by Penny Reid
“Have you ever read Bertrand Russell?”
“No. Who is that?”
“He was a mathematician. Anyway, he said, ‘Those who feel certainty are stupid, and those with any imagination and understanding are filled with doubt and indecision.’ I think that’s especially true with knowing oneself. As soon as you grow certain of something, you’ve closed your mind to other possibilities.”
I was too tired to give the words the consideration they deserved, so I said without thinking, “Then I guess I’m stupid for you.”
A short beat, and then she replied quietly, “That’s a relief.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. Because I didn’t want to be the only one of us who was stupid.” The tenderness in her voice had me imagining her face, her smile, her eyes.
My heart constricted painfully, I lost my breath for a moment, overwhelmed by how much I wanted . . . I just wanted . . .
I want her to be here.
Before I could catch myself, I said, “I miss you. So much.”
Her laugh tapered, and I heard her release a soft breath before responding earnestly, “I miss you too.”
7
Stellar Parallax
*Abram*
“Here you go, Mr. Fletcher.” A PA hired by our manager, this one also happened to be his niece, placed a cup of tea in front of me, giving me a nervous smile. “I put honey and lemon in it, just how you like.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, distractedly picking up the cup while I flipped through the list of interview questions for later in the day.
Seconds later, the sound of items clattering to the ground had me glancing up. The items were photos of the band and black markers for signing them. She must’ve bumped into the stool where they sat, but she also must’ve done something else, like push the stack at an odd angle, because they were now everywhere.
“Oh God. Sorry.” She squatted, flushing red, and worked to gather the fallen items. “Sorry about that.”
I stood, sending a look to Charlie.
Charlie stepped up. “Don’t worry. Abram and I will pick it up.”
“It’s fine.” Her voice was high. Clearly, she was embarrassed. “I’m almost done.”
She wasn’t almost done. The photos had gone flying in all directions, falling like confetti. Thankfully, Charlie had already moved to her and helped gather the photographs. I crossed to where the markers had rolled—just under the couch—and bent to retrieve them.
As I straightened and turned, I caught her staring at me, her gaze in the vicinity of my stomach, her eyes dazed. Combatting a spike of frustration, I cleared my throat. Her gaze lifted. She seemed to smirk, her eyes heating suggestively.
What the hell? I grit my teeth.
“Hey. What happened?” Ruthie’s greeting pulled everyone’s attention to the door of our shared suite. We all had our own suites, but this one was larger. It was where the band gathered over these last few days—to meet, to give interviews, to take photos and whatnot—leading up to the LA concert.
Our guitarist, standing just inside the suite door, frowned at the mess, bending to pick up one of the photos near her feet. “Are we signing these or what?”
“Yes, yes. It was my fault,” the PA said, pushing her hand through her hair. “I’m so clumsy.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Charlie took the photos from her, added them to his stack, and brought them to the table. “I don’t know why they were on the stool anyway. Could’ve happened to anyone.”
Walking past the woman to the square kitchen table, I felt her eyes on me. Just as I reclaimed my seat and Ruthie took the spot next to mine, the PA tripped over her own feet as she walked backward. And then, instead of clearing the door, she bumped into the wall.
Finally, she turned, tucking her hair behind her ears and walked from the suite.
“She’s got it bad for you, Abram.” Ruthie kicked me under the square table. I shifted my gaze to her, and she lifted her chin toward the tea. “Did she make you that tea? I wouldn’t drink that if I were you.”
Charlie snorted, taking the chair next to Ruthie, which placed him across from me. “Why? You think she’s going to drug him?”
Our guitarist lifted both her hands, palms out. “Hey, man. I’m just saying, the women lose their fucking minds over him. I’ve never seen so many bras on so many stages before, and bras are expensive. It’s raining lingerie every night. That’s not you, and that’s not me.”
Charlie shrugged good-naturedly, but mumbled, “I think it’s a little bit you and me.” His quiet words held an unmistakable edge of defiance.
Ruthie continued like she hadn’t heard him. “If someone has lost their mind, there’s no telling what they’ll do. Alls I’m saying is, if I were Abram, I’d be careful. I wouldn’t accept tea from any of the PAs.” Turning to me, she poked at the teacup. “Wait for Melena to get back. Have her make your tea, just to be safe.”
Melena was our chef, had a master’s degree in nutrition, and was a registered nurse. Other than the three of us, she was the highest paid member of the crew, which made complete sense. She kept us healthy and well-fed. It was her tea blend that the PA had made. I was supposed to drink it three times a day.
“Am I missing something? Isn’t Melena also a woman?” Charlie glanced between the two of us.
“Yes. But she’s not one of the ones coming in here, tripping over her own feet, staring at him like he’s cotton candy. I don’t get boiled bunny vibes from Melena. Some of the other ones, however.” Ruthie gave a little shiver of revulsion. “They give me the creeps.”
I frowned at my bandmate. None of the PAs revolted me, but some of them worried me. Yeah, I was uncomfortable around a few, but not enough to complain. I didn’t want them to lose their jobs, that didn’t seem fair. So what if they had a crush? They were harmless.
Although, even though I was convinced they were harmless, I’d taken steps to ensure I was never alone with any of them. Hearing Ruthie’s take on the situation did nothing to put me at ease.
Glancing at the tea longingly—because it helped, and my throat hurt, but what else was new—I removed it from the table and set the cup on the countertop behind us.
“Let’s get these signed,” I said, more of a rasp than a voice at this point. “We have that interview later this afternoon.”
Charlie made a face. “Man, Abram, you sound like shit. Come on, you’re being crazy. Just drink it.”
“We don’t—” I held up a finger, sneezed into a napkin, and then continued, “We don’t have the show until tomorrow. I’ll be fine by then, if you two do all the talking at the interview.”
“Are you sure you’re not getting sick?”
“I’m not getting sick.” I blinked, my eyes scratchy.
“You know, Leo will be there. Tomorrow,” Ruthie said conversationally. “He asked if you would be at the VIP thing after, cause’ he’s bringing all his Hollywood friends and they want to meet you.”
Scowling, I reached across the table for a pen. “I won’t be there.”
Leo and I still weren’t speaking. I didn’t know if he was aware of my relationship with Mona, and I didn’t care.
“Why’re you so pissed at him?” Ruthie asked.
I opened my mouth to answer, but instead sneezed again. When I was sure no other sneeze was on the way, I responded, “I’m not pissed.” Damn. My eyes hurt.
“I think you’re getting sick.” Charlie squirmed in his seat.
“I told you, it’s fine.” My phone buzzed in my pocket and I reached for it.
“It’s not fine. I’ll make your stupid tea,” Charlie grumbled, standing, grabbing the cup. “Where does Melena keep this shit?”
I was only partially listening, the notification on my screen capturing most of my attention.
* * *
Mona: Finished early. Let me know if you have time to talk, would love to hear about your week. Miss you.
* * *
Staring, standing, sm
iling, and turning from the table, I unlocked my phone to read the message again. My heart thrummed with happy nerves. This was an extremely nice surprise.
Mona and I had spoken to each other every night until she’d left for Geneva. Since, we’d texted a lot, but talking over the phone had been spotty, now down to a weekly thing mostly because of the time difference and our schedules. But that was okay. We were making it work and we were set to see each other in less than two days. I planned to leave LAX via a chartered plane directly after the concert.
The promise of uninterrupted time with Mona, in New York, for twenty-four hours felt like a luxury life raft in this pitching sea of adrenaline highs and lows. The concerts were an intense high. Which made after the concerts—with no Mona—a huge source of frustration for no one but me.
“I’ll show you where to get it,” Ruthie said behind me, probably speaking to Charlie. “We’ll be back with new non-creepy tea. And save your voice. Don’t talk to anyone while we’re gone.”
Glancing over my shoulder to watch my bandmates leave, I navigated to Mona’s number as soon as I estimated they were out of earshot. I dialed.
Two rings later, she picked up. “Hey. You’re free? How are you? How long can you talk? Did I interrupt?”
I closed my eyes, smiling to myself. She did this. Every time we spoke, she answered with a hey, and then a barrage of questions. I loved it.
“I’m free. I’m better now. I can’t talk long. You didn’t interrupt me. But, Mona—”
“Abram. Your voice sounds bad, and you sound stuffy.” She said this around a yawn. “Are you sure you’re okay? Are you sick?”
“No.” I cleared my throat, trying to deepen and firm it. “I’m not sick, I just need to rest my voice. What’s going on with you? You sound tired.”
“Should we be talking if you need to rest your voice? We can text instead. Have you seen a doctor? What does Melena say? Are you drinking your tea?”
“Stop. Listen to me. I want to ask you something. Actually, two things.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I could almost see her face. Her eyes were probably wide, a wrinkle between her eyebrows. Maybe she was biting her lip.
Her lips.
“First, have you been sleeping?”
She replied, “Yes.”
That’s right. I needed to ask specific questions. “Let’s try this a different way. When was the last time you slept?”
“Uhhh, yesterday. I think. Wait. What day is it?”
She needed to take better care of herself. “Here it’s Friday midmorning.”
“So that makes it—”
“Friday night in Geneva.”
“Then, yes. I slept Wednesday.”
“Yesterday was Thursday.”
“Then I slept the day before yesterday.”
I shook my head, a frustrated grin on my face. “Mona. You have to take better care of yourself.”
“I can’t help it. I only get so many hours with the LHC, and then I have to go through the data. It’s too much to backup, and my project isn’t priority. And then there’s the inevitable white whale hunt, which only seems to yield anything of value when I’m exhausted and my brain stops overcomplicating everything.”
White whale hunt was what she called her process of choosing which hunch to follow, how to prioritize her time and energy searching for answers to the unknown, something about understanding or explaining quantum mechanics within the frame of Einstein’s general theory of relativity.
Although, maybe that wasn’t it? Most of the time, when she spoke of her research, it sounded like a different language.
Over the last several weeks, I’d come to the conclusion that Mona didn’t sleep enough. She worked herself until she was exhausted or manic with exhaustion, and this was because Mona DaVinci both was and was not her genius.
Her genius was a paradox, terrifying in its complexity and beauty, but also severe, punishing, rigid in its demands of her. It didn’t care about the frailty of the body. It didn’t care about her relationships, even with herself. It explored, relentlessly, dragging her along—sometimes willingly, sometimes not—often at the expense of her health and wellbeing-.
“I understand the urge to work through the night and into the next day. I get it.” I paced to the window, staring at the blue sky. “I’m not going to tell you what to do—obviously—I’m just going to say, as someone who cares deeply about you, I hope you get a chance to take a night off the whale hunt.”
“I will. I’ll be sleeping in tomorrow. I already packed, so I’ll wake up, catch my flight, arrive in New York Saturday evening, and then I’ll see you early Sunday.” The unmistakable smile in her sleepy voice encouraged me to smile.
“Sunday.”
“Yes. Sunday.” She yawned again. I didn’t take it personally. “I can’t wait. But—uh—was there something else? You said two things?”
“Oh yeah.” I nodded, almost forgetting. “I asked you to send me a picture of yourself, and you sent your faculty headshot from Caltech.” I couldn’t stop my smile from growing. When she’d sent it, I’d laughed on and off for an hour. I wasn’t even mad. It was such a Mona thing to do.
It did, however, leave me unsatisfied. I’d sent her a few shots of me lying in bed, wearing nothing but my boxers, and she sends me a picture of her in a lab coat, smiling with no teeth. I wasn’t looking for reciprocation, but, man, a candid maybe? A genuine smile?
She was quiet for a beat. Then she cleared her throat. “You didn’t like the picture?”
“You are sneaky. You know what I mean.”
“Are you saying it’s a bad picture?”
Sometimes she was too fucking smart, especially when we debated. I loved it. I also hated it.
“It’s a great picture, as you know. I’ve seen it in magazines, next to interviews of you. But I was hoping for something a little more candid.”
“Candid? I can do that.” The offer was made too quickly, which made me suspicious.
“Let me be clear. No pictures of you in a lab coat or at work. Or at school. Or doing anything for your charities.”
She made a sound between a huff and a growl. “Those are the only pictures I have of myself.”
I bit back a laugh, covering my eyes with my free hand. “God, Mona. I mean candid like, send me a photo of you, taken right that minute.”
“Right that minute?”
“Yes. What are you doing now?”
“Uh, about to take a shower.”
My smile vanished. I opened my eyes, my brain stuttered, and the hoarseness of my words had nothing to do with needing to rest my voice. “That’ll do.”
“Abram.” She made another growling sound. “I can’t send you those kinds of photos.”
“What kind?”
“You know, me in just a towel.”
“I don’t need you to be in just a towel. If you don’t feel comfortable sending a particular photo, definitely don’t send it. I’m not trying to get you to do something you don’t want to do. I want to see your smile, your real smile, not something your graduate program uses for promotional purposes.”
“Fine. Then candid pictures of me. I can’t send those.” Her tone had me straightening, she sounded almost hostile.
“Why?” I asked softly, wanting her to know that I wasn’t trying to push her, I just honestly wanted to know. “What am I missing?”
Mona sucked in an audible breath. “I’ve worked hard for my reputation. I’ve been so careful. I’ve never done anything that might jeopardize me being taken seriously.”
She was solemn, severe. She sounded like a different person. Her voice was deeper, held a hint of dry antagonism, like she dared me to challenge her. I wasn’t put off, but I was confused. It was a side of Mona I’d never seen in person, but one I’d witnessed last year when she’d given her testimony to congress. Basically, she sounded superior and aloof.
I waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, I asked, “Am I asking you to do
something that might jeopardize you being taken seriously?”
“Yes.” Now sadness entered her voice, unmistakable melancholy, and my throat tightened in response. “Abram, this world I live in, it is an intellectual world, but it is not enlightened. Women are not seen as equals, young women in particular. And if you’re at all attractive, it’s an impediment. I’ve been called a distraction. Do you know what that’s like? I’ve been called emotional when I raised my voice to match that of my male colleagues, I’ve been called bitchy and conceited and judgmental for recognizing my own intelligence, and not just by men.”
As she spoke, she started to sound more like herself, but the despondency only increased.
“I have to demonstrate the appropriate amount of gratitude daily for being included on projects and grants that are full of my original ideas. I can’t take for granted that I’ve earned anything, because I never will, because everyone—even other women—are just waiting for me to prove everyone right, that I’m too young, too sensitive, too female to be worthy of my place at the table. They want my ideas, my research, but not enough to change the culture or be inconvenienced. Not enough to entertain the notion that I’m just another person, just like them.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I have to be faultless. I have to be perfect. I can’t afford mistakes.”
My heart in my mouth, I asked without thinking, “Am I a mistake?”
“No! God, no. Never.”
“But sending me pictures of yourself, that’s a mistake.” I didn’t know why, and I didn’t understand the impulse myself, but bitterness had leached into my voice. Not even the rawness of my vocal chords could disguise it. And yet, I wasn’t mad at her.
I was just . . . bitter.
“If—if your phone got hacked, and pictures of you in a bathing suit were leaked or published.” Now her tone was soft, almost pleading. “Or—or the photos you already sent me, if those were leaked, would it be a big deal? Would it damage your reputation?”
“You already know the answer to that question. I’m on billboards in my underwear. No one would care.”