Asking for More by Lilah Pace Page B

myself.
    What eclipses my mood, however, is the thought that Jonah can be angry—furious, even—and I am not afraid.
    I’ve always been terrified by open anger, to a deep, irrational degree. That terror didn’t begin when Anthony raped me; he pretended everything was friendly and fine the whole time. It goes all the way back to Mom. My mother never struck me or Chloe once in our lives, not even a spanking. And yet somehow, even as a small child, I always believed she
might
. Once she lost her temper, which was often, it was like she didn’t have any brakes left. She’d shriek and shout, back me into a corner, and go on and on about everything I’d done wrong, starting with whatever set her off and encompassing every other error or fault she could remember. Her reaction didn’t always fit the crime. Once, when I accidentally spilled a bowl of popcorn, Mom went at me for nearly an hour. But when Liz and I got caught sneaking in at three A.M. after a senior year party, Mom sourly told me I was grounded for the rest of the weekend, then returned to bed.
    Her unpredictability made it worse, somehow. I couldn’t guess how bad Mom’s reaction would be, or what would set her off. All I knew was that, at any given moment, for nearly any reason, my mother’s wrath would be unleashed, and no escape was possible.
    (She did this to Chloe too, but less often, partly because Chloe has always been Mom’s favorite, but also because my sister had a better instinct for what would spark our mother’s temper. I don’t think Mom ever yelled at Dad like that, at least not where Chloe and I could hear it. He never shouted at all, which for years made me treasure him as the only safe person in our family. It wasn’t until I was an adult in therapy that I seriously considered the fact that Dad would have heard Mom shrieking at me—not once, but dozens or even hundreds of times—and never stuck up for me once.)
    In darker moments, I’ve wondered whether that fear contributed to my rape. Maybe, if I hadn’t been so afraid of Anthony getting angry with me, I would’ve fought back, or pushed him, or even screamed. Probably not: Anthony knew what he wanted and knew how to confuse and intimidate me into cooperation. But I can’t know for sure whether a little less fear on my part would’ve changed things.
    Not knowing is the worst of all.
    Through therapy and pure determination, I’ve become much better at standing up for myself. I’ve learned better how to cope with other people’s tempers. But it’s never been easy for me, and it never will be. It’s hard for me to spend time around anyone who’s mad.
    Anyone, that is, except for Jonah. Even now, when he’s glowering with ill-repressed anger, I feel totally safe with him. I understand on every level that he won’t blow up at me. He will not harm me, no matter what. Jonah hasn’t only won over my conscious, adult self; he has managed to comfort the frightened little girl deep inside and convince her there’s nothing to fear.
    Is that because of our games, where I see how good he is at taking himself to the brink but never losing control? Because I understand his tumultuous history? Or is it just some deep, undefined quality unique to Jonah?
    It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad I’ve found him.
    I hook my arm through his. Jonah glances over—not so much annoyed as surprised that I’m being especially affectionate while he’s growling like a bear. When I smile up at him, he manages to smile back, however crookedly.
    The shops and cafes along this stretch of the street are fairly touristy. Restaurants advertise “tropical” cocktails; on the sidewalks stand spinning display racks for postcards and magnets. Tourist shops carry some of the stuff Rebecca needs most, so within a few moments she’s trying on various sunglasses. Jonah starts going through