by Reid, Penny
Instant olfactory sensory relaxation.
Presently, we were sitting in a booth at a small Italian place not far from Anderson’s. We’d just ordered—lasagna for me, steak of some sort for him—and then I’d opened the romance novel he’d bought me.
“I thought you were hungry?” He poked at the book with a breadstick.
“I am. But my brain is also hungry. For stimulation.”
“What? My conversation isn’t stimulating enough?”
I smirked, because he was just so darn cute sometimes and it made me smile.
“I didn’t say that.” I cleared my throat in an effort to erase the smile from my face, lifting the book higher to hide the persistent grin as I mumbled, “But you said it and you’re very perceptive.”
A surprised-sounding laugh emanated from his side of the table.
Impulsively, I lowered the book and peeked at him, anticipating he would do something to hide his happy expression. Like clockwork, he covered the bottom half of his face with his hand. My heart gave a little tug at the sight. For a big, strong, tall, dark and manly musician, he sure was super adorable sometimes.
“Fine.” Abram shook his head, turning it away from me and pulling out the book he’d bought for himself. Setting it on the table, he opened it. “Go ahead and read.”
Lifting my book, I grinned secretly, and read.
I had doubts that I’d be able to concentrate, which were initially well-founded. A few times, struck by a bizarre compulsion, I snuck a glance at Abram. He would either: a) already be watching me, which would cause us both to hastily return our eyes to our books, or b) I’d steal several seconds of watching him before he caught me, which would cause us both to hastily return our eyes to our books.
After a few minutes of this unfathomable behavior, we both settled, reading quietly, absorbed in our books.
Sometime later, the arrival of our food surprised me, and I blinked dazedly at our server when he set my dinner down. Despite being hungry, I found the sudden presence of our food inconvenient. Setting the novel aside with a sigh, I placed the napkin on my lap. Apparently, for a moment there I’d forgotten I wasn’t in nineteenth-century England.
“How’s the book?”
“It’s really good. Really good,” I said distractedly, picking up my fork and knife, cutting into the steaming plate of lasagna and adding, “She paints a vivid picture.”
“I have some more suggestions, if you want—”
“Yes. You should write them down.”
“Even if they’re romance novels?” Abram leaned forward to cut his steak, sparing me a quick, amused look.
“But is it really a romance novel?” I lifted my chin towards the book. “It reads more like fiction.”
“Romance is fiction.” He punctuated this statement by taking a bite of steak, and then chewing.
“But it’s- it’s-” Interesting? Well researched? Engaging? Well written? All of the above.
“Not what you expected?” he supplied, smirking around his bite. “What did you expect?”
Shrugging, I lifted a small rectangle of lasagna on my fork and blew at the steam. “I guess something brainless.” I didn’t add that I followed the New York Times Book Review and they’d had more than their fair share of articles calling the romance genre “fluffy.”
If you couldn’t trust the New York Times Book Review, who could you trust?
“Why? Because it’s about love and has a happy ending? And only stories of unhappiness with tragic endings are important? Because a struggle that leads to something good isn’t worthwhile?”
Taking a bite and avoiding eye contact, I shrugged again because he’d just hit the nail on the head. His questions challenged my preconceived notions and made me sound like an idiot. I wasn’t used to feeling like an idiot. Or being challenged. Then again, I usually never deviate from my appointed lane . . .
It was both an uncomfortable and exhilarating experience.
I felt his stare linger for a moment before he spoke. “Glad you like it.”
Grateful he’d decided to let the subject drop, I said quietly, “I do. Thank you for recommending it to me.”
“No problem.” I heard a smile in his voice. “Is it better than Moby Dick?”
“I don’t know. I just started.” I gave the cover a wistful glance before giving Abram my eyes. “But Moby Dick is one of my favorites.”
“Really?” His face screwed up. “Why?”
“It’s about dealing with disappointment and putting things into perspective. Everyone should read it.”
His weird look persisted, like my words made no sense.
So I laughed. “I know, not a very modern concept.”
“You like reading books about disappointment?”
I nodded, agreeing before thinking too much about it.
“Why?”
I hypothesized out loud. “It’s comforting.”
This earned me a single-eyebrow lift. “How so?”
Again, speaking without considering my words, I said, “Think about it. Stories of expectations, hopes, and dreams not being met are confirmation that life is—fundamentally—a . . .” Disappointment.
Staring at him, and realizing what I was just about to say, my chest tightened. I was officially unnerved. Did I really think that? Did I really think that life was a disappointment?
I guess I did.
Abram lifted both eyebrows. “A what?”
“Um,” I stalled.
How could I possibly think life was a disappointment? I lived a charmed life, right? I’d never wanted for anything. I’d been given every advantage. I had the use of all my limbs. I had my health. I’d been told by many people, many times how beautiful I was (if I’d only make an effort). I’d traveled extensively. I’d worked hard to be recognized as a content expert in my field, to be taken seriously, and now I was being courted by all the top research programs in the world. I had everything I’d ever wanted. Everything.
Right?
My gaze moved over Abram, his artfully messy hair, his scruffy beard, the twinkle in his amber eyes, the dimple at his left cheek, the curve of his generous lips. I’d almost kissed those lips earlier in the day.
Or maybe, suggested a mutinous little voice, I have everything I’ve allowed myself to want.
“Life is a what? A series of unfortunate events?” he prompted, snapping me out of my contemplations. “A whale hunting trip?”
There was no way I was going to tell the truth of my thoughts, but I had to say something. I decided on, “A challenge.”
“Hmm.” Abram’s eyes narrowed. That paired with the small smile still on his lips gave me the sense he suspected I wasn’t being honest.
We stared at each other for a long moment until he speared a bite of steak with his fork. “You should get a new one.”
“New what?” New perspective on life?
“New copy. Of Moby Dick. Yours is all torn up.” He placed the bite in his mouth.
I averted my attention before I could indulge in my weirdo desire to watch him chew. “Then what would I do with the old one?”
“I don’t know, give it away?”
“What?” I reared back. “Absolutely not!”
“Why not?”
“Books are friends. You don’t just- just- just give away friends!”
Abram, his elbow propped on the table, covered the lower half of his face with his hand, but his shaking shoulders gave him away.
Squinting at him accusingly, I crossed my arms. “You’re laughing at me.”
“Yes. I am.”
“How would you like it if someone gave you away?” I muttered, indignant.
“Well, since the question infers that I would’ve had to give myself to that person before it would be possible for her to give me away, I wouldn’t like it.”
The temptation to ask Have you? And, if so, what happened? And who is this stupid woman who gave you away? was nearly overwhelming. If anything was true in the universe,
it was that anyone who could willingly give Abram away was stupid (and also Newton’s Laws of Motion).
Locking eyes with Abram, the questions were at the forefront of my brain, that mutinous little voice pushing them to the tip of my tongue, but the server chose that moment to swing by to refill our waters, saving me from making a critical error in judgment.
After ascertaining all was delicious and well, the server left. I did my utmost to ignore the curiosity pressing uncomfortably against my skull, and instead took a bite of lasagna.
I felt Abram’s attention move over me, and eventually he said, “So, you read a lot,” giving me the impression he was trying to get me talking again.
Since this was a benign, previously established fact, I confirmed it.
“Every night before bed, for about an hour. If I don’t have a busy day the next day, I’ll read for an hour and a half.”
“Oh. Really busy day? Like what? Getting a blowout from someone named George?”
I was about to ask him who George was when my slow brain finally caught up. Double yikes. Again, I’d forgotten who I was supposed to be. I blame Lisa Kleypas’s excellent novel.
“Well . . .” I worked for a moment to identify an appropriate response to his teasing. Luckily, I was able to stall by taking a bite of my food. Once I finished chewing, I said, “Who is to say how I spend my time isn’t any more or less important than how you spend your time?”
“Good point.” He nodded eagerly, like he’d been hoping I would respond this way. “So, tell me, how do you spend your time?”
Taking another bite, I chewed for longer than was necessary, my eyes moving up and to the left, because—since I was not in fact Lisa—this was a tricky question. I had no idea how my sister spent her time. Furthermore, I couldn’t help but feel I’d just fallen into a verbal trap of some sort.
Unable to delay responding forever, I eventually decided on, “I sleep.” This was true for Lisa, me, and humanity.
“You sleep.” His voice was deadpan.
“Yep. Speaking of which, did you, uh, sleep well last night?”
Abram’s gaze flickered over me, as though he thought I might be leading him into a trap of my own. Little did he know, I was just trying to change the subject.
“Yes,” he said reluctantly, “I slept fine. Why?”
“It’s just, you were up early.” His sleep patterns were so sporadic, and this facet of his personality fascinated me.
Abram finished chewing a bite of steak before responding. “You were expecting to make it to the donut shop and back before I woke up?”
I shrugged, but also shot him a guilty look.
He chuckled. “I came down the stairs just as you walked out the front door.”
“Why didn’t you try to stop me?”
He ignored my question and asked one of his own, “Any regrets?” The speculation behind his eyes made me think maybe the question had a double meaning, but I was too distracted by the memory of this morning’s tussle to parse through what the double meaning might be.
The grabbing, the teasing, the friction of our bodies as I jumped and slid down his, the touching, the staring, his scent . . .
Instead of answering directly, I cleared my throat and said, “It’s important to live in the present.” I said this mostly to remind myself, but also, due to the limits of the space-time continuum, living in the present was the only option. Wishing for a different past or an impossible future was pointless. “So, uh, did you write any music last night?”
“No, but I did get some lyrics written earlier today. You’re playing the violin again?”
“Yes. I can almost play “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” which means “Old MacDonald” is next, and that’s my favorite, with all the bock, bock, bocking, and moo, moo, mooing, and then the wolves came, as the prophesy foretold, in this economy.” I forced myself to take a deep breath here so I would stop talking. Something about the way he was looking at me with those intense, deep brown eyes made me feel fidgety.
But Abram grinned, and the flash of dimples made my knees happy I was sitting instead of standing. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You say weird stuff sometimes. Like, ‘and then the wolves came.’ What is that?”
“It’s just a thing I do . . . when I don’t know what to say.” I’d been caught without prunes and my lasagna was finished. Might as well tell the truth.
“So you speak nonsense?”
“It’s not nonsense. These phrases, they’re special. They’re special phrases that work for almost any occasion. They’re evergreen.”
“If you say so.” During dinner, his left dimple had become a permanent fixture on his face and it was hugely distracting.
“They are.” I rubbed my forehead, feeling somewhat harassed by his attractiveness. “Here, say something and I’ll use one of my phrases.”
“Fine. Let’s see. Um—” Abram’s gaze moved beyond me. “Okay. Want to go see a movie?”
“In this economy?”
A short, surprised laugh shook his shoulders and lit his eyes. “You’re nuts.”
“So let it be written, so let it be done.”
“Oh no. You’re not going to stop, are you?”
“Be that as it may, still may it be as it may be.”
He was fighting a massive grin. “Please stop.”
“There’s no escape from destiny.”
“What can I say to make you stop?”
“Wise words by wise men write wise deeds in wise pen.”
“You are so fucking weird sometimes.” He shook his head, his shoulders also shaking, losing the fight.
“As the prophesy foretold.”
“Oh my God—” he clutched his stomach, tossing his head back to laugh “—I love you.”
I sucked in a breath, my heart doing a strange, twisting thing. I kept my eyes affixed to the table so he wouldn’t see my illogical and sudden turmoil, because it was illogical and it was turmoil. I told myself that his words had been an expression, nothing more.
Abram is a goodtime guy, he probably loves everyone.
Yes. Exactly.
. . . Wait! No. No, he is not a goodtime guy! Stop thinking of him that way.
The explanation was much simpler: he didn’t love love me. It had been a figure of speech.
I lifted my gaze—just for a single second—to peek at him. But then I couldn’t look away because something distressing happened.
The laughter and resultant smile lit up his face, casting everything else in the room in bleak shadow, and he wasn’t hiding either this time. However, it wasn’t just the smile that was distressing—I’d seen him smile several times at this point—but rather my new and completely involuntary physical reaction to it. The sight hit me in the stomach, an unexpected blow, jarring my teeth, a little painful and a lot uncomfortable. At first.
And then the pain dissipated, became an expanding warmth, a hum of kinetic energy—even though I was sitting perfectly still—radiating outward to my fingertips and toes, clouding my brain, and wrapping my whole person in a lovely, tight, cozy cloud.
Holy shit.
What the hell was that?
A microcosm of the big bang but in my body!
Disoriented and mesmerized, I couldn’t take my eyes from his face where the effects of his laughter still lingered, giving his features an attractiveness that was four-dimensional. More than physical, it was an allure that permeated both space and time.
“What?” Abram’s laughter had tapered while I’d been having a mini freak-out. “No more phrases left?”
I pretended like I needed to scratch the back of my neck as I quickly sifted through the possible anytime-phrases remaining:
Just like in my dream.
But at what cost?
And thus, I die.
They all felt a little too . . . accurate.
So I shrugged, glancing at him quickly and offering a tight smile, murmuring, “And then the wolves
came.”
14
Normal, Tension, and Other Examples of Forces
Recovering from the mini big bang took some serious concentration. Luckily, Abram’s mood had turned contemplative on the drive home and neither of us spoke.
Although, halfway through the drive, while we were stuck at a stoplight, he turned to me and said, “Thank you for coming with me. I had a great time.”
I was trapped in the sincerity of his stare, caught in the velvety cadence of his voice, only able to nod dumbly and mutter stupidly, “Great time. I had . . . also.”
He grinned, his features softened by the glow of nearby streetlamps and the red light of the traffic signal, his four-dimensional attractiveness growing to ten dimensions, where the tenth were those pesky infinite possibilities and I was suffocating in the tenderness of his big, gorgeous, ten-dimensional brown eyes.
Oh my heart.
But then the light changed and he gave the road his attention, leaving me to my entropy. Thank goodness we still had several blocks before the house. I required both the dark and the quiet to order my thoughts.
Closing my eyes, I frantically tried imagining the vastness of space. Like earlier in the day, I worked to put facts first and events into perspective. I reminded myself that I didn’t belong here, that this was Lisa’s reality and not mine. That Helped.
I reminded myself of Gabby’s advice, that he wasn’t the type of person I wanted to have feelings for. That also helped even if I didn’t 100 percent believe it.
The crack had widened, the mutinous bargaining voice had grown more persistent, leaving me with an undercurrent of agitation instead of peace, and wishing instead of acceptance.
As soon as Abram pulled into the street parking outside our house, I was out of the car, walking to the gate and punching in the code. By the time he’d sauntered to where I stood holding the gate open, I had a plan. Once we made it inside, I was going upstairs and going to bed. I hadn’t been sleeping well, and lack of sleep could lead to poor decisions.
Abram said nothing as we walked up the stairs to the front door, and I kept my eyes firmly fixed forward, my jaw clenched, my hands fisted at my sides. No matter what, you will go upstairs and go to bed. By yourself.