Page 64 of Feral
I swallow two ibuprofen with a sip of water but right before I sink back under the warm comforter, my phone beeps and I mutter a silent curse at whoever has the gall to message me at this time, only to find a text from an unknown number informing me that my grandmother has just passed away. But it’s not the shock of my beloved grandmother's death that jolts me out of my stupor.
It’s the sender that has my blood pressure rising. No one could get under my skin as deep as the only man I’ve been struggling to flush out of my system for all my adult life.
Jonathan.
Five hours later I am back in my hometown of Lavenham in Suffolk after almost a decade and my breath catches in my throat as I take in the ethereal beauty of the surrounding landscape. A gust of chilly wind pushes me forward and I wrap my coat tighter around me, memories of this place flooding my brain and making my heart constrict. With my mom gone last December and no other siblings to call family, you can understand why I’d sworn I’d never set foot in this place ever again. Don’t even ask about my father; son of a bitch never even cared to visit after he left us.
With no bookings, for the time being, I park my rental on the side of Merchants’ Row and simply let myself roam around the half-empty streets, taking in all that makes this medieval little village so incredibly quaint. The imposing church of St Peter and St Paul in the background acts as a reminder of all the things I’ve parted in my quest for a more comfortable life. I mutter a silent dare to myself to step inside its holy walls and pray for forgiveness. I guess that remains to be seen.
A bicycle's melodious honk, ridden by a frumpy child wearing a striking red wool scarf takes me out of my reverie and back to the present. There are so many new stores, art galleries, delis, and antique shops that catch my eye and an unexpected sense of relief engulfs me because nobody seems to recognize me, although I’ve noticed a couple of sneaky whispers and inquisitive glares from passers-by.
My stomach grumbles unhappily, reminding me that I haven’t had anything to eat since last night and I decide that getting to my accommodation will have to wait a while. My eyes rest on a tiny pub still open just across the corner. Its bright pink neon sign in calligraphy font reminds me of the one right below my apartment building and the soft chiming sound as I enter alerts the heavy-set woman behind the counter to my arrival. She smiles, revealing cigarette-stained teeth and I give her a curt nod as I walk to the nearest booth and sit down on the worn leather settee. There is no one here except her and a single man, a young priest who is watching the local news, his face turned away from me. The frumpy lady takes my order and ten minutes later, I dig into my mac and cheese like a woman starved. The priest now turns my way, catching my eye and I almost choke on my drink when recognition strikes. His milk-chocolate complexion contrasts with his dark-green eyes and I swallow hard while he walks my way, with slow, measured strides.
How could I have missed all the signs?
By the time he reaches me, my palms are already sweating, my mouth's gone dry and it’s clear that he’s recognized me too, even after all the work I had done since I left this Godforsaken place.
“Miranda? Is that you?” He now stands right in front of me while I'm still sitting, not trusting my knees enough to stand up straight.
His voice reverberates through my every cell, bringing a barrage of memories of him and me back in high school and my face shows exactly how I feel at him calling out my name after all these years of radio silence. Our breakup was not an amicable one, his stern belief that he should devote himself to God instead of me turned me into a woman obsessed with turning him but in the end, he won and I had to let him go. Needless to say, we haven’t spoken or seen each other since. Until now.
Chapter 7
“Hi, Jonathan,” I grumble, my heart beating a thousand times a minute. “It’s been a long time, huh?”
“It has. You’ve lost a lot of weight, I almost didn’t recognize you with the new hairstyle and all.”
He sits down opposite me and studies me carefully, while I do the same. He seems to have grown better with age and I find myself thinking about how his thick, dark beard would feel buried amidst my thighs. He’s changed too from the spindly young man I remember. His body now looks strong and lean and incredibly solid. Tattoos are adorning the side of his face and the back of his hands and I wonder what triggered him into inking himself and if he has any more underneath that stunning figure of his.
“Among other things,” I say, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute.
“You look great,” he croons, reaching his hand out to touch mine. “I was just about to give up on finding out your number when I caught a break with a common friend. I’m sorry to have invaded your privacy.”
His words barely register because his large hand now covers mine, and I get all tingly inside because this is no ordinary man. This is the man I lost my virginity to, the only one who broke down my walls and then crushed all my hopes and dreams with his decision to follow his.
“I thought for sure you wouldn’t set foot here ever again,” he continues, staring right into my eyes. “Where are you staying?”
“It’s no intrusion at all. I booked a room at The Old Rectory.”
“I hear it’s beautiful there.”
I smile and meet his eyes for a long, heated moment. When I am finally able to form coherent thoughts, I ask, “How are you doing?”
I know it’s none of my business but I am itching to find out how life’s been for him without me.
He never breaks eye contact as his next words come out from his sinfully beautiful mouth. “I’m a minister now.”
Just like he always wanted. I look at him and he seems happy. Content. “I’m happy things worked out for one of us,” I say, hoping he’ll read between the lines. My attempt at humor does not go unnoticed and he reaches out once more, taking my hand again and wrapping both of his around mine.
“I’m deeply sorry for your loss, Miranda. How are things for you?”
“Just great,” I say, without a moment’s hesitation. “I am a prostitute for hire. A call-girl, to put it more elegantly. Just what I’ve always dreamed of.” My smile is fake, bitter and I can see that I’ve managed to shock him.
His hold on me tightens.
I continue to stare at his breathtaking face as he swallows hard but I don’t want his pity. I don’t want anything from him now because when I did, he denied me everything.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Miranda,” he says and I shoot upright, thinking this is my cue to get the hell out of here.
