Текст книги "Asking for It"

“Are you sure this dress looks okay?” Carmen says for about the fourth time since we left her place.

“You look great. Red is your color. Come on.” I take her hand and tug her into the benefit.

The enormous theater has been decorated for the event in the spare-yet-elegant manner of most charity functions: Large plants in every corner, donated by a local nursery. Strands of lights hanging from the ceiling in graceful arcs. Bars in each corner, staffed by the usual grad students in white shirts and black vests. (If I hadn’t won a scholarship, I might be one of them.) A lectern and microphone wait for various speeches, standing on the stage in front of the red velvet curtains.

We ran late because Carmen was still neck-deep in math when I came to pick her up, so the gala is already in full swing. Geordie must have been waiting for us the entire time, because he immediately waves and heads in our direction, weaving through the elegantly dressed crowd.

Tonight’s cocktail reception benefits the public-interest law center Geordie sometimes volunteers with. Austin residents wear casual clothes almost all the time—but give us a chance to dress up, and we’ll take it. Carmen’s red satin sheath shows off her curves to perfection and fits perfectly with the tone of the party: cocktail dresses for the women, tailored suits for the men.

Me, I’m slightly overdressed. But I come from New Orleans, which means I usually wind up attending a Mardi Gras ball or two in the spring, which means I’m one of the few women who genuinely needs to own a full-length evening gown. This one is simple—emerald-green silk, spaghetti straps, skimming my body to the waist, then widening into a soft, flowing skirt. I adore this dress, and putting it on only twice a year always seems like a waste. Tonight seemed like a great excuse to wear it. However, I’ve already received a few glares from women who seem to think I was trying to show them up. Whatever.

“There you are!” Geordie holds a plastic glass of something amber in one hand but uses the other arm to hug me and Carmen in turn. His breath smells slightly boozy as his lips brush against my cheek. “Been wondering when the two most beautiful women in Austin would arrive.”

Carmen laughs. “Let me know when they get here.” Geordie shakes his head at her in disbelief, as if wondering how she could deny how gorgeous she is. I’ve got to hand it to the guy; he’s a world-class flirt.

“So what do we do?” I say. “Walk around, talk about how great it is when lawyers do pro bono work, drink the free wine?” After you pay fifty bucks for a benefit ticket, they don’t bother with a cash bar.

“That’s pretty much the idea,” Geordie says. “Mingle. Network. Definitely don’t neglect the free wine. And check out the silent auction! Your print’s the prize attraction, Vivienne.”

I doubt this. As proud as I am of the etching with the dove, most bidders will be more excited by luxury spa packages, gift certificates to high-end stores, box seats for football games, the usual swag. Still, it’s nice of Geordie to say.

The free wine turns out to taste like it should be free, so I don’t bother after the first couple swallows. Instead I talk with a few of Geordie’s law school friends and browse through the various artworks and gift certificates laid out for the silent auction. My print is prominently displayed—Thanks, Geordie—and for a moment I try to see it as someone would for the first time. Would they pay attention to the stark lines or the soft curves? The shadows or the light? You’d have to stand very close to notice that the ink I used isn’t black, but a midnight blue.

I try not to be overly pleased with myself when I see that my print has already received a few bids. But I don’t let myself look at the clipboard in front of the art too closely, because there’s nothing like seeing someone bid five dollars for your work to drag you down. Better to enjoy the party. A smooth-jazz band plays at the far end of the room, so the murmuring of the crowd flows around the soft strains of piano and bass.

When I wash my hands in the restroom, a woman stands in front of the mirror, reapplying deep red lipstick. The red brightens her smile as she sees me. “I’ve been meaning to tell you all night,” she says. “That’s a fabulous dress.”

“Thanks. So is yours.” The white sequins are dazzling against her dark brown skin, and the high hem reveals her long, gorgeous legs. “And God, I wish I could carry off that haircut. You look amazing.”

She laughs. Her natural curls are cut close to her scalp, making her come across as both feminine and bold. “Give short hair a try sometime. You might like it.”

If I were ever going to be tempted by a pixie cut, it wouldn’t be tonight. My hair is behaving for once, pinned into a messy updo with some rhinestone clips. I tuck one stray curl back into place, then head back out through the long hallway that leads to the front of the theater. Maybe I’ll bid on that quilt I saw—

“Hey,” says this guy whose name I can’t quite recall. He’s one of Geordie’s friends . . . Albert? Alphonse? Fortunately, he isn’t trying to start a hallway chat. “Your friend was looking for you—they told me to tell you to meet up backstage.”

He must mean Carmen. “Oh, okay. Thanks.”

What could have come up? If Carmen needs a private moment in the middle of a big bash, she must be upset about something. I can’t imagine what, though. Surely this isn’t about Shay’s baby shower.

A side door seems likely to lead backstage. I go through it and see that I’m right—a few steps lead up to the wooden stage, where a couple of rehearsal items lie abandoned: a metal chair, a table, some water bottles people forgot to recycle. But I don’t see Carmen.

I go up the steps, wondering if she’s on the far side of the stage—

–and a hand closes over my elbow, hard.

In the first moment of shock, I try to pull away, staggering on my high heels. Then I realize who has me.

Jonah’s other hand closes around my mouth. He pulls me close, his gray eyes staring into mine, as he whispers, “Don’t scream.”

The growl of his voice makes me shudder—deep and commanding. Even if I didn’t know I could stop this in an instant, I might be too astonished and intimidated to cry for help. His grasp tightens—and all that does is get me hotter. He’s brought me back to the line between fear and arousal.

And Jonah’s going to hold me there as long as he wants.

He pulls me toward the back of the stage, farther away from the hallway, from anyone who might see or stop him. We’re far behind the red curtain. Beyond the velvet, the muffled sounds of the reception swirl, laughter and music; here, there’s no one but me and Jonah.

Nothing but the way he spins me around and shoves me against the back wall.

Jonah stands behind me now, both hands clutching my arms as he whispers into my ear, “You don’t move. You don’t talk. Do you hear me?”

“Yes—”

He presses his entire body against my back as he brings one hand up to cup my face. His fingers press against my cheeks. “No, no, no. Get it wrong again and you’ll be sorry. You don’t move. You don’t talk. I don’t want to hear a single sound from you. Do you understand?” I manage to nod, and Jonah laughs softly. “There we go.”

When he releases me, I remain motionless against the wall. The plaster feels cool against my shaking hands and my flushed cheek. Jonah makes a small sound of satisfaction at my obedience.

His hands slide outward along my shoulder blades, curving down and around just enough for his fingers to brush the sides of my breasts. But when he realizes I’m wearing a strapless bra, he loses interest. Instead he traces my sides, the indentation at my waist, the swell of my hips. His fingertip teases the faint ridge of my panties, tugging it down slightly even through the thin fabric of my dress. Then he begins drawing up the long skirt of the dress, slowly, the rustle of silk the only sound besides our breathing.

As my legs and ass are exposed, I feel the sleek fabric of Jonah’s trousers against my skin. He reaches around to slip his fingers down the front of my underwear, scissoring them just over my clit.

Pleasure arcs through me, and I gasp. Jonah shoves me against the wall again, and now I can feel the long pressure of his cock against my ass, straining through the smooth wool of his suit. He whispers, “You like this, don’t you? I knew you’d like it. I could tell. Because beneath your fancy dress you’re nothing but a whore.” His fingers resume their massage, slow firm circles that spiral upward inside me until I’m dizzy. “I’m going to prove what a whore you are.”

My breaths come sharp and shallow. Jonah knows exactly how to touch a woman—where to bear down, how fast to go. All the blood in my body rushes between my legs as my cunt gets hotter for him.

“Only a whore would let me do this,” Jonah whispers as I start to pant. By now the sensation is almost overwhelming. “You want it now, don’t you? I knew I could make you want it.”

Warmth ripples through me in waves. My body tightens. I’m on the brink.

Jonah’s breath is hot against the side of my face. “Don’t worry. You’re going to get it.”

That’s when he goes faster, presses harder, and I come. My orgasm crashes through me, long and hard and good. I try not to make a sound, but a soft cry escapes my lips.

He growls, “I fucking told you to stay quiet.”

His hands go to the sides of my panties as he tears the fabric. I feel the remnants fall away as Jonah roughly pulls my thigh to one side, parting my legs.

“Hold your dress,” he commands, pushing the fabric into my hands. “Let me see you. Show your naked ass off like the whore you are.” So I stand there, silk clenched between my fingers, exposed before him like something he can decide whether to buy. I hear the sound of his belt being unbuckled, the purr of his zipper, the rustle of a condom packet opening. “I’m not done with you yet. And if I hear so much as a whimper, you’re going to take it twice as hard.”

Silently, I wonder whether I’d better keep quiet—or whether I want to find out just how hard Jonah can give it to me tonight.

Jonah must have one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, because he trails the head along the cleft of my ass, rubbing back and forth. Then I feel his fingers sliding in from behind me, knuckle-deep in my cunt. He pushes them in and out, obviously relishing the slick sound of it, before pulling his hand out again.

“So wet,” he whispers. His hand curves around the front of my throat, fingers still warm and sticky. “I knew you wanted it.”

And he thrusts inside, in one savage motion.

My entire body tenses. Jonah’s width and length stretches me, tests me, makes me burn. His grip around my throat tightens, not enough to cut off my air, but enough to suggest the threat. Jonah holds me in place as he starts to move in long, hard strokes. My body still reels in the aftershock of my orgasm, and the renewed pressure of Jonah’s cock inside me brings me back to the brink in mere seconds. As responsive as I am, I’ve never come twice this close together. But Jonah’s going to bring me there.

From where he holds me against the wall, the side of my face pressed to the plaster, I can see our shadows painted blurrily on the floor by the few lights far overhead. Our shapes are elongated, stretched thin. As Jonah pumps into me, faster and faster, I watch the undulation of his shadow. I watch him dominate me. Use me.

Just beyond the curtain, people laugh and talk, completely unaware that only a few feet away, I’m spread out against a wall, being fucked mercilessly.

His breathing has become ragged. He tightens his hand around my throat—unconsciously this time, I think. Jonah’s getting close. If I want to come with him, I need more, and I know how to get it.

My tongue traces my open lips before I whimper, “No.”

This time the choke hold around my neck is real. As I gasp for air, Jonah says, “I warned you.”

He spins me around, making me gasp, then forces me face-first onto the table. My feet remain on the floor; he has me bent at a ninety-degree angle, which means that when he yanks up my skirt again, I’m completely exposed to him. Then Jonah starts to pound into me, so hard it feels as if he wants to break me. He might. The table creaks and rocks beneath me; I grip the edges to hang on as his free hand once again finds my throat. I can breathe—barely—but his grip keeps me dizzy and light-headed. It sharpens the edge of my fear. Jonah fucks me, and he fucks me and then I’m coming again, pulsing hard around his cock as he remains totally still. My entire body shudders with the force of it. It’s like I can’t see, or move; if I were still pressed into the wall instead of on this table, I think I’d fall. Only after a moment do I get enough of my mind back to realize that Jonah’s breathing slower. His cock twitches once inside me, and I realize he came at the exact moment I did.

Jonah’s fingers release my neck as he leans back. Gently he strokes a soft cloth between my legs—a handkerchief, I guess—cleaning me before he pulls my skirt down. I sit up, my arms shaking. This time, when Jonah pulls me to him, his hands are gentle, his touch soft. I brace myself against his chest, letting my head loll back as I breathe slow and deep. By now a faint sheen of sweat covers my skin; he brushes loose tendrils of hair away from my forehead.

“All right?” he whispers. I’ll never get over how much his voice changes when we shift from fantasy to reality.

“Yeah.”

“Did you like your surprise?”

“Very much.” I look up at him then, so that our eyes meet. Jonah’s breathing as hard as I am, but his openmouthed grin is one of triumph. Why not? I would call this whole arrangement the definition of a win-win scenario.

We find a trash can for his condom and the remnants of my underwear. Then it’s smooth, tuck, zip, check. When he’s pulled together, he brushes the green silk of my gown with his fingertips. “Hope I didn’t wreck your dress.”

This man can go from pretending to choke and rape me one minute to worrying about crumpling my gown the next. “It’s all right,” I say, though honestly it is a bit wrinkled. Nobody’s going to care, and at least it won’t be wet. “You must’ve realized I would come to this, because of Geordie.”

“No, I didn’t realize your ex-boyfriend played such a big role in your life.” There’s an edge to those words, but Jonah moves on. “I saw you across the room. You looked so beautiful—that dress clinging to your breasts and your ass and even this little swell—”

His fingers slide between my legs, pressing the small mound there, rubbing one knuckle against my clit. I close my eyes and wish he could take me again right now, this moment.

But he won’t. He always ends as soon as we’re done. What if sometime I invited him to claim me for longer? To take me captive for an entire night?

Jonah must see how aroused I still am, but he draws his hand away. “I saw you and I knew it had to be tonight. Did my best to stay out of sight until I had my chance.”

This was improvised? Damn, he’s good. “What were you planning instead?”

He shakes his head, like I’m a naughty girl. “You’ll find out when the time comes.”

“You get to the pick the next scenario,” I whisper. “Is that what you’re going to give me? Another surprise?”

“I don’t know yet.” Jonah leans closer and frames my face in his hands. Our lips brush against each other as he says, “All I know is—next time I’m going to come in your mouth.”

God, yes. Right now I want him in my mouth so badly that it’s all I can do not to sink to my knees. Instead I nod, wordlessly accepting this and everything else he’d ever want to do to me.

“Perfection,” he murmurs, and then he kisses me. It’s a swift kiss, yet openmouthed, and our tongues touch for one instant.

But then Jonah steps back, turns, and walks offstage. I stand there alone.

Once I feel like I can walk straight, I pull myself back together. I find a bit of the campus newspaper to toss in the trash can, so the janitor or whoever won’t be traumatized by the sight of Jonah’s condom and my torn underwear. No small wet spots mar the green silk of my dress. Did Jonah bruise my throat? I doubt it—and even if he did, the marks won’t show yet. So all I have to do is take a few deep breaths and walk back into the party.

Carmen and Geordie are talking nearby; Geordie spots me immediately and waves. I start heading in their direction, but I can’t help looking around the room for Jonah. Probably, after this, he won’t hang around long.

Sure enough, as I glance toward the exit, I see Jonah pushing the door open, about to walk out onto the street. But he holds the door a few moments longer, for someone else—

I recognize the woman in the white dress I spoke to briefly in the bathroom. She beams up at Jonah, whose arm slips around her shoulders as they walk out side by side.

She wasn’t just someone he was being polite to.

That woman was Jonah’s date.

Seventeen

Jonahsmiledat her.

That’s the part that gets me. Jonah Marks comes across as cold, even forbidding, to most of the people he meets. I’ve seen another side of him—hotter than flame—but even when he’s got his hands on my body, even when he’s inside me, his smile is hard. Fierce.

To the woman in the white dress he gave a smile so warm that I know she’s not a mere acquaintance. She’s someone he cares about, deeply.

And yet he’s fucking me.

I never asked if he was seeing anyone else. It seemed to go without saying. Now, however, phrases he said that first night we spoke at Carmen’s ring louder in my memory—about other girls he tried this with, and how it never worked. They didn’t want to play rough. I think you do.

At that moment, I should’ve asked whether there was someone else in his life. Maybe the mysterious woman in white had already rejected his fantasy. Is he cheating on her with me because she can’t, or won’t, give him what he really wants?

That’s no excuse, even if it’s true. But I can’t stop wondering.

I realize I’m jumping to some conclusions here. There’s no guarantee the woman I saw was Jonah’s girlfriend, or that the two of them share any kind of committed relationship. I could’ve misinterpreted that smile. Possibly she’s just a beautiful woman he asked out for a night.

Even that is too much for me.

•   •   •

In the morning I send Jonah a text: We need to talk, ASAP.

Unlike me, Jonah understands the rules of remaining strangers. He doesn’t ask why, just gives me a time and place. So, just after lunch, I walk through one of the quads toward a bench where Jonah sits, waiting for me.

Even from a distance, I know him. We’re surrounded by students, who slouch around in their ubiquitous sweatshirts and pajama bottoms. Jonah wears gray pants and a black shirt, nothing fancy, but still clothes that tell anyone that he’s not an overgrown boy. He’s a man.

I’m wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a scarf wound around my neck—which looks casual but is there to hide the faint bruises of Jonah’s hand on my throat. Yet he looks at me like I’m the sexiest woman on earth.

Even now he intoxicates me. I think he always will.

He rises from the bench as I walk to him, an old-fashioned, almost chivalrous gesture that touches me in a way I can’t define. As we sit down together, he says, “Is everything all right?”

“No.” I take a deep breath. “Jonah, I can’t keep doing this. Meeting you. Playing out our—scenes. It has to stop.”

At first he says nothing. His expression remains cool. Is he that controlled? Will he just get up and walk away like none of it ever happened?

But it couldn’t have ended any other way.

Finally Jonah speaks. “You weren’t unhappy with—what I did at the benefit.”

“No.” God, no. When I think about the way he slid his fingers inside my panties, I want to take back everything I’ve said, grab him by the collar, and drag him into the nearest building for a quickie in the stairwell. It would be as scorching hot as every other time Jonah’s put his hands on my skin.

And it would only be delaying the inevitable.

I take a deep breath. “This isn’t about anything you did wrong. Okay? You’ve kept every promise. You made me feel safe at moments I don’t think any other man could have, ever. And you—” My voice breaks. Dammit. I pull myself together. “You saw something in me I’ve always hated and made me feel less ashamed of it for a while. So thanks for that. And the sex. Definitely thanks for the sex.”

My crooked smile doesn’t fool him for a moment. Jonah leans forward; he brings his hand closer to me, as if he’ll touch my shoulder, but rests it on the back of the bench instead. “Vivienne, what’s wrong?”

This is normally where I bunt. Where I take the gentlest, easiest out for everyone involved, so we can walk away with no hurt feelings, no unresolved conflicts.

I’ve always thought of it as consideration, or poise. Doreen says it’s dishonesty, and asks me what would happen if for once in my life I just told the ugly truth and let people deal with it.

Jonah already knows one of my uglier truths. What the hell.

“I thought I could have sex outside a relationship, with no strings attached,” I say. “I did in undergrad, like anyone else. Probably I could do it again with someone else. But you and me—it’s not a normal situation. Not only because of, you know, the fantasy—” I glance around, but few students walk anywhere near us, and every single one is either wearing earbuds or absorbed in their cell phone. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Our arrangement is simple,” he says flatly. “We were very specific about what this would be and how we would handle it.”

“This isn’t about logistics.” I look upward at a pale gray sky, the kind you see when the clouds have claimed the entire sky. Truth. Tell the real truth. “Jonah, every time I’m with you, it’s more than sex. Every time, I turn myself over to you, completely. I have to give you total control, and total trust.”

“I haven’t abused that trust, have I?”

Shaking my head, I say, “No. But don’t you see? I don’t just fuck you, Jonah. I bare my soul to you. Then we go back to being almost strangers to each other. The disconnect is getting to me, and I don’t think I can handle it anymore.”

Despite all our rules and resolutions, I have begun to have feelings for Jonah. To feel jealous of other women he might touch. To want to have not just his body but his heart. That means I want too much. Which in turn means I have to get out, now.

Jonah’s gray eyes become distant. The steel wall he keeps between himself and the rest of the world now separates us too. “If that’s how you feel.”

It’s not. I’m still drawn to this man in a way I’ve never felt for anyone else. While I thought that connection was purely sexual, I reveled in his power over me.

But now I want more from Jonah, and I have no idea what more would be. All I know is it’s not what either of us said when this began.

Goddammit, I’m going to cry. Not out here in the quad. Not in front of Jonah. I don’t have the strength for that kind of honesty; I’m all out. So I stand up. “This truly doesn’t have anything to do with you, okay? You were—my ultimate fantasy. Thanks for making that come true.”

Then I walk away. I never look back; I never stop hoping he’ll call my name, or run to my side, catch my arm, and keep me from leaving.

He doesn’t.

•   •   •

“You feeling okay?” Arturo says that evening, as we hang out in front of one of our favorite food trucks.

“Sure.” I scrape my shoes back and forth in the gravel beneath this red picnic bench. All around us, groups of people are eating the best fish tacos in town from small plastic baskets, using their cups to hold down brown paper napkins that would otherwise flutter away in the breeze. Shay’s gone to the truck across the lot to get us some churros for dessert. Nearby, a grackle hops toward our table and cocks his head in the hope we’ll drop a bit of food he can steal. Overhead, strands of kitschy multicolored lights with big, fat, 1970s-style bulbs stretch between the trailers and the tall tree near the road.

Arturo gives me a look. “That was the least enthusiastic ‘sure’ I’ve heard in a while.”

“I’m fine. Really. Just—having a down day.”

No doubt Arturo knows better than that, but he also knows when to let something go. “We all have those sometimes. You know what fixes down days? Tacos. So get to work, girl.”

“I think I’d rather fix today with churros,” I reply, because I see Shay walking back toward us. But then I realize she doesn’t have the churros. She has one hand to her forehead and is walking slowly.

Getting to his feet, Arturo puts a hand out to support her. “Feeling light-headed again?”

“Yeah.” Her smile is weak and watery. “You know, I don’t want to stick around for dessert. Can we just go home?”

“Sure, honey,” Arturo says. I mean to tell them it’s fine with me too, but that’s when I happen to glance downward.

When I see the red droplets of blood on Shay’s white tennis shoes.

“Shay—” I get up and support her other arm. “Don’t freak out, but—”

“Oh, my God.” Now she’s seen it too, and as we stare downward, another drop falls onto the gravel. And another.

“We’re going to the hospital,” Arturo says. “Don’t move, okay? I’m driving the car right here. You’ve got her, Vivienne?”

“Yeah, of course, go!” As Arturo runs for the car, I squeeze Shay’s hand. “You should probably sit down.”

“I’m okay,” she says faintly, as if nothing in particular is happening. I realize she’s on the verge of shock. So I put my arms around her to hold her steady and upright until Arturo gets to us—he’s already in the car, best to let her stand so we can get her into the vehicle and on the way as fast as possible. Shay’s head rests against my shoulder; the skin of her forehead is cool and clammy.

I’m scared, or so I think, until I look down and see the bloodstain spreading across her white skirt, darker and wider every moment. That’s when I discover just how scared I can be.

•   •   •

“Please, can Dr. Campbell come?” Shay pleads as the orderlies wheel her stretcher down the hospital corridor. Arturo and I jog beside them; he’s determined to stay with her until the moment they physically pry him away, and I want to be with him when that happens. “Is she coming?”

“An obstetrician will be here any second,” says a nurse in yellow scrubs.

“But I want my own doctor—” Shay’s voice is so faint. It sounds like she might pass out at any second.

As they get her into a room and strap a fetal heart monitor around her belly, Arturo clasps her hand. “It’s going to be okay,” he says. “It’s got to be.”

Please, I pray to a God I believe in but rarely speak to. Please let Shay be all right. Please let the baby live.

I’m ushered out just as the OB-GYN runs in, and I hear Arturo say, “Dr. Campbell!” before the door shuts. So her doctor was the one on duty anyway. Maybe that’s proof God’s looking out for the baby after all. Or maybe it’s just dumb luck. Either way, I’ll take it.

For the next couple of hours, I have two jobs. The first is to sit in the waiting room and try not to cry. The second—and worst—is to call Carmen and tell her what’s happening. Carmen arrives about ten minutes after she hangs up, in the faded jeans and ratty T-shirt I know she only wears when she’s working on her thesis. When she sits beside me, I hug her tightly; now we can only hang on.

Carmen whispers, “They think I don’t want them to have the baby, and if they lose it—”

“They’re not going to. And you’re going to be a great Tia Carmen. Wait and see. Hey, you want to help me throw the baby shower? Shay would love that.”

Slowly, Carmen nods. So I start talking about presents and party games and cupcakes and everything else I can think of that could possibly be at a baby shower, in the hope that all that pink and yellow and baby blue will erase the memory of dark red blood.

Finally Arturo walks into the waiting room. He looks exhausted and pale—but not broken. “She’s okay.”

“Dios mío.” Carmen jumps up to embrace her brother, and he hugs her back tightly. “What happened?”

“Something about the placenta—we have to watch it, but for now it’s okay. Shay can even come home soon.” His smile is crooked. “And the baby’s just fine.”

Carmen starts crying harder, and Arturo starts too. I might be an informally adopted sibling, but I realize sometimes I need to butt out and let them have a minute.

I walk out into the corridor and catch the attention of the nearest nurse. “Can Shay Gillespie-Ortiz have visitors yet?”

The answer comes from someone standing behind me, “Not right now.”

I turn around to see the obstetrician, a young woman wearing a doctor’s long white coat with the name tag Dr. Rosalind Campbell. She’s smiling, which ought to be the only thing that matters. But it isn’t.

I’ve seen this woman before. She was wearing white then, too. I saw her the night of the charity gala, first when we complimented each other’s dresses—and then when she left, with Jonah’s arm around her.