“When I have you, I want to own you.”

“You always do,” I whisper.

“Not completely,” he says. “Until now.”

•   •   •

Doreen’s hair seems to have gone gray at the temples in the past couple of months. I wonder how much of that is due to me.

“You and Jonah haven’t spoken about his family issues at all,” Doreen says. “Even with their goings-on splashed on every website and newspaper in the country.”

“He doesn’t want to talk about it.” I shrug. “Sometimes I don’t want to talk about things either. So we respect each other’s privacy. Isn’t there a quote about that? About how the best love is two solitudes that border, protect, and greet one another?”

“We’ll discuss Rilke some other time.” Doreen’s dark eyes never leave my face. “You say Jonah never mentioned his mother’s arrest. Instead he called and asked you to ‘play’ again.”

“That’s right.”

“You realize he may be compensating for feelings of powerlessness.”

At that I have to laugh. “You don’t need a psychology degree to figure that out.”

“What do you think you’re compensating for?”

“I’m punishing myself by indulging myself. When I indulge my rape fantasy—when I surrender to that fear and helplessness—I’m punishing myself for wanting it. Don’t you see?”

“I doubt it’s as simple as that.”

Is she kidding? “Nothing about this is simple.”

Doreen leans forward, and when she speaks to me, genuine emotion comes through in every word. “There is no reason for you to punish yourself for this fantasy.”

“I want to relive the worst thing that ever happened to me? What Anthony did to me? It’s sick.”

“Again, many women have rape fantasies. Some men do too. It’s not always a response to trauma. Most of the time, I don’t even think there is a specific reason.”

A thousand times, Doreen has said this. But what she says next explodes in my mind like she’d thrown a hand grenade:

“You might have had this fantasy even if Anthony had never raped you.”

“No.” I shake my head. “He did this to me. You know he did.”

“Anthony raped you,” she says. “The fantasy comes from that, and from a culture that eroticizes violence against women, and leftover puritanical guilt about sex that tells us we’re not allowed to choose it and want it for ourselves, and from God only knows where else.”

I’m furious with her. I want to cry. My cheeks are flushed with shame. Every emotion I’ve ever felt about this is bubbling up at once. “But it’s the only thing that gets me off. I can’t come any other way! Does that sound normal to you?”

Doreen looks at me steadily. “Exactly. The fantasy isn’t your problem; it’s the extremity of your fixation on it. Who is it who won’t let you find sexual satisfaction any other way?”

Me. She means me.

And only at this moment do I realize Doreen has been building to this moment for a very long time.

I grab my purse. “This is over.”

“This session, or our counseling relationship?”

She said this knowing I might break from her permanently. Right now I want to. But I’ve found too much solace here in the past to let Doreen go that easily.

“For now,” I say. “But I’ll be back.”

I go out the door without waiting to hear her reply.

As I walk to my car, trembling, I think of what I meant to talk with Doreen about. We weren’t supposed to unearth the roots of my fantasy today. We were supposed to talk about this weekend. What Jonah wants from me. How much further we’re going than ever before.

It doesn’t matter. No matter what Doreen said today, it wouldn’t have stopped me.

What Jonah asks of me, I’m going to give.

Preparations:

I set up an automatic e-mail response at both my school and personal accounts, letting everyone know I won’t be able to reach them until Monday morning at the earliest.

I tell Carmen that Jonah is “taking me away for a weekend,” just to a cabin in the state park, nothing major. She thinks it’s something romantic and sweet; more to the point, she won’t worry about me. Won’t look for me.

Kip hears that we might go hiking, Jonah and I. Although he raises an eyebrow at my choice of recreational activities, he believes me. Why wouldn’t he? That way, when I come back to the office next week, Kip won’t think anything if I’m scratched or bruised.

Water the plants. Pack an overnight bag.

And on Friday, I drive to the place where I’ll be held captive.

•   •   •

I want tokidnap you, Jonah said.

I want to keep you tied up, away from the rest of the world, for days. I want to use your body in every way it can be used, over and over, until you can’t take it anymore. But you’ll still have to take it. And I want you to know there’s no place you can run to, no one who will hear you.

You will be completely mine.

When we could think straight again after that, we worked out the logistics. As aroused as I am by the thought of Jonah actually grabbing me and dragging me into his car, we can’t risk it. We might easily be seen, which means someone could either call the police—or worse, play vigilante, which could get Jonah arrested, badly hurt, or even killed. The places where we live offer some privacy, but I’m too familiar with them. Too comfortable. Both of us want the illusion of ultimate control to be as complete as possible.

So Jonah found a place, a rental cabin near the edge of the state park. He’s given me an address and a time to show up there Friday afternoon. By another hour on Sunday, he’ll set me free.

The rest is completely unknown to me. I’ll be in Jonah’s hands.

I wear the clothes I bought at the thrift store specifically to be destroyed—a faded cotton skirt, a T-shirt too thin for November weather. While I can’t saunter in carrying my suitcase without destroying the illusion, I’ve packed a duffel bag Jonah will bring inside from my car at some point. It contains a change of clothing for Sunday and my cell phone. Anything else I need, or want, I’ll have to earn.

This late in the season, we’re probably the only ones who’ve rented a cabin for the weekend. Even if we weren’t, none of the other cabins are within three miles. Every minute I drive reminds me of how remote our location is. How all-encompassing this fantasy will be. My palms are sweaty against the wheel of my car. Songs play on the radio but I don’t hear them. There’s only my pulse, my nervousness, and my desire.

Sunset stripes the sky violet and orange as I reach the cabin. Gravel crunches beneath my tires while I take the long, narrow road away from the highway and the rest of civilization. Finally I see the cabin—a small, rustic place with bare-wood walls and a low ceiling—and Jonah’s sedan parked in front.

He will have heard me pull up. That’s his cue.

I get out of my car. My legs feel weak and wobbly beneath me. I drop my keys on the hood of my car, turn away from the cabin, and listen. Every rustle of leaves in the trees makes my ears prick, and—not for the first time—I think, This is crazier than anything else you’ve done. You’re crossing a line. Are you ready for that?

Then I hear the cabin door open, and I run.

Twigs and branches snap across my chest as I hurl myself into the woods, running as though my life really did depend on it. My world has become a blur of trees, dirt, the pale sky above. The uneven, rocky ground makes me stumble once, twice, again—but I keep my footing. I have to. I have to try to get away.

And I can hear him behind me. His footsteps coming faster and louder. Even his ragged breath. Jonah’s chasing me with all his strength.

We are both too good at our games.

I reach a clearing and attempt to run faster, but that’s when I’m tackled from behind. We fall to the ground, and I put up the best fight I can—kicking, wriggling, trying to get out from under him—but Jonah has me. All my struggles do no good.