by Penny Reid
Number three: Leo had been expecting more than the twenty-three guests already present, but these extra people—spouses and significant others—were delayed due to the heavy snow.
Number four: She showed me the chart where she’d assigned everyone’s rooms. Abram was on the main level, in the green room with teak paneling, as opposed to the green room with ash paneling or the blue room with teak paneling.
Thanking her, and even though I didn’t like the idea of her cooking for me, I promised to return in a little bit for a Belgian waffle since she’d already made the batter.
The most direct path, even though it was the most public, took me through the main floor great room. Running into one of Leo’s guests wouldn’t be the worst thing in the word. I’d behaved oddly last night, I knew that, I regretted it, and the sooner I started smiling at people and making chit-chat, the better. These people were important to my brother, otherwise he wouldn’t have invited them. Therefore, they were important to me. I would make an effort!
No one was encountered on my way to Abram’s room. I knew he wasn’t inside, but I knocked anyway, my heart in my throat. There was no answer. I tried the knob. It turned. I walked in. My plan was to leave the envelope on his pillow, where he’d certainly see it, and then leave. That was the plan.
Instead, I took a moment to stand just inside the doorway and stare like a lunatic at his things, cataloguing them: his phone appeared to have a cracked screen, unclear as to whether it was the screen cover or the screen itself that was cracked. It sat on the side table. Next to it were two quarters and a penny, and a book. I longed to read the cover of the book. I didn’t.
Counting his change and noticing the fractured screen of his phone was one thing, but inspecting the title of his novel felt like an invasion of privacy, so I tore my eyes away, swallowing around my aching heart lodged in my throat, and rushed to his bed, endeavoring not to notice the contents of his suitcase open on the floor.
Do not look. Do not look. Do not look.
I looked. Clothes and more books and—
AH! STOP LOOKING!
Screwing my eyes shut, I withdrew the envelope. Peeking just one eye open, I placed the envelope on his side table, on top of his phone instead of on his pillow which I suddenly decided felt too intimate, and turned for the door. Breath held, I made it to the door without any more creeping on Abram’s stuff, shut the door, and turned back toward the kitchen for a waffle.
And then he was there.
Startled, I froze.
Head down, he was strolling toward me, wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and green snow pants that did wonderful things for his chest and thighs, which did all kinds of wonderful and terrible things to my chest and thighs.
Regrouping my scattered wits, I drew myself up straighter, squared my shoulders, and faced him.
Okay. This is it. This is it. Be brave like Ahab.
What? No! Ahab was insane, not brave!
Well, honestly, if the shoe fits . . .
Frowning and mentally shaking a fist at my internal dialogue, I shook my head to clear it and allowed my gaze to move over Abram. I hadn’t really looked at him last night. The lights of the funicular structure at night were dim compared to inside the house during the day, and I’d been somewhat blinded by shock. But I looked at—and saw—him now.
He looked so different. So astonishingly different. And yet, he was the same.
For one, he was bulkier, which made him seem taller. In the last images I’d seen of Abram, before he’d changed his last name and disappeared, he’d been thinner, not bulkier. Obviously, he’d made some changes. He looked like he’d been working out a lot. Like one of those people who took a healthy gym habit to the next level. Like lifting weights had become a source of mental health more than physical health. The added muscle suited him, looked extremely good on him, but it also gave Abram an air of power and strength that I found both flustering—because, holy hot specimen of the male species, Batman—and alarming.
Another change, his scruffy stubble had become a bountiful beard, trimmed and shaped neatly. Also, his hair was much, much longer. It was so long, he wore it in a manbun twisted near his crown. It wasn’t a pithy manbun. No, no. This manbun restrained a quantity of thick, shiny brown hair. I wondered tangentially if he’d cut it since Chicago.
Of course, there was also the small matter of his face. He had scars where none had existed prior, presumably from the fights I already knew about—the ones where he’d been arrested but no charges had been filed—and perhaps from a few fights I didn’t. Nothing major, just enough to give him an air of wickedness without verging into sinister territory.
But his nose, which had obviously been broken, was different. It looked more pronounced than before and . . . different. Again, I knew about his broken nose already, having internet-stalked him for over a year. Maybe that’s why the change in his features from handsome to hardened—but still handsome—didn’t faze me much, and maybe he didn’t receive congratulations cards on his face anymore. But I hadn’t been mooning over his external attractiveness for the last several years. Abram’s nose hadn’t been the star of my dreams. It was his heart I longed for.
Therefore, the most startling of the changes revealed itself as our eyes met. My heart did a double backflip but failed the dismount, splattering all over and making a mess, while his steps slowed. I held my breath again. No amount of numbing space suit technology, bracing rationality, or accepting the futility of the future prepared me for what I saw.
Gone were the warmth in the amber of his eyes, the knowing twinkle, the sensitive spark. In their places were cool aloofness, sharp intelligence, and stark asceticism. The difference suffused every corner of my being with sorrow, caused a deep, potent ache in my chest such that I dreaded my next breath. I was dizzy.
But Abram, other than slowing his approach, showed no outward sign of, well, anything. His features were wiped of expression, and he seemed to gaze upon my face like I might be a piece of furniture.
Oh. Ouch. Jeez. That hurts. Yikes. What’s the temperature in here? Is it set to Venus-hellfire? Or is that just me?
But he did speak. “What are you doing?”
I swallowed my nerves, lifted my chin, and pointed to the door behind me with my thumb. “I was leaving something for you, in your room.”
“You were in my room?” he asked, shifting closer.
And that’s when I smelled the Abram smell. My pulse hammered against my neck and wrists, my blood somehow made thicker by the fragrance of him. I reminded my bones that they were not made of liquid, but they weren’t so sure. Despite recognizing the madness of the impulse, I greedily inhaled through my nose. The memory, the nostalgia left me feeling an acute sense of wonder and subsequent calm.
Some things change completely. Even the rate of change changed, fluctuated. Change was the only true constant in the universe.
But, over short periods relative to the existence of time, some things changed not at all. In this instance, the lack of change, the consistency of how Abram smelled, was overwhelmingly comforting.
“Hello?”
I blinked at him, opening my mouth to respond, but I’d forgotten the question. “Could you repeat the question, please?”
His eyes flickered between mine and I perceived a crack there, a curiosity, a bit of ye-Abram-of-old peeking through. But his tone was flat as he asked again, “You were in my room?”
“Oh. Yes.” Coming back to myself, I gripped the material of my cargo pants and nodded. “But, don’t worry. I knew you were gone. I would never go in your room if I thought you were in it.”
Abram stared at me, his eyes narrowing, his lips parted as though he wanted to ask a question, but my words were so confusing, he didn’t know where to start.
Discerning the fact that he was confused, I reviewed my statements, and what might have been confusing about them. I’d spoken on instinct, my goal to assure him that he didn’t need to worry about me sneaking in, in the middle
of the night, and pulling a teenage-Lisa.
Clarification was in order. “I just mean, you are safe. From me.”
He blinked once, slowly, shifting back on his feet and lifting his chin. While doing so, he tucked away his confusion and that sliver of his former self, leaving a half-lidded glare of hostility. “Oh. Really?”
“Yes.” I nodded emphatically, experiencing the long dormant sensation of being discombobulated.
“What did you leave in my room?” The question sounded bored with an edge of the aforementioned hostility.
“A letter. Or, rather, a note. It’s not long enough to be a letter.”
“You left me a memo?”
So discombobulated was I, I didn’t think before responding, “Uh, no. Memos usually have dates and subject lines, I didn’t include either of those. But I can.” I tossed my thumb over my shoulder again, indicating to his door. “If you want to wait here, I can go get. . .”
As I spoke, one of Abram’s eyebrows slowly lifted, and I belatedly caught on.
Sarcasm. That was sarcasm.
Poe used sarcasm to tease me, and I used sarcasm to tease him. Our sarcasm-interactions were well-meaning and helped keep my sense of humor (and self) healthy. Without Poe, Allyn, Lisa, and to a certain extent, Gabby to tease me and keep me grounded, I shuddered to think how shuttered I might be.
Poe’s sarcasm was friendly. But Abram’s statement was the other kind of sarcasm, the unfriendly kind.
My unfriendly-sarcasm detection abilities were usually within one standard deviation of normal, a skill I honed for obvious reasons. Not many, but a sparse few of my colleagues enjoyed making the youngest person in the room feel inadequate and naïve.
Unfriendly sarcasm didn’t usually faze me now. I used to visit my brain planetarium or mutter nonsensical phrases as a means of distraction. I still muttered those anytime phrases, but more as a joke with my friends than as a coping mechanism.
Twenty-one-year-old Mona believed the best policy was to ignore unfriendly sarcasm. Being the butt of someone’s joke was only funny if I reacted. If I kept my head down, if I stayed focused, if I outperformed and outthought them, if my research was ultimately more relevant and necessary and important than theirs, no one laughed.
I cleared my throat, struggling with an uncomfortable rush of embarrassed heat, and gave Abram a thin smile.
“No. Not a memo. Just a note. It’s—uh—on your dresser.”
Every word out of my mouth arrived quieter than the last and my gaze settled on his chin covered in a baby wizard beard. I knew he still had the potential to grow one. I wondered if I would ever see it.
“You went into my room without my permission and put a note on my dresser,” he summarized, sounding unfriendly and distracted.
I’d thought I’d be safe in my spacesuit of acceptance, but apparently, I wasn’t. He was here. Real. Standing in front of me. Smelling like Abram. Looking like Abram, but not. He was Abram, but not. I asked myself a question that hadn’t occurred to me before just now, What do you hope to gain from this?
The answer was an immediate and resounding, Nothing.
That made me feel better. I honestly didn’t want anything from him. I wanted to tell him the truth, so he would know, because it was the right thing to do. That was it.
Taking a deep breath, I lifted my gaze to his and met his glare, an action made easier now that my specific aims had been clarified. He seemed to flinch this time as our eyes connected, a subtle wince I might’ve missed if we hadn’t been standing so close.
Abram studied me, and I gave him a polite smile, gathering a breath in preparation for making an excuse to leave.
But then he asked, “What’s in the note?”
“Uh . . .” My eyes moved up and to the right as I recalled the note’s contents. “I asked—it’s very short. I request a time to meet, if you have the time and inclination.”
“You want to meet with me?”
“Y—yes.”
“Why?”
“To talk to you,” I answered honestly, meeting his gaze with equal frankness.
“What about?”
“An important matter,” I quoted the note. Since we were standing in a hall with many bedrooms attached to it, I didn’t think he’d want me to go into details here.
He lifted the eyebrow again, his lips twisting. “What’s wrong with now?”
I swallowed reflexively, startled by the suggestion. “Now?”
“Yeah. Now.”
“Okay. Sure. If you follow me, there’s a study on the second floor we can use, and—”
He stepped closer, very close, necessitating that I take a step back if I didn’t want him to bump into me. For the record, I had mixed feelings about being bumped into by Abram, and with mixed feelings, erring on the side of caution was always prudent.
He reached around my right side and apparently turned the knob, opening the door to his room. “Let’s do it here.”
“Here?” I squeaked.
“Yes,” he said, staring down at me, taking more steps forward. Like before, I stepped back to avoid coming in contact with his advancing form, which had a by-product of carrying us both into his bedroom.
Once we were fully inside, he shut the door behind him without turning, his eyes never leaving mine. And then we stood like that, looking at each other, in his room with the door closed, for several seconds.
In his room.
With the door closed.
Wait.
How did I get here?
I felt suddenly winded, like I couldn’t catch my breath, and I couldn’t quite pinpoint why. On the one hand, this was how several of my amorous nighttime fantasies started: Abram, a room with a bed, us alone, many sexually explicit moments to follow.
On the other hand, I didn’t feel particularly amorous at present.
I felt cold. My palms were clammy. A river of disquiet rushed down my spine. Instead of focusing on Abram, my eyes saw only a big man standing in front of a closed door, two barriers between me and the hall.
In the next moment, I sensed him move and I recoiled, stumbling backward and reaching for . . . something.
He stopped moving.
We stood in silence for another few seconds. I assumed he was looking at me, but I was too busy chasing the abruptly worn threads of lucidity, telling my galloping heart to chill out, and blinking against the loss of focus caused by adrenaline.
This is Abram. You are perfectly safe. He would never hurt you.
Before I could discover where my wits had scattered, and why, Abram opened the door again and stepped to the side.
Clearing his throat, he backed even further away. “You said there’s a study on the second floor?”
“Yes.” I breathed the word, a burst of wary relief radiating outward from my stomach to my fingertips at the sight of the hallway.
“Okay. Let’s go there.” Abram’s voice was soft, even, calm, and he came back into focus for me.
I was mildly surprised to discover he was now leaning against the wall farthest from the door, his arms crossed, and he was watching me with a strange kind of intensity that felt significant. I couldn’t deconstruct its meaning.
My mind automatically informed me—even though he was much bigger than me, and stronger, and probably fairly fast on his feet—at his present distance from the door, he wouldn’t be able to catch me if I made a run for the exit.
Not that I was going to make a run for the exit.
Because making a run for the exit would be silly.
“Lead the way,” Abram said, using that same soft voice and not moving from his spot, his gaze still watchful.
I nodded and unclenched my hands that had at some point balled themselves into fists. Taking a deep breath, I walked forward, my steps calm, normal, unhurried.
When I breached the doorway, I laughed lightly at myself, and continued down the hall. When I didn’t immediately hear him follow, I glanced over my shoulder and our eyes met. His features h
ad rearranged themselves into a mask of indifference, I was once again furniture. But he was behind me, and he was following.
Just, following from a distance.
7
Special Relativity
*Abram*
* * *
I’d been wrong.
Not everything about Mona was a lie, and this made me want to murder someone.
I kept ten feet away from Mona DaVinci as she walked down the hall, and as she climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked down another hall. Her wild eyes, the way her skin had gone from flushed to waxy in the span of twenty seconds were responsible for my murderous thoughts, and reminded me of another time, when I’d stumbled across her in the dark.
Sitting in the large front room of her parents’ Chicago house, pushing her dark hair from her beautiful face, she’d had the same wild look in her eyes. The intensity of her reaction at the time hadn’t been part of the lie. Unfortunately.
Since her panic wasn’t an act, then there was a reason for Mona’s freak-outs, her dislike of being touched unexpectedly, closeness, and apparently closed doors. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots: the reason for her freak-outs was a person, and what that person had done to her. This knowledge made me as frustrated and irate now as it had then.
What happened to her?
I’d speculated often over the years. Initially, the mysterious incident was blamed for Lisa pushing me away. As time passed, especially once I’d realized the truth, I’d wondered whether it had been part of the pretense. Did she overreact to distract me? Gain my sympathy? Make me care for her?
No. It was real. She’d been harmed at some point.
Whether it was instinct or what, this knowledge turned my mind to vengeful thoughts, but not against her. Revenge for her, for her peace, for justice. Someone needed to suffer for making her suffer.
Mona reached a closed door in the hallway. I stopped, maintaining the careful distance, willing to do just about anything to avoid seeing her panic again, especially when the panic had been caused by something I’d done. She knocked on the door, paused, and then opened it. Just inside the room, she turned and motioned me forward, her eyes lifting no higher than my chest.