by Penny Reid
I stared forward, my brain paralyzed by confusion. I was so confused. I wanted to ask her so many things, starting with, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?
Instead, I swallowed them. I held her, stroking her back, kissing her shoulder, whispering words of reassurance.
And I silently simmered in the chaos of my mind and heart.
We drove around for at least an hour while she snuggled against my bare chest. Every so often, she’d squirm, like she wanted to get closer, and then she’d sigh, like she was frustrated by the limitations of our physical forms. But then she’d kiss me, my collarbone, my shoulder, my neck, and settle once more.
It did wonders to soothe my earlier dejection.
It did nothing to untangle my confusion.
It did a lot to increase my concern for her.
The hour was time well spent with my thoughts, reviewing every moment between us. Three in particular stood out as significant.
The first, when we were in Chicago during that original week and I’d found her in the dark, in the kitchen. I’d startled her, but her reaction at the time, even after she knew she was safe—sad, angry, confused, terrified.
The second, in Aspen, when I’d backed her into my room and stood between her and the door. The look in her eyes then—sad, angry, confused, terrified—reminded me of how she’d looked just after we’d made love.
The third, the last time we were in Chicago, in her sister’s apartment, when she’d rested on the bed after I’d touched her, curling herself into a ball, her eyes vacant. Sad, angry, confused, terrified.
In the past, I’d wondered whether something had happened. What made her shrink from touch? But when she didn’t recoil from me, when she’d seemed to welcome it, allow me to touch her freely, I’d—selfishly, stupidly—let the curiosity go.
But now.
Shifting in the seat, loathe to move her, I reached for the button to lower the privacy screen, cracking it an inch.
“Thanks, but you can take us to the address now.”
“Okay, Mr. Fletcher,” the driver said.
I lifted the window again, frowning at the direction of my thoughts and at the way Mona’s body was now tense in my arms. I felt her swallow. She sniffed. She swallowed again.
“Are . . .” Mona started, stopped, cleared her throat. “Do you still want to stay with me?”
“Of course.” But doubt had me asking, “Do you want me to stay with you?”
She exhaled a loudly, lifting her head to look me in the eyes, miserable, remorseful, overwhelmed. “I’m so sorry. I love you, so much, and I’m so sorry.”
“Please.” I cupped her cheek with my palm, stole a quick kiss. “Please stop apologizing.”
She nodded, pressing her lips together to firm her chin, but then blurted, “I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”
My heart heavy with worry, I frowned at her misery, trying to make sense of what had happened earlier and what was happening now. But I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t be able to unless she told me.
Gathering a deep breath, I slid my palm down her arm and lifted her fingers to my lips, kissing the back of her knuckles. “There is one thing you can do.”
“Anything.”
“You have to promise, before I ask, that you’ll do it. That you’ll give it to me, whatever I want.” It was a dirty trick, but I was at my wit’s end here. I needed her to talk to me, and the ends in this case justified the means.
“I promise. I swear, anything. I’ll do anything.” Her eyes were so wide, she looked so earnest and scared.
I thought back to Marie’s statements about adults who grow up with neglectful parents and subsequently felt even worse about this manipulation. Just like Marie said, Mona was eager to prove herself, and now I was leveraging that vulnerability.
I kinda hated myself in that moment. But I also kinda didn’t care. I needed her to tell me the truth, so we could figure this out, together. As long as I lived, I never wanted to see that look in her eyes again.
So, I gathered a deep breath, bracing myself, and asked, “Mona, why don’t you like to be touched?”
She stared at me. And then she blinked rapidly, her eyes dropping. She pushed against my chest. I let her go. Climbing off my lap, she moved to the bench where she’d sat before, crossing her arms at her middle, not looking at me.
“I just don’t like unexpected—”
“No,” I said firmly, shaking my head, disappointed she wasn’t telling me the truth. “No. That’s not it. You’re scared.”
Her mouth dropped open and she gaped at me. “I’m not.”
“Tell me the truth. Please.”
She flinched. “I am, I am telling you—” She sucked in a hitching breath, the beginning of another sob, and then she closed her eyes. Her head fell back to the leather of the seat and she whispered, “Damn it.”
“Why don’t you want to tell me?” I asked softly, aching for an answer.
She shook her head, a humorless smile on her lips. “Because it’s so stupid.”
“Whatever it is, it’s not stupid. If it makes you check out after every time I touch you, it’s not stupid.”
Her eyes opened and they cut to mine, held, devastating. Deep, bottomless wells of anguish. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop. Apologizing. Please. Just tell me what happened.”
Mona’s chest rose and fell, breathing faster. I recognized this. She was working herself up to admit something difficult.
“I don’t want you to look at me differently. I don’t want you to treat me differently. I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.”
“I won’t.”
“But you might. Because what happened—God, Abram. It’s nothing. It’s so minor, especially compared to what other people go through. Nothing happened, and yet—and yet, I carry it around with me, empty luggage, and I have no idea why.” Her voice cracked on the last word. I wasn’t used to her sounding so helpless, so lost. I hated it.
Impulsively, I moved to where she was, knelt in front of her, and held her shoulders as well as her eyes. “Forget about other people, okay? If you stub your toe, you’re allowed to acknowledge that it hurts like a motherfucker.”
She laughed, a tear rolling down her cheek.
“If you break your arm, knowing someone out there in the world is starving and suffering shouldn’t numb your pain. People say comparison is the thief of joy when it comes to success, right? But it’s also the thief of compassion when it comes to suffering.”
Mona nodded, sniffling, swallowing. “Okay, okay,” she said, just as the car pulled to a stop.
Gritting my teeth at the inconvenient timing, I covered her hands with mine and squeezed. “Listen. We’ll go inside. You take your time. If you need to sleep on it, fine. But before we do anything again . . .” I paused at the panicked look in her eyes, how her hands spasmed in mine.
“Abram.” My name sounded like a plea.
“This isn’t an ultimatum.” I licked my lips, choosing my words carefully, gentling my voice. “This is me being careful with you.”
Her face crumpled and she sounded angry as she whispered, “But that’s just it. I don’t want you to be careful with me. That’s the opposite of what I want. And that’s the problem.”
Mona’s words were a puzzle I was nowhere near solving when a knock sounded on the door.
I was resigned to the delay. “Come on. Let’s go up.”
She nodded, wiping at her tears.
Unable to help myself, I hugged her one more time, silently promising both her and myself that this was the beginning. No matter what she said, no matter what darkness or trials waited for us, or what events in her past held her hostage, my feelings for her would never change.
Tonight was the beginning, not the end.
15
Relativistic Momentum and Energy
*Mona*
From the road, you would never know that the modest brownstone was an awesome twentieth-century Chicago-gangster-themed bed and br
eakfast. Situated in a quiet neighborhood, with single-family homes, parks, and coffee shops and restaurants at each corner, it looked like any of the other brownstones.
And that was exactly why I’d chosen it. Well, that and the huge bathtub, the relatively reasonable off-season price, and the milk and cookies available in the kitchen 24 hours a day.
My embarrassment was a great distraction from all the feelings churned up during our limo ride, and I did my best to not make the situation any more awkward for our driver. He was nice enough to give us his jacket, his shirt, and act like Abram’s request was perfectly normal. The shirt was for Abram since I’d used his as a towel. The jacket was for me since my dress was torn. I didn’t remember it tearing. But, then again, fabric cohesion had been the last thing on my mind when Abram helped me take it off.
I muttered only one anytime-phrase, “So, it has come to this,” while Abram held out the jacket for me to put on, his eyes glinting with reluctant amusement.
But I still didn’t have any shoes. Therefore, Abram insisted on carrying me to the gate where I punched in the code, and then to the door, where I punched in the other code. Once inside, he didn’t put me down, instead whisper-asking me where we were going. It was late, and the rest of the guests and house staff were definitely asleep.
First, we had to swing by the kitchen to pick up our room key where the owner had hidden it. He then carried me up two flights of stairs. Our room took up the whole of the top floor. Walls had obviously been moved during the remodel, sectioning off the stairs from the rest of the space, with only one door accessing the entire suite.
Again, once inside, he didn’t immediately put me down. He seemed to pause, glancing at the sitting area with a dark brown leather couch, the small mahogany bar in the far corner, the big screen TV mounted to the wall, and the black-and-white picture of Frank “The Enforcer” Nitti.
The gangster looked slightly confused, his eyes focused someplace above the camera, his hair parted to one side. If I didn’t already know he was a gangster, I would’ve guessed he was a butcher. Or a baker. But not a candlestick maker.
As though suddenly deciding something, Abram carried me into the bedroom, twisted left, then right, conveying us to the bathroom before finally placing me back on my feet.
“There. You probably want to . . .” He pulled his hand through his hair, looking unsure and frustrated with himself. “Or maybe you don’t.”
I caught him by the hand before he could turn to leave. Swallowing around a lump of uncertainty, I held him in place and waited until he gave me his eyes.
I told him the truth. “I want to be brave with you.”
His gaze softened, warmed.
So I quickly added before I could overthink it, “Will you take a bath with me?”
Abram’s eyes widened, and he held still, looking caught, torn. “Uh.”
“We won’t do anything,” I promised, giving him a beseeching half-smile. “It’s just, I don’t want to be alone, and we’re both impressively dirty right now.”
He chuckled, his eyes shifting to the side, glancing at the bathtub. And then he did a double take, noting roughly, “That’s a huge tub.”
I nodded, hope fluttering in my chest. “Yes. It is.”
“Fuck,” he said on a breath, the word one of deep despair, making me smile.
“Come on.” I tugged on his hand.
His eyes came back to mine, even more conflicted, and his feet remained rooted in place. “No, Mona. No. I’ll, uh. I’ll come in later, after you’re done.”
I stepped back to him, holding his hand tighter, fear constricting my throat. “Please. Please stay with me.”
“I will. I promise. But I can’t take a bath with you without wanting to make love to you again. And, I’m sorry, but you scared the shit out of me in the limo. Once you tell me what happened, then we’ll—”
“I was fifteen,” I blurted, suddenly tired—so tired—of this between us. My brain switched to autopilot. “He was my chem lab TA. He found me alone one night in the lab and grabbed me from behind. He made me think he was going to rape me, though he never said the words. He let me go and said it was a joke. When I tried to leave, he grabbed me again, pinned me against the wall until I started to cry.”
“Oh my God.” The words tumbled out of him as he rocked backward on his feet, his large, shocked eyes darting between mine.
“But he didn’t. He didn’t rape me. He didn’t hurt me. I had no bruises. He laughed at me, again. Said I was gullible, that I was just a little kid, that I reminded him of his little sister. He let me go. And that’s it.”
Abram swallowed convulsively, and I watched as the surprised confusion behind his eyes was eventually eclipsed by outrage and anger.
It was strange, telling him this now, how distant and removed I felt. When I’d told Gabby, I’d been shaky, sweaty, my heart had raced.
But not now. Now, it just felt like a fact. An ugly tale that happened to someone else but wouldn’t stop following me around, making itself relevant to my life, insidiously inserting itself into my decisions. I wished it never happened, for so many reasons. Mostly though, I was frustrated with myself and how much power I’d given an event that didn’t matter.
And I’d allowed it to ruin our first time together.
“Did you report him? Did you tell anyone?”
Shaking my head, exhausted, and abruptly feeling every speck of dirt and grime on my body, I crossed to the bathtub, turned on the faucet marked hot, and engaged the stopper.
“Come take a bath with me,” I said, allowing fatigue to bleed into my words. “Please.”
Considering me with a thoughtful and distracted frown, Abram acquiesced. I allowed myself to feel mildly relieved. I’d been afraid that telling Abram what happened would make him not want me anymore, as irrational as that sounded.
Except, the truth was, I was still afraid. I was still terrified that everything between us was going to change. He’d look at me differently, treat me like I was fragile, or crazy. Or he’d think I was overreacting, blowing the whole thing out of proportion. He’d tell me to get over it, like I’d told myself a thousand times.
Visibly distracted, Abram’s fingers came to the buttons of the borrowed shirt. It was too small for his shoulders and too big for his waist. Meanwhile, numb, I shrugged off the coat, pulled off my dress, and climbed in the tub, adjusting the cold and hot water until the right temperature was reached.
I caught movement in my peripheral vision and turned my head to watch him push his pants down his hips, sparks of heat dancing in my lower stomach. My body came alive at the sight of his body.
Shame was quick to swoop in, reminding me that I’d just told him about what Leo had called a trauma. And now here I was, lusting after someone.
But he’s not someone. He’s Abram.
It didn’t matter. Something was wrong with me. I shouldn’t have lustful feelings so soon after speaking about the event, I shouldn’t want to be held down while he took pleasure from my body, moving inside me. I shouldn’t crave being dominated during sex. I shouldn’t love it, but I did.
I faced forward again, cupping my hand and lifting it, watching the water spill around the edges until equilibrium was reached, leaving just about a tablespoon in my palm. Ah, what a perfect allegory for life. No matter how much I tried to hold on, ultimately, it would eventually slip through my fingers.
I looked up just as Abram climbed into the huge tub, his boxers still on. His mouth a frown, his eyes wary, he took the spot across from me.
“You take a bath with your boxers on?” I tried to make my voice light.
Abram studied me for a long moment before saying gently, “Tonight I do.”
“You’re afraid I’ll attack you?” What are you doing, Mona? Trying to turn this into a joke?
Yes. Yes, I am. Maybe if I made it a joke then it would lose its power and I could move on.
His eyes narrowed, telling me he didn’t think my statement was funny.
In fact, it seemed to anger and frustrate him.
I swallowed again, my throat tight, my heart fluttering pitifully, wishing he would . . . what? What did I want? Did I want him to treat it like it was nothing? As I had? Did I want him to try to kiss me and make it better? Did I want him to grab me and devour me as he’d done in the limo?
“Was I too rough?” he asked, pulling me from my unanswerable questions.
“Pardon?”
“In the limo, when we were together. Was I too rough with you? Did I scare you?”
I shook my head but stopped. He’d been a little rough, and I’d loved it. But thinking about things now, I found it difficult to separate my feelings at the time from the guilt at having felt them.
“I was too rough,” he said, sounding angry with himself. “I should’ve let you tell me what you like. I shouldn’t have insisted that we discover each other. I’m sorr—”
“No. No, you weren’t too rough. And I agreed with you, if you remember. I want us to discover each other. I want to give us a chance to be good at this. We’re already good at this, we’re great! It’s just that it’s—it’s complicated.”
He took a deep breath. “Complicated.”
“Yes. Because I love you.” My eyes stung with new tears, but I determinedly blinked them away, pulling my knees to my chest.
“That doesn’t mean I get to do whatever I want to you.”
“But I want it too. I like it rough. I—” I laughed, because I didn’t quite know how to explain without sounding crazy, or wrong in the head. Sniffling, I said firmly, “I’m going to be brave, okay?”
He nodded, his eyebrows still knotted.
“Here is the truth, and if this makes me disturbed, then so be it. I’ve always been the one in control, with all my past partners. Always. But not with you.”
He opened his mouth like he was going to say something.
I held up a hand, blinking against the stinging in my eyes. “Wait. Let me finish.”