quietly crept up behind him as he stirred a white wine sauce and wrapped my arms around his waist. He startled at the contact and began in a reprimanding tone, then quickly stopped when his hands latched behind him onto my silk clad hips. "Grace-" He turned around in my arms. "You changed."

He sounded surprised, but to my intense relief I didn't blush as he took in the dusky rose number draped over my body.

"I like it," he said with a smile, as though he was talking about a paint colour or a new brand of coffee.

"Really?" I bit my lip.

"You might want to change before dinner, though." He went back to stirring the sauce. "You wouldn't want to ruin it."

Wouldn't want to ruin it! I parroted angrily in my head. Was it normal for men to react like this when their girlfriends slipped on something silky and a little risqué, or was it just me who was utterly repulsive?

I traced my index finger down between his shoulder blades, feeling the slight curve of muscle beneath his skin. Even before I spoke my cheeks were burning, but still I let my voice drop into a satin whisper. "How about you take it off me?"

I felt Jonah's body tense beneath my touch as he set down the wooden spoon and turned to me once more. "Grace, you know how much I respect you, and your dad..."

"Are you seriously thinking about my dad right now?"

"Not like that-" he made a vague gesture in the air "-but you know how I feel about...this."

"Right," I responded drily, trying to hide my disappointment. Or was it relief?

"Don't be like that-"

"It's fine."

It was fine. Jonah loved me. He meant well. He respected me. And my dad. I knew that.

It was fine.

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