His mother watched him for a moment longer before she looked up as if suddenly realising someone else was there. “And who’s this?” His mum’s gaze slid over Clara, curious, assessing.
Jonas hesitated. Clara saw it, the flicker of nerves, the instinct to retreat. But then his shoulders squared, and he glanced back at her with something that made her breath hitch. Pride.
“This is Clara,” he said, holding out one hand to her the other, clasping his mother’s. Then, without pretence, added, “My girl.”
The words hung between them, electric, as she moved to take his hand.
Clara’s heart stuttered. She should have corrected him, she should have said something, but the way his mother’s face lit up, the way Jonas seemed to steady just by saying it, stopped her cold.
“Clara, this is my mum, Penelope, but everyone calls her Penny.”
Surprise at the slight connection of their mum’s having the same name somehow made her feel closer to him, which she knew was weird.
Penny reached out a hand. “Lovely to meet you, dear.”
Clara took it, feeling the delicate bones and the surprising strength in her grip. The three of them forming a tight circle. “You too,” Clara said softly, then found herself smiling. “He’s been telling me stories about you all the way here.”
“Has he?” Penny’s eyes twinkled. “Nothing too embarrassing, I hope.”
Jonas groaned faintly, hiding his face in his hand, but Clara laughed. “Oh, plenty. Something about dismantling toasters?”
Penelope chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “He did that with everything. Radios, clocks, even the vacuum once. Droveme mad. But he always managed to put them back together. Sometimes better than before.”
Jonas muttered, “Sometimes.”
They laughed, and the tension broke. Clara sank onto the bench beside Penelope while Jonas perched on the armrest, his hand lingering protectively on his mother’s shoulder.
The next hour passed in a blur of sunlight and laughter. Penelope told Clara about how Jonas once tried to run a “business” selling sharpened sticks to kids in the park, and Jonas groaned again while Clara giggled, tucking the story away like a precious jewel. Jonas shared how his mum used to read him bedtime stories in silly voices, and Penelope admitted she still remembered them even when other memories slipped.
Clara asked questions, listened, and let herself be pulled into the Mason family orbit. Watching Jonas with his mother, Clara saw a man stripped of his guarded layers. He wasn’t the haunted, scarred genius right now, he was a son, radiant with love, full of joy.
And God help her, she adored him for it.
When Penelope reached for Clara’s hand, holding it in both of hers, she said,
“Thank you for being here with him. He carries so much, my boy. Too much sometimes. He needs someone to remind him it’s all right to set it down.”
Clara’s throat tightened, her vision blurring. “I’ll try,” she whispered.
Jonas’s gaze cut to her, unreadable but intense, as though the words had branded themselves across his skin.
Penelope leaned back, her cardigan slipping slightly from one shoulder. For a moment, she looked utterly content, her hand still warm in Clara’s.
Then her eyes shifted, clouding over like a veil being drawn. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her brow furrowing. “What did you say your names were again?”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Jonas’s whole body went still. Clara felt it rather than saw it, the way his breath snagged, the way the muscles in his jaw locked. He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on his mother, as though sheer willpower might bring her back.
Clara’s heart clenched. She wanted to reach for him, to take his hand, but she didn’t dare break the moment.
“It’s Jonas, Mum,” he said quietly, his voice so raw it made her chest ache. “And this is Clara. My girl.”
Penelope blinked, confusion softening to a vague smile. “Jonas. Yes, of course.” Her fingers patted his hand. “My clever boy. You need to get ready for school, soon. Don’t want to be late for class.”
Jonas closed his eyes for a beat, grief written clear across his face before he forced it down, masking it with a small, careful smile. Clara saw it, though. Every shard of pain, every fracture in his armour, and it made her want to gather him up and never let go.
When they finally stood to leave, Penelope waved cheerfully as though nothing had happened, as though the lapse hadn’t broken her son’s heart in two.
