by Reid, Penny
Abram carried me to my mother’s favorite piece of furniture in our house, a gold velvet chaise lounge said to have once belonged to Napoleon’s sister, Pauline Bonaparte. Depositing me on the soft surface, Abram crossed to one of the Tiffany lamps and pulled the chain, bathing the room in soft blue and yellow, colored light filtering through the stained glass.
He then returned, knelt in front of me, one hand on my leg, the other cupping my cheek. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said, cleared my throat, unable to lift my eyes higher than his black T-shirt, and said again, “Yes.”
He blew out a breath, pushing his fingers through my hair. By doing so, he forced my chin up and caught my gaze. That wrinkle of worry appeared between his eyebrows, and his very pretty eyes—which glowed and sparkled like polished amber cabochons—moved between mine.
“You really freaked out.”
I stiffened, gritting my teeth and yanking my head back, out of his reach. “I didn’t know you were there.”
Watching me with watchful watchfulness, he let his hand drop slowly until it rested on my left leg, next to his other hand which covered my right knee. “I said your name—twice—when I walked in.”
“I didn’t hear you.” I glanced from his eyes to where his palms were hot on my skin. “And I couldn’t see. I’d just shut the fridge, my eyes hadn’t adjusted.”
“Did you think I was a robber?” His left eyebrow lifted as did the side of his mouth, just a hint.
Clearly, he was trying to lighten the mood. Unfortunately, I still felt shaky. And embarrassed.
“I- I didn’t think,” I admitted, releasing an unsteady breath. “I wasn’t thinking. Sorry I fell.”
“No need to apologize. It wasn’t like you could help it.”
“Yeah. Gravity can be such a downer.”
He made a light, laughing sound. “What?”
“Uh, nothing. Whatever.” No physics jokes!
His frown returned, his fingers flexing slightly on my legs. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Reaching for his hands, I removed them from my knees, setting them away. “I’m really fine. I just don’t like—”
He glanced at my knees. “Being touched?”
“When it’s unexpected.” I crossed my arms.
“That makes sense. But your reaction, even after you knew it was me—” He paused and sat back on his heels, as though debating how to continue and finally settling on, “It was a big reaction.” Abram continued to study me with his big, pretty, knowing brown eyes. “Hey, I would never hurt you.”
I winced, just a little, my gaze falling to my knees where his hands had been. I wanted to huff a laugh and roll my eyes, maybe say something like, I know, don’t be ridiculous.
But the word “Okay,” small and fragile sounding, slipped out instead. I immediately wished it back, because I didn’t understand it. I didn’t know why I’d said it, and I hated not knowing.
Get ahold of yourself, Mona. Pull it together. You are fine. Nothing happened.
Meanwhile, he continued his examination of me, I felt his stare, assessing my downturned face. “Out of curiosity, and no big deal if you don’t want to say, but did something happen to you this last year?”
My back straightened and I sucked in a slow, deep breath before asking calmly, “Like what?”
“You’re very . . . different than you were before.”
“Because I don’t want you touching me?” I tried to infuse my words with challenge, strength—wanting to shake off any earlier impression of weakness—and mostly succeeded. Peeking at him, I gauged his reaction from behind a hastily built wall of dispassion.
But then Abram dropped his chin to his chest, a massive grin lighting his features, and the fragrance of him hit me. My lashes fluttered as though he’d blown dust in my eyes, penetrating my wobbly wall of dispassion and sending it crumbling to the ground.
God, he smelled so good, and—unlike visual stimuli—I couldn’t stop whatever cascade of relaxing, soothing, melting awareness smelling his scent set off. Unthinkingly, I leaned forward an inch, chasing and inhaling the smell of him while he cleared his throat, like he was trying not to laugh.
Why he was fighting a laugh, I didn’t know, but the apparent genuineness of Abram’s struggle to subdue his grin only served to increase his attractiveness.
A moment later, he lifted his eyes and they connected with mine. He’d conceded to a shy smile. It was quite a smile.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes?” I parroted dumbly. What were we talking about? And would it be weird if I buried my nose in his neck?
“Yes. You not wanting me to touch you means that you are very different now than you were before,” he explained.
I appreciated the completeness and thoroughness of his sentence.
My cheeks were hot. I pressed my hands against them while I examined him with suspicion. What was he doing to me?
“How so?” I asked, hoping to keep him talking so I could hunt down the splintered pieces of my concentration.
His eyebrows pulled together as his shy smile became a smirk. “You’re telling me you don’t remember?”
“Tell me your version of events,” I demanded, side-stepping a lie and still holding my cheeks.
“Uhh . . .” He scratched the back of his neck, peering at me like I both confused and amused him.
I was used to confusing people, but not amusing them. My cheeks burned hotter.
“Do you even remember?” I pushed, knowing my tone was belligerent.
He made a sound like he was choking on a laugh. “Yes. It’s hard to forget waking up to a naked girl in my bed.”
Jaw dropping, my eyes grew to their maximum diameter.
Naked. Girl. In . . . bed?
“Are you serious?” I whispered, my mind darting in all directions, attempting to form a reasonable hypothesis for Lisa’s behavior and coming up completely empty. Suddenly, I couldn’t catch my breath.
He shook his head, giving me an astonished once-over. “You honestly don’t remember?”
My mouth opened and closed as I struggled to speak, but it was no use. I was too . . . I was too many things. Shocked. Confused. Incredulous. ANGRY.
LISA!
What had she been thinking? She’d been eighteen! How would she have liked waking up to find a strange, naked, eighteen-year-old boy in her bed?
I was beyond shocked. I was horrified. I was electrocuted by the reality of my sister’s brazen-slash-creepy quotient, because I couldn’t imagine doing anything in the same sphere of possibility. I was beginning to believe that if my twin and I were represented by a Venn diagram, our only areas of overlap would be physical. A minor sliver of shared corporal characteristics, and that was absolutely it.
“Lisa?”
Blinking at Abram, and promptly becoming tangled in his searching gaze, I realized he was still there. And I was still here. And my hands were still pressed against my cheeks as I warred with what I now identified as hot mortification.
What else could I do? I shot to my feet and marched out of the living room, dropping my hands and running up the main staircase.
She owed him an apology and . . . and . . . a voluntarily executed restraining order, a promise to stay one hundred meters away at all times. I clutched my forehead as I made it to the second floor, pausing only for a second when I registered the sound of his footsteps rushing up the stairs behind me. Sucking in a large breath, I jogged to my room—dammit!—and pivoted as soon as I realized the error, turning to Lisa’s room just as Abram crested the top stair.
“Hey, wait. Wait.” Abram stepped in front of Lisa’s door and held his hands out as though to catch me by the shoulders, but I rocked back before he could make contact. He looked bemused and amused.
“You think this is funny?” I asked, though it was really an accusation.
“I guess I do.” His gaze traveled over my face, and—like before—he was looking at me like I’d surprised him, delighted
him, like I was something new.
I was too angry at Lisa to worry about what this look might mean. Did he suspect I was Mona? I didn’t think so, but I couldn’t be sure because I couldn’t concentrate. My attention was split between my disgust with my sister’s actions and trying to shake off all the damn noticing I was doing of Abram’s every damn mannerism.
Plus, his current obvious amusement did not help.
Gritting my teeth, I was having trouble holding his gaze but forced myself to do so anyway. “How can you think this is funny? I think it’s horrifying.”
Abram lifted an eyebrow. “You think it’s horrifying?”
It was a wonder he’d been so nice to me—to Lisa—up to now. No wonder he’d been so standoffish when we arrived. No wonder he’d looked at me with such hostility. If I’d been him, I would have refused Leo’s request. Abram is a saint! A SAINT!
And Gabby knew about it this whole time . . .
“You’re owed an apology.” Crossing my arms and lifting my chin a notch, I nodded my head. “On behalf of—on behalf of that Lisa, who did that to you, who behaved in an unforgivable way, I apologize.”
His eyes softened, the focus of their warmth shifting from inward amusement to outward . . . something else.
“You’re forgiven,” he said in a way that was a little breathless, dazed. His stare had turned hazy, velvet and hot. I felt the words and the weight of this new look straight to my heart, and now I was also breathless.
What is happening?
We passed a moment, staring at each other, where all I felt was confusion and chaos and a frenzied sort of all-directional momentum. Though I know it is theoretically impossible, which really just means improbable, time slowed until it merged with the physical plane, and I lived every infinite possibility that touched this second: leaving, staying, staring, kissing, shaking hands, touching, grabbing, high-fiving, walking backward to a bed—
But then Abram leaned closer, his attention dropping to my mouth. He blinked dazedly, and whispered, “Lisa.”
Lisa.
. . . LISA!
Her name was a vomit pie to the face and merged all the infinite possibilities into just one inescapable path forward.
The bizarre moment broken, I huffed a shaky laugh. Unable to maintain eye contact, I backed away. I didn’t believe in predestination, but Abram and I were predestined to be less than friends, hopefully not even acquaintances. For order to exist and be maintained in my universe, we must be absolutely nothing to each other.
“Don’t forgive me,” I said, my voice gravelly, surveying the space between Abram and my sister’s open door behind him, looking for a way into the room that wouldn’t bring our bodies into contact. Finding none, I turned for the stairs, calling over my shoulder, “In fact, do us both a favor: hold a grudge.”
* * *
I slept in my parents’ room, but not in their bed. Their bed was huge and huge beds had never held any allure for me. Since going to college, I’d been a nervous sleeper, waking up several times a night, tangling myself in my sheets. I never make my bed because it would be an inefficient use of time, and big beds with big sheets give me drowning dreams.
The cushioned window seat was my bed for the night and I used one of the many plush blankets piled high in the linen closet. They smelled of geranium and rose. The housekeeper had layered the blankets with linen squares scented with essential oils, as per my mother’s instructions. She had a sensitive nose and had always been very particular about how things smelled.
Other than my looks, I’d never considered that I might share any traits with my mother. She was very glamorous, vivacious, and charismatic.
I was . . . not.
But as I tossed and turned on the cushioned seat, and despite the aroma of geranium and rose, I couldn’t stop thinking about Abram and how delicious he smelled and how the fragrance of him fogged my brain.
I’d always enjoyed good smells—fresh baked bread, warm cookies straight out of the oven, cinnamon, donuts, apple cider, orange blossoms, lavender and lemon—but I’d never thought of myself as being sensitive to them. Until now.
Thoughts of Abram’s heady scent on my mind, I forced my eyes closed by laying a forearm over my eyelids. I must have eventually fallen asleep because I dreamt of him. I dreamt of that moment in the hall and all those infinite possibilities.
I looked into his eyes, hazy and velvet and trusting. Instead of saying my sister’s name, he’d said, “Mona . . .”
And knew what I wanted with a clarity that, even though I was merely dreaming, it was jarring.
In general—in my experience—good decisions were always made by default. Living your best life wasn’t about active choice, it was about the risk/benefit ratio, an equation that balanced the greatest good against the least harm. The logical path forward was the only path forward.
But I wanted him.
So, I made an active choice to be reckless.
I placed my hand against his cheek without an invitation. I dropped my eyes to his lips and thought of nothing but my own selfishness and how much I wanted to taste them. I stepped closer, into his warmth, absorbing his heat, pressing my body to his without asking for permission, and finally—finally—took his beautiful lips with mine.
And then inexplicably, just as an explosion of heat and taste invaded my mouth, he said, “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.”
The soft slide of fingers brushing loose strands off my forehead paired with his soft, grumbly whisper made no sense. We were kissing. How could he be speaking when we were kissing?
But we aren’t kissing, not really.
Rousing reluctantly, I turned my face toward his voice, stretching languidly, feeling relaxed and calm and inhaling a chest-expanding breath.
“What time is it?” I asked, brushing the back of my knuckles against my lips.
“Ten,” he said.
He said. . .
Who said?
Abram.
And just like that, I was awake. But I didn’t open my eyes. Nor did I tense, or shrink away. Instead, for reasons unknown, I held perfectly still.
His hand made another pass over my forehead. His fingertips, rough and callused, pushed into my hair gently, curving back around so that his knuckles skimmed over my upper cheek, down my jaw, the pad of his thumb caressing a little circle around my chin. It felt like he was tracing me, drawing me into wakefulness, and—once I stopped attempting to calculate the risk/benefit of this moment—it felt really, really nice.
“Sorry I have to wake you,” he said, sounding sorry, and sleepy, and extremely close. “But we have to go.”
“Where are we going?” I asked, still not opening my eyes, hoping he’d trace my face again.
He did, his fingers followed the same lazy path. “To Michigan.”
“What’s in Michigan?”
Finished with his third tracing, his hand paused on my shoulder, and then slid slowly down my arm. That felt good too. The rough spots a surprising texture, his touch a three-dimensional, complex experience. He had nice hands.
“My parents’ house.”
My eyes flew open, reacquainted themselves with his big, pretty ones—which were currently smiling down at me tiredly—and blinked. “Your parents’ house?”
His warm hand made a return trip up my arm and came to a rest on my shoulder. “Yes. It’s my mom’s birthday. We have to be there by two thirty, so we have to leave soon.”
“We?”
“I let you sleep as long as I could, and I didn’t sleep.” He stopped here to yawn, taking his hand away to cover his mouth. “Sorry,” he said around his display of exhaustion. “But we have to go.”
I shook my head and squinted at him, at the circles under his eyes, at the ashen quality to his skin. “You didn’t sleep? Why didn’t you sleep?”
“I couldn’t.” He smiled, plainly happy, standing and shrugging.
“You couldn’t?” I sat up and held the blanket to my chest, tracking him as he backed
away.
Abram pointed at me with both index fingers. “Too many ideas, my muse!”
“Ideas?”
“Be ready in a half hour.” He yawned. “You’re driving. I’ll sleep in the car on the way. I’ll be fine.”
I’m driving?
How could I drive? I had my (Mona’s) driver’s license, but I didn’t have Lisa’s. Obviously, I couldn’t take mine. Wasn’t it illegal to drive without a license? And what if I were pulled over? Who would I say that I was?
“Abram.” I stood, shaking my head at the tangled strands of information he’d just dropped in my lap. “Wait. Stop. Let me get this straight. You want me to go to your mother’s birthday? What if I promised to stay put?”
“Where I go, you go.”
“I won’t leave the house.”
“I don’t have a choice, and neither do you. I promised your brother.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “So, we’re going to your parents’ because it’s your mother’s birthday? And you have to be there by two thirty, but you haven’t slept, so you need me to drive, and you’re expecting to sleep on the way?”
“Correct.” He was almost to the door, his steps shuffling, like he was too tired to pick up his feet.
Hastily discarding the blanket, I followed him. “Do you have a present?”
“I’ll pick something up on the way.” He yawned again. “Maybe a card. She likes flowers.”
Frowning at his blasé comment, I persisted. “No, no. Don’t get her flowers on the way. We have—I mean, my mom has—a stash of stuff. Designer bags, perfume, silk scarves for last minute gifts. Let me put something together.”
Abram stopped walking backward, but he also made a face. “Silk scarves?” he slurred, his eyes blinking like he was having trouble keeping them open.
“Trust me. Just, go get ready. I’ll get the gift and meet you downstairs in a half hour.” I walked around him, pressing the call button for the lift. “And take the elevator. You’re exhausted.”
“I’m fine. It’s just one floor down.” He waved away my comment, but promptly had to cover his mouth again for another yawn.