I am done.
We are done.
But Jonah’s eyes are clear windows to his spiraling thoughts, and the squaring of his shoulders, the baring of his teeth, and the flex of his biceps all tell me I need to extricate myself from the situation—and quick—before it snowballs any further. We can talk tomorrow.
It won’t actually change anything, but we can have a conversation. I owe him that at least. I think.
“I have to go.” It’s all I can say at this point, and I turn to head back toward the shore, speed-walking with purpose in a diagonal path, because it’s that bit closer to the direction of home. Even if, despite there being little to no crime in our quaint beach town community, I have to admit, to myself at least, that it is probably a bit too far to walk alone safely. With friends is another story, and that I’ve done more times than I can count.
But safe feels relative right now, unfortunately.
Jonah hesitates, and, for a brief moment, I think he will be reasonable and simply let me go. For now, at least.
But I already know reason isn’t in his current vocabulary, certainly not in his present state, and I barely make it halfway down the short, wooden path before his hands are on me yet again.
“The fuck you do! I am speaking to you, Lizzie!”
I’m not surprised that Jonah came after me—though I was hoping he would just return to the party—but I am shocked by the sharp sting to my scalp as he grabs me by my hair and hauls me into his disproportionate mass.
Before I can scream—to demand exactly what the fuck he thinks he’s doing—Jonah’s callused hand is covering my mouth, and I have to gasp just to get enough air into my lungs not to panic.
My blood seems to boil in fury and go cold in terror all at once, and before I even realize what’s happening, he’s dragging me into the dunes, behind the tall sea oats and beach grass.
Jonah cautiously removes his hand my mouth, his glower alone warning enough not to scream, and I suck in long, stunned breaths, as his other hand releases my hair. I barely have time to register the burning in my scalp before that same hand shifts downward, to the base of my neck, his brutal grip an ongoing threat I can barely process, let alone fully register.
“I’ve had e-fuckin'-nough of this bullshit!” He lowers his head just enough, his vicious glare, which I’ve only seen glimpses of in the past, a mere inch from my own defiant one. “You wanna be all badass woman?” he says mockingly. “Fine. But I draw the line at disrespect!”
He heaves in a harsh breath, as if he was the one with a hand around his neck. “Act like a fucking lady, and show me some goddamn respect. For fuck’s sake!” he huffs right into my face, the sharp, bitter taste of tequila explaining more about his current behavior than Jonah himself probably realizes.
But my fight or flight response can’t ignore the alarms of danger blaring viciously in my brain, and my auto-response is to defend myself however possible.
I shove at his chest, somehow still shocked when, instead of doing the logical thing and releasing me, he just adjusts his grasp, applying enough pressure to my throat to make the mortal threat undeniable.
Jonah controls my breathing. And, in this moment, there is nothing I can do about it.
I still in utter terror.
Jonah has been frustrated with me many times. Most times, if I’m honest, and he’s even been blatantly angry with me. But never like this. I never even thought him capable of this.
“I would do anything for you! You fuckin’ know that.” Jonah’s words are completely at odds with his tone, with his everything. And right now, the only thing I want from him is to leave me the hell alone.
“Please,” I force out through shallow, desperate breaths, my voice notably hoarse, “let me go, Jonah!”
I can’t even listen to his words, can’t process his meaning. I can barely fucking breathe.
Jonah roughly presses his nose to mine, but there’s nothing affectionate about it. He's just pushing his agenda, forcing his point down my throat.
“I. Will. Never. Let. You. Go.”
And it’s all I can take.
My dad taught me a few things before some asshole drunk driver took him from us two years ago, and I launch my knee into Jonah's groin with every ounce of power I can muster from my admittedly slight build.
Jonah howls in a moment of agony, and I take full advantage, squirming furiously to escape his savage embrace.
By some miracle, I manage to get a few feet between us before he dives for me like a madman, feral with rage. “You fucking cun—”
Jonah doesn’t finish his insult, but I can focus on nothing other than bracing myself for more pain, my arms positioned to protect my head from the fallout of Jonah’s wrath.