Asking for More by Lilah Pace

“So,” I say, “when you get done taking care of plants for work, you come home and take care of plants for fun.”
    I’m teasing her, and expect her to respond with a joke herself. Instead Rebecca leans close. “Listen,” she says. “I love Jonah. He means the world to me, and I want him to be happy. It’s obvious you make him happy.”
    Is this the don’t-hurt-my-brother-or-I’ll-hurt you speech? Rebecca Marks doesn’t seem like the type.
    That’s not where she’s going with this. She fixes me in her fierce, unblinking gaze. “But if Jonah did that to you, you have to leave. Protect yourself.”
    â€œWhat—the black eye?” It’s stopped hurting by now; I’d almost forgotten about it. “No! Jonah would never, ever, in a thousand years hit me.” Well, not outside of a very particular context where he has my full consent, but that’s all in the realm of Stuff the Baby Sister Doesn’t Need to Know. I’m torn between feeling angry on Jonah’s behalf, and hurt for him. “You’re his sister. You should know better.”
    My reaction doesn’t faze Rebecca for an instant. “I’m his sister,” she agrees, her voice still low and even. “I know where we came from. We all survived Redgrave House, but not one of us got out unscathed. Not even Maddox.”
    â€œJonah’s told me,” I say quietly.
    â€œIf any one of us had been raised in that house alone, I don’t know what we would’ve become. We overcame that together, with each other,
for
each other. But it doesn’t go away.”
    This part I know is true from my own experience. Maybe Rebecca senses that shared knowledge between us, because she gives me a small smile, and when she speaks again, her voice has gentled.
    â€œEverything we went through during our childhood—it’s like a minefield we have to work our way through, every single day. And you want to believe they’ve all been defused, that it’s safe now, and you can move on. But you always know, always, that something could go wrong. The wire could get tripped. And that mine will explode.”
    What strikes me most is that Rebecca isn’t trying to warn me about Jonah as much as she’s trying to explain herself. As hard as it is to imagine this quiet, soft-spoken woman turning to violence, she believes that she could.
    And when do we feel more like doing violence than when violence has just been done to us? The scars on her skin testify to the vividness of her pain.
    â€œI didn’t think it was likely that Jonah had hurt you,” she says. “If I did, I wouldn’t have let him hang and have fun all evening. He’d have been out on his ass. Still, I can’t forget the possibility. None of us can. The minute we forget to guard against our worst instincts—that’s when they’ll overcome us.”
    â€œOkay. I hear you,” I say. “But everything’s all right. Jonah hasn’t forgotten, I promise. This shiner is due to some stupid high-heeled shoes. End of story.”
    End of the PG-rated version, anyway.
    Rebecca nods. Relief washes over her, and I watch her lean back against the railing, relaxed again as she takes a swig of beer. “High heels,” she says in disgust. “Never could stand them. I threw out my last pair two years ago.”
    â€œMy hero.” I clink my beer against hers.
    â€œYou said that I take care of plants for fun.”
    Oh, crap. Just when I thought we’d gotten the conversation back on track. Did Rebecca think I was calling her boring?
    She keeps speaking. “It’s not for fun, exactly. But it’s something I need. Coming from—where Jonah and I came from—it can be so hard to believe that you could be good for anyone or anything. That you won’t contaminate every living thing you ever touch. Every single flower out here, every single