by Penny Reid
It was the strangest. When I told Mona, she hadn’t seemed at all surprised, but she was embarrassed. I told her not to worry.
“Yes. I’m going to use the money.” She exhaled the words, like they pained her. “I know you suggested it two months ago as a stopgap, but I needed to think about it. The thing is, as you know, my therapist and I have been talking weekly, and so I told her about the idea.” Mona’s therapist was one of my most favorite people in the world. But I’ll get to that later. “Anyway, she and I were talking about stressors in my past, my parents, the nature of neglect in all its forms, and whatnot, and how I was so tense about the grants. And, well, she pointed out that we—all of us—are born with a different set of resources. Like you, for example.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You came from a family with an abundance of love, but not always an abundance of financial security. She asked me which I thought was more important and if it made sense for you to reject your parents’ love because other children—i.e. me—grew up neglected.”
“Huh.” See? The woman was amazing.
“We went back and forth for a while, because the issue is obviously not that simple. Money buys advantages that love cannot, and—anyway—after we discussed the nature of merit-based reward systems, bias in peer review grant awards, the problems with inherited wealth and so forth, I made a decision to use the money to finish my thesis, and I’ve committed to not feeling gross about it.”
I wanted to say, Hell. Yes. But instead I simply nodded and said, “Okay.”
Since Mona had started talking to Dr. Kasai last spring, she’d become so much more comfortable in her own skin, so much more willing to appreciate a moment rather than look for reasons to second-guess her enjoyment of it.
As an example, she loved being tied up. She loved blindfolds and handcuffs on either or both of us. The distinction Dr. Kasai had made clear for her, which Mona told me about when we’d met in London early over the summer, was the difference between giving control and losing control. Mona loved the idea that she was giving something rather than losing it.
“It’s like, in my dream best-case scenario, I win the Nobel Prize in physics,” she muttered fiercely, obviously still thinking about her funding situation and giving me the sense she was speaking to herself. “And the Darwinger Institute can choke on a dick because they then can’t claim any credit.”
I almost choked on air, sending her a surprised look. “Choke on a dick? Where’d you pick that up?”
Mona’s smile was small but impish. “Your sister’s friend Sandra used it last week during the bachelorette party. I’ve heard Gabby say it in the past. But after Sandra used the phrase, I warmed up to it.”
Ah, Sandra. She was a handful.
The rest of the drive passed uneventfully, which was good. A few times, I caught myself staring too long while she talked, or glancing too often at the band of skin where her short skirt hit her legs. I’d also been distracted by my generous imagination, considering how best to make use of our disguises before the rehearsal dinner. . . since we were making such good time.
But when we arrived and were crossing the lobby on the way to our room, she stopped, squeezed my hand, and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“Okay, I’ll see you later.”
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“I have to meet the other bridesmaids for rehearsal.” She gestured over her shoulder with her thumb.
“The rehearsal isn’t for another hour.”
“Oh, no. I’m not talking about the wedding rehearsal. Well, I am. Sort of. It’s a—but, well, you’ll see tonight.”
I caught her arm as she turned away again, disappointment landing on my shoulders like a shove. “Wait, wait. Mona, wait.” I slid my hand down to capture hers again, staring deeply into her eyes. “Don’t you need to change first?”
She grinned a slow grin at my obvious hint, and then she giggled, sounding gleeful. Stepping forward suddenly, she threw her arms over my shoulders and kissed me, her nails scratching the back of my neck, her tongue a hot, hungry slide against mine.
Before I could react the way I wanted—carry her off to our room—she caressed her hands down to my bottom, gave it a double pat, and then leaned away to break the kiss.
“See you tonight,” she said, wagging her eyebrows. “Don’t change the suit.”
Turning once more, Mona left me to stare after her. I was too distracted, enjoying the view of her backside walking away to say anything else. She gave great view.
But as soon as Mona turned the corner, I shook my head, coming back to myself, and decided I’d try to find my parents, see if I could help with any last-minute arrangements.
Pulling out my phone, I sent my mom a text. But just as I finished, a flash of color caught my eye and I glanced up. I did a double take. And then I took a step back.
My cousin Anna, and my sister Marie, and all of Marie’s close friends were walking across the lobby, and they were all attired in black leather, bright neon spandex, and various random wigs. Even Marie’s friend Ashley, who was visibly pregnant, was similarly dressed.
I braced myself, straightening my spine, especially when Sandra—the handful—caught sight of me and smirked.
“Whale, whale, whale. Look who it is.” Elizabeth Moretti stopped in front of me, her hands on her hips. She was wearing an insane amount of blue eyeshadow and what looked like a David Bowie wig.
My sister stepped forward first to give me a hug, pressing a kiss to my cheek and then using her thumb to rub off excess lipstick. “Did you get Mona? I was just about to text you.”
“I did. She went that way.” I tilted my head toward the room where Mona had disappeared and then turned to greet Anna, giving her a tight embrace.
Sandra rubbed her hands together. “Excellent. Excellent.”
As soon as Anna and I separated, Janie Sullivan—who wasn’t wearing a wig, her naturally curly red hair styled like she’d just survived a tornado—gave me a searching look. “There’s something different about you, Abram.”
“His hair?” Fiona Archer pointed to my head, looking me over with the disinterested attention of a mom surveying one of her kids’ friends.
Janie narrowed her eyes, inspecting me. “No. His hair is the same, isn’t it?”
I tucked my lips between my teeth. For all of Janie’s brilliance, she was terrible with faces and features.
“Can we talk for a moment about the devastating loss of his glorious beard?” Ashley Winston Runous pointed to my jaw with one hand and rubbed her belly with the other. “Damn shame, Abram. Damn. Shame.”
I chuckled at her, rolling my eyes.
“It’s not his face.” Janie scrunched hers as she said this, scrutinizing me. “But it is his face. There’s something . . . different.”
“The suit?” Anna tried, straightening my tie. “That’s a nice suit, Abram. You look very handsome.” My cousin gave me a big smile before adding, “Almost like a real adult.”
“Har.” I elbowed her.
“While we’re on the subject, can I have the name of your tailor?” Sandra piped in. “You and Alex have the same build. It’s hard to find suits that fit those shoulders. I agree with Janie, though. You look different, kid.”
Lifting an eyebrow at her use of the word kid, especially since her husband was younger than me, I was about to make a charming joke and then excuse myself when a quiet voice said, “He’s in love.”
All eyes turned to Kat Caravel-Tyson O’Malley, who was wearing a black leather dress, a blue wig in long ponytails, and a small, knowing smile. “That’s why he looks different. He’s happy.”
Apparently, even before Janie decided to throw my sister a destination wedding, The Bangles tribute band had been in the works. It was revealed just after dinner that the bridesmaids had been meeting over Skype on Tuesday nights, Chicago time, and Mona had tried to make the virtual practices whenever possible. She’d been reteaching herself the piano.
I knew Ma
tt was a huge The Bangles fan. He’d even corrected me once when I’d said, “So, you’re a huge Bangles fan?”
Matt had grimaced, shaking his head quickly, seeming to struggle for a moment, and then blurted, “I’m so sorry I have to be a jerk right now and correct you. It’s The Bangles. You can’t just call them Bangles, that could mean bracelets. I have nothing against bracelets. I’m just not a big fan of them like I am of The Bangles. Or someone might mistake your meaning as—God forbid—the Cincinnati Bengals.”
He looked at me like he was pained, like correcting me physically hurt him, but he simply could not stop himself. And that’s when I realized Marie was right. Matt and Mona were basically the same person.
Honestly, I was okay with that.
The ladies had their final practice in person. It took place during the hour prior to the rehearsal dinner itself. Marie and Ashley sang lead and harmony. Mona played the piano, and Anna—who was also the maid of honor—was on the drums. The rest of Marie’s friends rounded out the band in various roles. Janie and Kat didn’t play an instrument, so they played the part of backup singers with tambourines.
We all saw Marie and the rest of them in their getups during the actual rehearsal for the wedding. Matt and us groomsmen attributed the outfits to some kind of bridesmaids bonding ritual. When the real plan revealed itself after dinner, we were all shocked and awed.
The great thing about having so many people in the tribute band was that they could take turns. Elizabeth Moretti also played the piano. She took over for Mona so that she could dance with me. Ashley sang lead vocals so that Marie and Matt could spin around the dance floor.
Later, much later, Matt requested a non-The Bangles song—“Careless Whisper” by Wham!—earning him a particular kind of look from my sister. But Ashley, Ashley’s husband Drew, and I stepped up, making it happen for the couple.
By the end of the evening, it was pretty clear who the musicians were, but everyone had a great time pitching in and helping out. It was my favorite gig in forever.
“Such a great time.” Mona used my hand to twirl herself. I carried her boots and she carried the rest of her champagne in her free hand. “What kind of tribute band do you want?” She glanced over her shoulder at me.
This time, stay.
Let me usher you to bliss.
Nothing else for me here
Just you gone, only memories remain to reminisce
Telling tales of your skin, your eyes, your mind, your kiss
Gasps and sighs and soft greedy sounds,
Amazes, razes, dazes, and astounds.
You
Never
Stay.
“Hey. Buddy. Eyes up here,” she whispered.
I didn’t lift my eyes. “In a minute.”
Mona laughed quietly and continued pulling me towards our room.
I twist and turn and ache to touch
I promise I won’t hurt you, I hope you won’t hurt me much.
I see only you,
I know you want me the same way
The pull, the push, but too soon it’s over.
I
Never
Stay.
It was late, but I didn’t know why she was whispering. The entire hotel had been reserved exclusively for the wedding. The only guests on this floor were us, and most of the other guests were still dancing in the hall.
Whereas Mona and I had left just moments ago, after I’d bent my lips to her neck and whispered a few lines I’d been thinking about all night in her ear.
“No taste of you will ever be enough,
I try to take things slow, but you tell me you want it rough.”
She’d shivered, her breathing changed, and—grabbing the lapels of my jacket—she pulled me off the dance floor mumbling something like, “VOILA! Electromagnetic desire.”
Finally, we arrived at our door. Releasing her hand, I unlocked it, opened it, tugged her through, dropped her boots, shut the door, and pushed Mona against it.
Your eyes betray you, how they search for and find me
Burns in dreams, singes reality
Stealing my breath, my thought, my sanity
A moment without you, an endless eternity.
We
Never
Stay.
“Hello.” I braced my hands on either side of her head, liking my view.
“Hello, Wall Street.” Mona sipped champagne, and then decided to chug it, watching me over the rim. When she finished, she smacked her lips, dropped the plastic cup to the floor, and smiled. “What are we doing?”
An unhurried grin took my mouth, and my attention drifted to her lips, the neckline of her shirt, the swell of her breasts. My hands fell away from the door, lowering to the mesmerizing skin between the hem of her skirt and the tops of her stockings.
“I like these stockings.” I fingered the band at the top. “You should wear them more often.”
Mona bit her bottom lip, her hand sliding inside my jacket. “I like this suit.” She tugged at my shirt. “You should take it off.”
I smiled at her bossiness, getting ready to lift her skirt and play my part. But then I stopped, and I looked at her, and I committed to memory how divine of a moment this was. Here we danced on the precipice of something new.
After tonight, a tomorrow with Mona, and a day after that, and a day after that.
So this time, don’t leave.
This time, tell me you’ll stay.
This time, don’t let life steal you away.
“Mona, my love.” I kissed the tender skin below her ear.
“That’s me.” She tilted her head, giving me more access, her hands sliding under my shirt.
“No costumes tonight.” I covered her left breast with my hand, seeking her heartbeat beneath. “I just want you.”
Her fingers lifted to my jaw, angling my face just far enough away so that our eyes could meet and dance. Staring with me, she nodded, and lifted her chin for a sweet kiss. I gave it to her.
We would have opportunity for costumes and lady rockers and Wall Street tycoons later.
But not now.
Now, we finally had time.
~The End~
About the Author
Penny Reid is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling Author of the Winston Brothers, Knitting in the City, Rugby, Dear Professor, and Hypothesis series. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books. She’s also a full time mom to three diminutive adults, wife, daughter, knitter, crocheter, sewer, general crafter, and thought ninja.
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Mailing List: http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/
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Email: [email protected] …hey, you! Email me ;-)
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Sneak Peek: Beard With Me, Winston Brothers Book #5.5
Coming September 2019
“Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.”
Charles M. Schulz, Charlie Brown / Peanuts
*Scarlet*
May 2004
Caution tape barred the way to the chorus room. Swallowing air, my attention moved from the yellow tape to the hall beyond it, to a white poster board next to the door. The sign had been set on an easel and read, WET PAINT – DO NOT ENTER.
“No. No, no, no,” I said to the sign, my eyes darting again to the yellow tape.
I gripped the paper sack holding my lunch as a quiet sound of despair tumbled forth. Heart galloping, pits sweating, my tongue tasted sour with dread.
Officially, I wasn’t allowed to eat in the chorus room. No one was. But early on in my freshman year, I’d snuck inside and hid myself between two rows of chairs, careful to dash inside before Mrs. McClure arrived for he
r lesson planning hour. I’d become quite skilled at leaving unnoticed after the bell rang for fourth period, when her students meandered in.
This had worked for the last (almost) two years, but it obviously wouldn’t work today. Making matters worse, this was the last month of school before summer break. There was no sneaky way to find a place to sit in the lunchroom when I’d spent the whole year not eating in the lunchroom.
Tugging on the recently repaired strap of my very, very old backpack—some might even consider it an antique—I stuffed the food inside, harsh movements made clumsy by the swelling frustration in my chest. But then I paused, taking a slow, deep breath, and telling my shaking hands and thundering heart to calm down.
“How does the ocean say hello to the beach?” I asked myself, quietly supplying the answer, “Gives it a little wave.”
The stupid joke helped loosen my throat and I cracked a small smile, laughing lightly at the present predicament and scolding myself.
Don’t be stupid. This is no big deal. Whatever.
The first fourteen—soon to be fifteen—years of life had taught me many valuable lessons. One of the most important was that the magnitude of disappointment was directly proportional to the magnitude of expectations. I’d known this for a while, but the concept had finally solidified in my mind this year during physics class when we’d learned about Newton’s third law: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Right?
Well, it applied to life and hopes and dreams and expectations, too.
First mistake was coming to rely upon the chorus room. Second mistake was allowing myself to look forward to this moment all weekend. Eating lunch in a quiet, air-conditioned place was a luxury. Free of people, free of bugs, free of people who behaved like bugs. Now I had nowhere to eat my lunch that wasn’t free of bug-people.