TIME

by Penny Reid

  He huffed a laugh, but his eyes looked sad, trapped. “I’m never going to be okay with this.” Covering my hand with his, he brought my palm to his lips. “I’m going to fight the world for you.” He sounded so fierce.

  It made me smile. “Challenge all who besmirch my name?”

  His mouth curved against my hand.

  “You like that word? Besmirch? It’s a great word, right? I dare you to use it in a song. You know another great word? Nachos.” Turning my fingers, I caught his and tugged him toward the coffee table. “Come. Sit. Feast.”

  Abram allowed me to pull him back to the couch, and then he allowed me to gently push his shoulders until he was sitting again. Hesitating for a second but ultimately yielding to the impulse, I sat on his lap. Immediately, his arm came around me, one hand on my hip, the other on my thigh.

  “I’ve never fed anyone before. Do you want me to feed you nachos?” I lifted a chip toward his mouth. “I can make airplane sounds.”

  Eyes still sad, he laughed, and his forehead fell to my shoulder. Again, he made a growling sound.

  “Or train sounds? Choo.” He shook his head, so I ate the chip. Turning, pressing my chest against his chest, I wrapped him in my arms. “It gets easier to ignore people who don’t matter. I promise. Like any skill, it just takes practice.”

  “But what about your career?” He lifted his head, leaning back to capture my eyes as his scowl returned. “I think Marie tried to warn me about this. Charlie too.”

  “Physicists—and the science community in general—don’t pay much attention to the chatter of pop culture unless it furthers their own careers. Me dating you might be the cause for some minor curiosity, and I’ll probably have to put up with a slight increase in snobbery and pretentiousness. Eventually, they’ll go back to hunting for puzzle pieces to the universe and struggling to find grant dollars to fund their research. Remember who my parents are. I’ve been dealing with their shadow most of my life.”

  Abram leaned further back, his eyes moving between mine, questioning. “I thought you were worried about candid pictures of you being made public. You said they could destroy your career. And, for the record, I don’t like the idea of being a shadow for you.”

  “Oh, depending on the picture, they totally could wreck my career, or derail it. If that picture of me in the lab coat were released, I’d definitely lose a few of my grants and would have a hard time finding any funding. At least, for a while.”

  Aghast, he stared at me. “Then why did you send it?”

  “Because I thought you’d like it.”

  “Mona.”

  “Abram.”

  “We should delete them. We should delete those pictures now.”

  “No. We shouldn’t. You were right. Other people shouldn’t be dictating how I share myself with you, so don’t let them dictate how you share yourself with me. I came to terms weeks ago with the futility of conforming to pompous ideas of what constitutes appropriate behavior.”

  “You did? When?”

  “When I sent you that picture of me in a bikini. I even told you in the hospital, but you might’ve been too sick to hear me. And actually, futility isn’t the right word. It’s damaging to everyone who comes after. It’s damaging for Mona DaVinci to sit quietly and let others dictate her—my—personal life. Then what good have I done? History—the good kind of history—is seldom made by those who keep their head down.”

  His dimple winked at me as his eyes gazed deep into mine, like he was a little mesmerized. “You’re the most remarkable person I’ve ever known.”

  “Ditto, Mr. Harris.” I stole a quick kiss, grinning down at his handsome face. “But don’t get ahead of yourself. I haven’t done anything yet. It’s not like I’m going to hand out bikini shots of me at faculty meetings. I’m just going to act like myself, do what I want to do. I’m going to be honest.” Tilting my head to one side then the other, I shrugged. “And if trouble follows, so be it.”

  I called Lisa while we ate the nachos. As I suspected, she wasn’t too freaked out about the social media “shitstorm” as Abram called it, but she did surprise the Schrödinger out of me by offering to maintain the ruse.

  “Just think about it,” she said. A second later, I heard a microwave beep on her side of the call.

  Abram and I swapped stares of disbelief, not because of the microwave beep, but because what the heck?

  “Why would you do that?” I blurted, for obvious reasons.

  “It’s the least I can do for you after what you’ve done for me. And it doesn’t bother me. We could just not comment on the pictures. It would buy you and Abram more time together without the press following you everywhere. Like I said, just think about it.”

  Abram frowned thoughtfully in a way that made me nervous. I glared at him, wanting to deter any temptation he felt to take my sister up on the offer.

  “No. No way.” I said this for his benefit as much as hers.

  “Can you give us a minute?” Abram cut in and put Lisa on mute.

  “The answer is no.” I crossed my arms.

  “She makes a good point about giving us more time. And if she doesn’t mind, why not?”

  “You can’t be serious. You were the one who came in here less than an hour ago, huffing and puffing about how terrible the news was treating Lisa.”

  He gathered a deep breath and, holding my eyes, he nodded. “You’re right. It’s not fair to Lisa, and it’s obvious she’s trying to be a good sister here. I have to give her credit for that. But it’s just, I love you. And I’m worried about you. You’re more sensitive than people think, and you feel so deeply. I know you said you’re prepared for this, but I’m worried. But, I also trust your judgment. If and when you want to go public, I’m all for it.”

  I understood his concern, and I wasn’t looking forward to the glimpses of hateful pomposity I’d get from my place on the periphery, but I wasn’t going to let Lisa be my stunt double, or my red herring.

  Of note, as I inspected him, I sensed his worry, absolutely. But I was also picking up on some other vibes, like—despite his apprehension—he was relieved and happy I was opposed to Lisa’s suggestion. Weird.

  Anyway, in the end, we turned down Lisa’s offer.

  I then called my therapist’s office and scheduled a new appointment. Since I’d now fully committed to the idea, I decided to make a list of items I wanted to discuss. For example, the flinching, why did I do it with Abram sometimes? I loved it when he touched me, so why would I flinch away at odd intervals? Also, if I felt fear both times we’d made love, why did I feel shame after he was on top, but not when I was on top? That made no logical sense. This therapist was going to have her work cut out for her. FOR SURE.

  And then, since I was in a list making mood, I navigated to a few websites looking for some tips on dirty talking. I’d never done it before, but after reading three lines of Abram’s sexy poetry and experiencing an electromagnetic burst of incalculable desire, the impulse was one I couldn’t ignore. Dirty talking was clearly an electromagnetic force.

  Now, all four atomic fundamental forces had been identified: his body made me weak (weak force), the urge to smell him was always strong (strong force), my feelings for him impacted time (gravitational force), and Abram’s sexy poetry/his brain (electromagnetic).

  While I composed my lists, Abram spent the next hour or so of the—early evening? What the heck time is it?—on the phone with his record label, and then his publicist, and then a conference call with his record label’s publicist. They all promised to hammer out a press release for our perusal by tomorrow morning.

  At one point they wanted to know if my parents’ team needed to be brought in the loop. I shook my head, making a split decision based on the need for expediency.

  Plus, my parents had a great committee of people looking out for their interests, and that was the problem. I wanted Abram’s interests to be the priority, not theirs. If they got ahold of the story, they’d spin it to their own be
nefit somehow. Therefore, no.

  When he finally got off the phone and we were able to sit down properly with our Mexican feast, I discovered that he had procured enchiladas and I fell a little bit more in love with him.

  Over dinner, or lunch maybe? Whatever. Over food, conversation flowed easily, as expected. Whenever we’d spoken on the phone over the last several months, time had run out too quickly, our conversations never seemed finished.

  Presently, he was finishing up a story about how one of the roadies showed up for pre-show rehearsals in his bathrobe and nothing else.

  “He’d used the hotel sauna—the hotel was across the street from the venue—and forgot his room key, locking himself out of his room.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes. And when he went downstairs, the front desk wouldn’t give him another key without his ID, which was in the room.”

  I laughed at this poor man’s misfortune though doing so made me feel like a jerk.

  “So he waited in the lobby, in his bathrobe, until someone with the show happened to be walking by, which was me, but I was already running late for an interview. So we decided to go to the venue—I got him in no problem—and see if anyone had extra clothes he could wear until we could make it back to the hotel and sort out the key issue.”

  “And?” I leaned forward, way too invested in the story.

  “No one had any extra clothes. The poor guy had to do the sound checks in his bathrobe, and it was a windy day.” Abram lifted his eyebrows meaningfully.

  I covered my mouth, feeling badly about my laughter.

  “But he took it in stride. I ended up giving him my T-shirt and just wearing my jacket.”

  My eyes widened, contemplating the kind of stir that must’ve caused. “How did that go over in the interview?”

  Abram made a strange face, like he was trying to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “It was fine.” He pushed his rice around with his fork.

  “Hmm. That sounds like a falsehood.”

  Rolling his eyes, he released his utensils and leaned back in his seat, saying as though bored, “The interviewer asked if she could touch my stomach.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “That’s gross.”

  He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. And yet, something about his display of apathy felt off.

  “How do you deal with it?”

  “What’s that?” Abram leaned forward again, picking up his fork and spearing a piece of enchilada.

  “All the attention. My parents love it. I think nothing thrills my dad more—at least when I was younger, and I saw him interact with fans—than when a strange woman tells him how sexy and handsome he is. He honestly eats it up. But every time you and I talk about this facet of your job, it seems like you—”

  “Hate it?”

  I nodded.

  “I do.”

  I frowned. “Except—and no judgment—why did you do those underwear ads?”

  Abram’s chest expanded with a deep breath and his gaze lifted to the ceiling. “You have no idea how much I wish I hadn’t done those ads. It’s like, especially since I did them, people assume I’m brainless. Or, they don’t assume, they just don’t give a shit. We have a few PAs who seem nice, but they make me uncomfortable every time we’re in a room together. Always brushing against me when they walk by, even if there’s a mile of space around us. I no longer go to VIP ticket holder meet and greets after this one woman—uh . . .”

  His eyes widened and he blinked at me.

  I lifted an eyebrow. “This one woman?”

  He made a resigned sound. “Drunk, she offered to go down on me in front of a room of other VIPs, which inspired more people to make the same offer. Nothing happened, though. I just left, no big deal.”

  “God,” I croaked, and I did my best to ignore the sour taste in my mouth. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. I didn’t like how much he was shrugging, and I’d almost convinced myself the tight feeling behind my eyes wasn’t jealousy. Well, not really jealousy in the classical sense, because I trusted Abram. It was more like second-hand distress on his behalf.

  A thought occurred to me, a worry, unsettling my stomach a little. And maybe next time don’t have so many jalapeños.

  “What’s wrong?” Abram covered my hand with his. “Honestly, don’t worry. It’s nothing. It’s like, what can I do other than avoid the PAs and ignore the VIP sessions, right?”

  “Abram, I am going to worry. People shouldn’t put their hands on you without your consent. That’s not okay.” In truth, it also made me uneasy because he sounded like me.

  It’s nothing.

  Nothing happened.

  No big deal.

  He squeezed my hand. “The tour won’t last forever. It wraps up this fall, and then I’ll be done.”

  “Done? Aren’t you already working on another album?”

  “Yes, but we’re not signed for two albums, just the one. I’ll stipulate in my contract that I don’t want to do a tour next time.”

  My mouth dropped open. “You—you don’t want to do another tour?”

  Abram shook his head, looking both determined and tired. “No. No more tours.”

  “I—I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it,” he ground out, releasing my hand and reaching for his beer.

  “This fall.” I said the words like I could conjure the time jump just by reciting them. “Where will you go? Do you need to live in New York? To record the next album?”

  “No. I’ll go wherever you are.” He said this easily, like it was already decided, like it was obvious.

  And it made me giddy, so I grinned and spoke without thinking, “We should get a house!” Ah!

  Immediately, I wished the words back.

  But he was also grinning. “Yeah. Sure. Where? In LA?”

  Now I was out of breath, because I hadn’t expected his answer. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. Why not?” He shrugged, like it was no big deal, and my heart deflated.

  Bah. Of course. He wasn’t thinking of a house like I was thinking of a house, as a place to raise a family, as a home, a future, stability.

  “Yeah. Maybe. No big deal.” I forced a smile and nodded, my attention focusing on my rice. “We’ll see.”

  18

  The Interiors of Stars

  *Abram*

  Feeling a little cooped up after a day spent inside, and craving Stan’s donuts, Mona convinced me to walk with her down to the donut shop. I didn’t require much convincing.

  When we made it to Stan’s, after we’d ordered, after we’d sat down across from each other, I swiped some of her donut.

  “For old time’s sake,” I said.

  Scowling at my laughing eyes, she held the remainder to the side, supposedly out of my reach. “You are never invited again.”

  That just made me laugh harder. Excusing myself, I returned a few minutes later with six chocolate cake donuts, handing her one and explaining the rest were for tomorrow morning.

  “By the way, what time is it?” she asked, patting herself down. “Shoot. I left my phone in our room. I keep forgetting to check the clock.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not time for you to leave yet, and that’s all I need to know.”

  “Yes. We still have two days. Can you believe it?” She grinned at me, dancing happily in her seat.

  I grinned back, pleased to see her mood had improved, but thinking three days wasn’t nearly enough. I also wondered when she was going to tell me why she’d grown so quiet after dinner. She’d seemed preoccupied, but not distant. A little sad, a little resigned.

  “I have plans for tomorrow,” she said, pulling me from my thoughts.

  “You do? Tell me.” I picked up my own donut, toasted coconut, and took a bite.

  “First, we’ll go to Andersons and we’ll do some leisurely book browsing. And then, dinner at that Italian restaurant where we had our first date.”

  My eyebrows ticked up an inch.
“Our first date?”

  “Yeah. You know, right after Andersons you took me to that place, and I had the lasagna.”

  “You’re counting that as our first date?”

  She looked at me as though I were odd. “Of course. Activity plus dinner makes it a date.”

  I laughed. “Mona, I think your hindsight is not twenty-twenty. That was the night you told me I was behaving inappropriately.”

  “So?”

  “So, if it had been a date, then me making the moves wouldn’t have been inappropriate.”

  She opened her mouth, lifting a finger, seemed to reconsider whatever she was going to say, and let her hand drop. “Okay. Good point. Then that means we haven’t technically had a first date.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “Now there’s all this pressure. The first date.” She made a face. “What did your parents do for their first date?”

  “Um, let me see.” I glanced over her head, trying to recall the story. “Ah, yes. The way my mom tells it, she fancied my father, but he was very quiet, shy. So, one day after a football game—he was on the team in high school, but his parents were really poor and all the money he made from his job went back to the family, so he could never go out with everyone afterward for food—she met him at his car with a picnic. She told him he could take it and eat it on his own, if he wanted. Or, they could eat it together. They ate it together.”

  Mona sighed. Deeply. “That’s so wonderful.”

  I grinned, liking how her eyes were unfocused and dreamy. She’s such a romantic. But then, so was I.

  Before I thought too much about it, I asked, “How about your parents?”

  She blinked rapidly, her eyebrows pulling together, and straightened in her seat. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. I never asked. They never said. I don’t know. Anyway.” Mona broke off a piece of her donut and popped it into her mouth, chewing and swallowing. “Did they tell you about their second date?”

  She was attempting to change the subject, but I’d made myself a promise to ask her about her family more often. She needed to know she could talk to me about them, good or bad.