The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

39

Harleen waves at us as she walks away from the car at the station, rushing to the platform to catch the incoming train.

"Next stop, electronics store," I say, waiting expectantly.

But Jonathan says, "Open up the glovebox."

Puzzled, I do so — it takes me a moment to work out how to get the clasp in such a fancy car. And then the glovebox glides open, and my jaw slacks.

Not only is there the latest and largest model of phone, there's also an iPad and a sleek laptop — all sealed in their original packaging. Beside them, a small box. I open it, and it contains a set of keys that I recognise as clones to my own apartment. There's also a packet of the chocolate almonds I told him I like, and a chequebook — my name, but an account number I don't recognise.

I tilt my head at Jonathan, ready to call him a freaking stalker — then I see the flickers of vulnerability in his gaze. This means a lot to him. Taking care of me. And more than that, showing me. Opening up. Baring himself to my judgement and possible rejection.

I reach out and caress his jaw with my hand. "You've really thought of everything, haven't you, sweetie?"

"There's a SIM card in there too," he tells me, relaxing a little into my touch as he drives. "Same number. Pre-loaded with your contacts."

"Same number? I don't think that's possible with the old one active."

He laughs softly. "It is when I've treated the wife of the company CEO and cured her euphobia."

"Euphobia?" I ask, pulling the phone box free. Still unable to believe it.

"The fear of hearing good news," Jonathan says. "As you can imagine, it can be debilitating when helping her husband run an empire."

"She helps him run everything?"

"Of course. She's never set foot in the office. She's never had to. They love each other, and they help each other more in their relationship than anyone could in a boardroom."

"It's nice to know love like that still exists," I say quietly. Then, before Jonathan can respond, "Well, we don't need to go to the store anymore, and we've got time to kill before dinner. What do you want to do?"

He pauses. "You're asking me to pick?"

"It only seems fair."

"You might not like what I choose," he warns.

My eyes narrow. "Try me."

He smiles and drives faster, turning onto the freeway and heading to the city outskirts. I gulp, suddenly worried. What if his idea of fun is going to torture Rachel Dawes together? Not that I'm particularly fond of her — but I don't have the stomach to peel off her fingernails, either.

"Good thing you're wearing sensible shoes," Jonathan says.

I kick my sneakered feet, paired with jeans and a tucked-in shirt. "Harleen told me off. I had to promise her I'd go back and change before the ballet."

"Back to your place, or mine?" He asks evenly.

"I think I have more choice at yours," I point out.

He's quiet a moment. Then asks, "Do you like it there?"

"At your house?"

"Yes."

"I like it very much." Words begin in my mind, but I pause them. Decide to voice them aloud. Thinking that, maybe I don't do that enough for Jonathan. "I can see myself there more often. Watching horror movies together. Reading in front of the fire. Insisting I don't need six courses at every meal and snacks in between."