by Penny Reid
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.
“Mona, why don’t you talk about your parents?”
Her eyes dimmed. “There’s not much to say.”
“They’re not interesting?”
“Oh, they’re very interesting.” Under her breath she added, “They’re the most interesting people they know.”
Hmm. “Would it bother you if I asked questions about them?”
“Why are you suddenly so interested?”
“It’s not sudden. Not really. You never talk about your family, and in my experience—with my own family—they’re a fundamental part of who I am. I’m interested in you, everything about you. By extension, I’m interested in your parents, how they contributed to who you are.”
“Not every family is like yours, Abram. Not everyone’s parents are directly involved with, or even interested in, their children.”
“I find it really hard to believe your parents aren’t completely fascinated by you. I mean, you’re fucking amazing.”
“As we’ve established.” She flashed me a grin, there and gone, but her gaze remained troubled, or perhaps already exhausted by the subject of her family. “They’re not interested in me.” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “And that’s okay. They’re very busy. I understand that they have a lot of responsibilities and demands on their time. Being who they are, I consider myself lucky to—”
“You don’t believe that,” I cut in, because she was using her academic voice. It was the one she seemed to employ whenever she wanted to distance herself from the information she was sharing. “Why are you saying things you don’t believe?”
“I’m—I’m not.”
“You are. You don’t believe anything you’ve just said. It’s like you were reading from a script, saying the words you feel like you should say, even if they’re all false.”
She swallowed thickly, her eyes cagey, like she’d been caught.
I didn’t want her to feel trapped, I wanted her to know she could share this part of herself with me and be honest. Gentling my voice, I tried to reach her. “You can say they’re assholes, Mona. You can say they neglected you, if that’s the truth. Or you can say they didn’t neglect you, but that they weren’t what you needed, if that’s the truth. But trying to make the best of a situation in retrospect by telling lies about what actually happened, trying to reframe it, that’s like—God—that’s like putting a two-by-four in a fancy vase and trying to pass it off as a floral arrangement.”
Her mouth twitched, and then she laughed a little despite looking like she didn’t want to laugh. But she persisted in silence, saying nothing.
“What I’m saying here is, don’t put someone else’s spin on your life. Be honest, not just with me, but with yourself. Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She nodded slowly, swallowing again. “That makes sense.”
I waited, watching her, hoping my small smile was encouraging.
But she wasn’t looking at me. Her gaze moved around the restaurant. She scratched the back of her neck, her cheek, the bridge of her nose. She twisted her fingers and sighed, taking another deep breath just to sigh again.
And I waited.
Eventually, Mona cleared her throat, and then blurted, “They’re disappointing.” Huffing a laugh, she leaned her elbow on the table, her forehead falling to her hand. “They navigate the world very well. They live firmly within it, and are praised for always saying the right thing, being upset and outraged at the right time. They set trends, are edgy but not foolish, and their charisma is suffocating. I don’t actually know them very well, as people, but I don’t think they know themselves either.”
“What do you mean?” I kept my voice soft even though I ached for her and instantly despised them.
“I started to suspect, when I was in college, that my parents are more a product of the world than they are truly themselves. Every decision is made by a committee of experts—what they say, what they wear, who they’re photographed with and where—and their interest in me—or Leo, or Lisa—is heavily dependent on how their committee votes. Sometimes I’m the right person for a photo spread, depending on the message they want to convey to the world. But sometimes I’m not.”
Mona lifted her head, giving me her eyes back. They were tired, resigned, and I hated that Marie had been right about Mona’s parents.
“Do you think that they might change? If you asked them for more of their time, that they might try?”
“No,” she answered immediately, no hesitation. “They won’t change. But you know what? Nothing changes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing changes. Not really. I mean, everything changes. Change is the only constant in the universe. Except, nothing really changes. Case in point, in undergrad, in my philosophy class—which I hated—the professor handed out a list of issues that were supposed to be problems with the world today, and they were spot on. Except, they were written thousands of years ago by a Greek philosopher.”
“Huh. What do you think that means?”
“I guess . . .” Her eyes shifted up. “I guess, what’s wrong with the world never changes. Selfishness, greed, brutality. There will always be stupid, brutal people. There will always be intelligent, brutal people too. And that’s depressing.”
“But what about the flip side to that?”
“The flip side?” She picked at her donut.
“Don’t you think, if what’s wrong with the world stays constant, then what’s right with the world—love, compassion, honor, generosity—is constant as well?”
Staring at me intently, her breathing changed. She was doing that thing I was beginning to recognize as the precursor to discussing or saying something difficult.
I’d already braced myself for a big announcement by the time she said, “Abram.”
“Yes, Mona?”
“I want a house.”
I lifted my donut for another bite. “Okay.” Was that it? Why would she get herself worked up about that? She’d already mentioned it.
“And a picket fence.”
“A what?” I asked around my bite, frowning, certain I’d misheard her. It sounded like she’d said, And a picket fence.
“And a garden with roses. And a flagstone path leading through it. And a room—with a piano—that’s big enough to also house a Christmas tree between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. I want a dog and an alarm system. And a flag on a flagpole that’s lowered to half-mast during national tragedies. And dinners together every night at six. And enough bedrooms so that, as my kids get older and need more space, I won’t have to bunk them together anymore. But they should definitely share a room when they’re younger so they can learn how to compromise. And I want to help someone with their homework and help them win the state science fair.”
I blinked. Hard. “Wait. Slow down. Back up. You want—you want—”
“Kids. Not right now, but before my eggs begin to disintegrate. I could freeze them, true. But I’d prefer not to, for a variety of reasons.”
I lifted a hand, laughing lightly and studying her sweet, earnest face. “Hold on.”
“I’m not saying this dream of mine is a foregone conclusion. I’m not saying I expect you to want the same things I do. I’m just, you know, communicating what my dreams are, should you wish to have them as a data point.”
“Mona. Stop. Let me ask something, okay?”
She crossed her arms. She uncrossed her arms. She glanced at her donut and began tearing it into crumb sized pieces. And then she nodded. “Proceed.”
“Thank you. First of all, you want a picket fence?”
Her eyes narrowed, like it might be a trick question. “Yes.”
I shook my head, making a face of distaste. “Why?”
Statue-still, Mona continued to regard me with doubt. “Because, I guess, I like the way it looks?�
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I made a soft sound of disagreement, wiping my hands with a napkin. “We don’t want a picket fence, believe me. They typically use pine, because you don’t paint cedar, and then you have to keep repainting, and the wood rots, or the sections fall over. It’s a real pain. We should get metal fence, aluminum, if you have your heart set one, and assuming it’s not for security reasons. I mean, a picket fence isn’t going to keep anyone out. Aluminum is low maintenance and it looks nice.”
Now she was looking at me like I was crazy.
I held up both hands. “If you don’t believe me, just ask my dad. He doesn’t talk much, but he’ll have a lot to say about fences. And I’m sorry, but I’ll never live it down if we get a pine picket fence. He’ll be out there painting it every time he comes over.”
She made a strangled sound. “Abram!”
I crossed my arms, giving my head another shake so she knew I was serious. “I’m not budging on this. You don’t know how my dad is about home construction and landscaping. Every conversation will start with, ‘Hey, so, can we talk about the fence?’”
Her hands came down on the table and she leaned forward. “After everything I just said, that’s what you want to talk about? The fence?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the only thing I disagreed with,” I shrugged, giving her a small smile.
Mona blinked like I’d blown dust in her eyes, and then leaned back in her chair again, her pretty lips parted. “You want to have a family? Kids?”
“Absolutely.”
“And a house? In a quiet, suburban neighborhood?”
“I honestly don’t care where we do it, but we can’t have a picket fence.”
She wrinkled the bridge of her nose, blinking again. “It’s not about the fence. But you said, when we were in Aspen, that you hadn’t given marriage much thought.”
“I haven’t. But you don’t need to be married to have a family, children, a home.”
“Do you don’t want to be married?”
“Are you proposing?” I grinned, lifting an eyebrow.
She made a face, clearly trying her best not to laugh, and asked, “Since when have you wanted kids?”
“Since forever.” I scratched my beard, busy imagining what this dream of hers would entail, and I couldn’t help but think about my own childhood. Moments I’d witnessed between my parents, how they’d shared their struggles and joys. Of course I wanted that.
Things hadn’t always been easy for my family. My parents had struggled financially to make my dad’s business work, and we’d had lean years. But I’d watched my mom and dad fight to make their marriage work, fight for my sister and me, fight for each other. Apparently, Mona wanted it too, presumably with me.
No. Obviously with you. She wouldn’t have told you if she didn’t want it with you.
Indulging my imagination, my mind drifted to scenes from our future. What would that be like? A house, kids, a home with Mona? Beyond heavenly.
Her gaze softened. “I had no idea.”
“Well, now you do.” My grin grew because she was smiling at me, her eyes dazed and warm and happy, and I lost myself a little in her gorgeous whiskey gaze. Truly, she was breathtaking.
I could get used to this, making Mona happy on accident, just by being myself.
Speaking of which.
On a sudden impulse, I blurted, “I need to tell you something.”
She nodded eagerly. “Yes. Of course.”
“So, I’m worried about you and what happens when the press release goes out tomorrow.”
“Abram—”
“No, wait. Listen. I’m confessing here.” I didn’t believe this admission would make her happy but being honest felt important.
“Okay. Fine. Proceed.” She didn’t roll her eyes, but she looked like she was tempted.
I wavered for a second before admitting, “I’m glad you turned down your sister.”
That got her attention. “Glad?”
“Yes. Relieved. Happy.”
“Really?”
“Things are going to be significantly more difficult than I thought they would be. I’m going to fight the world for you. But part of me—the selfish part—really wants everyone to know.”
Her smile wide, Mona reached across the table and entwined our fingers. “That we’re together?”
“Yes. I want them to know that you’re mine.” I lifted the fingers I loved so much and kissed them, one at a time. “And that I’m yours.”
We were most of the way back to the B&B when Mona said, “It’s frustrating that people can’t use the same adjectives to describe men that are used to describe women, and vice versa.”
I glanced at her. “What? What do you mean?”
“Like, graceful. You call me or parts of my body graceful. And even though they apply to you, I wouldn’t say so aloud.” We stopped at the gate for her to enter the code.
“Why not?” I didn’t see a problem with being called graceful.
“I wouldn’t want to, I don’t know, make you think I—bah!” The gate buzzed.
I opened it for her to walk through. “Do you think of me as graceful?”
“Y-yes,” she said, stumbling on the word while we climbed the concrete steps.
“Good.” We paused at the keypad for the door. “Because I am graceful.”
Mona lifted her chin and grinned at me. “Yes. In so many ways.” Her eyes seemed to grow hazy and hot, and I didn’t need to guess what was on her mind.
I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket. Not touching her was hard. In fact, when she looked at me like she was looking at me now, a lot of things were hard.
Clearing my throat, I withdrew one hand to open the door to the bed and breakfast. “Then tell me I am. It’s a beautiful word, with a beautiful meaning, no matter how it’s applied, unless it’s ironic or sarcastic. I think you should tell me how you feel, what you feel about me, and not worry about baggage that comes along with the adjectives.”
“Beautiful?” She looked over her shoulder, waiting for me to draw even with her before continuing to the stairs.
“Thank you. I rather am, aren’t I?”
She chuckled, her gaze sweeping down and then up. “Yes, you rather are. Let me see, what other terms, words, and labels can I apply now that the entire vocabulary is open to me?”
I bent and whispered in her ear, “Luscious?”
She almost missed a step, her grin wavering. “Absolutely.”
“Sweet.”
Her smile returned. “Yep. And kind.”
“Thank you.” That was a good one. Really good.
“Gentle,” she said thoughtfully, just as we made it to the top landing. Adding in rapid succession just as I unlocked and opened the door, “Brilliant, lovely, tender, sexy, competent.” She strolled into the suite.
I followed, shutting the door and leaning against it. “Competent?”
“Yes. Competent.” She turned to face me, her hands on her hips. “And, honestly, I feel like it’s the greatest of all compliments. So few people are actually competent.”
I nodded. “Okay. I’ll take it.”
“How about curvy?” She turned her head to one side, walking toward me in a way that seemed more like a prowl, while watching me out of the corner of her eye.
“Am I curvy?” I shoved my hands in my pockets. The urge to always be touching her would be my undoing. She needs space, and time. I had no doubt we’d work things through and come out on the other side stronger. But for now, keeping my hands to myself was the only way to stay sane.
“Oh yes.” Her eyes dropped, moving over my body slowly, stopping somewhere around the vicinity of my hips.
I grimaced. There was no mistaking the curviness in the front of my pants. “Want to watch a movie?”
Mona’s gaze cut back to mine and she grinned, but also looked perplexed. “What? No. I’m appreciating you, and your superior exterior. Including all your curves.”
Slowly, so slowly, she stepped forward. Her stunning eyes hot with intent.
My lungs filled with fire. “Mona.” I groaned through gritted teeth.
Her lips parted, her lashes fluttering, her body surging forward firmly. “I’d like to help you with that.”
“We should do something else.” I shook my head, balling my hands into fists inside my jacket, trying not to lose my mind.
She shook her head in a contrary movement. “What? No! In this economy?”
I exhaled a laugh but sucked in an abrupt breath as she fit her hand between us, stroking me over my jeans. “Let me help. I really, really want to.”
Encircling her wrist, I pulled it away and behind her back. She quickly replaced it with her other hand, reminding me of an octopus. The next stroke more aggressive, she lifted her chin to place biting kisses on mine.
“If we only have two days left, we should make the most of it.”
I pulled the second hand away and fought the consuming impulse to turn her and take her against the door. “But we’ll have more than two days the next time.” Unable to help myself, I stole a quick kiss from her soft lips. “A movie?”
“The next time is so far away.” She nuzzled my neck, lifting to her tiptoes to suck my ear in her mouth. “I don’t have a lot of experience with blow jobs, but I’d love to suck your co—”
“Mona!” No way was I going to let her finish that sentence, but I shivered as her tongue worked in my ear, and my brain finished the sentence for me. “It’s not a good idea.” My voice cracked. At this point, I didn’t know if I was talking to her or myself.
“Abram.” Her hot breath spilling against my neck pulled another shiver out of me, her hand somehow managing to break free to stroke me again. “I bet it tastes like candy.”
I wanted to touch her, but I didn’t trust myself. My hands hovered over her upper arms without making contact as hers unzipped my pants, reaching inside. Oh—
“Fuck.”
“Maybe a little later.” Her sexy chuckle slid over me, making me dizzy. “I miss you. I want you. And I want your big dick in my mouth.”
I couldn’t think. Words failed me. Her hand was now on me, tugging, massaging. I fully admit I was not strong enough to say no.