by Penny Reid
He was on the same stool Abram had sat on yesterday while I made hot chocolate, and the first thing I noticed about him was that his eyes were the most startling shade of blue-green. Like an aquamarine.
“Oh, hey there. I’m Mona, Leo’s sister.” I walked forward and extended my hand. He glanced at it impassively, took it, gave it a perfunctory shake, and let it go.
“You’re Mona DaVinci,” he said in a way that made me feel like he was contradicting me. “That would make Leo your brother.”
I lifted an eyebrow at him. His lips curved at my confusion, and said bluntly, “We were just talking about this before you came in. In newspaper headlines about the two of you, it always reads something like, ‘Mona DaVinci and brother are spotted having breakfast at blah blah blah.’”
“It’s true!” Leo chimed in cheerfully from his spot at the kitchen table, his eyes full of pride. “Some of my friends call me and brother.”
That made Allyn laugh, Kaitlyn shake her head, and Martin smile.
I rolled my eyes at Leo, relieved to see he seemed mostly recovered from his cold, and that he didn’t appear to be upset with me about our tense conversation yesterday.
“I’m Martin Sandeke,” he added, giving me an assessing look, so I’m sure he didn’t miss the recognition flicker behind my eyes.
“You’re Martin Sandeke?”
He nodded, his expression bracing.
I glanced at Kaitlyn, recalling our conversation about how her fiancé had started a non-profit organization for helping rural areas gain easier access to the internet.
And suddenly, all is revealed.
Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Your dad is an asshole.”
I knew Denver Sandeke. He was the CEO and majority stakeholder in Sandeke Telecom Systems, the country’s largest telecom company and arguably its largest unapologetic monopoly. He’d worked to block any binding measures on net neutrality. He’d also lobbied heavily against the launching of low cost, low maintenance satellites that would serve the dual purpose of providing inexpensive internet service to underserved areas AND helping scientists with space exploration.
Suffice it to say, I loathed him.
Leo and Allyn gasped, but Martin grinned, and then he laughed.
Kaitlyn also didn’t seem surprised by my statement either, shrugging and lifting a hand in the air toward me. “Yes. Yes, he is.” To Martin she said, “I told you that you two would get along.” And then to herself she mumbled, “You’re basically the same person.”
Even though Martin didn’t seem upset, a rush of embarrassment crested on my cheeks and over my ears. I apologized, profusely, but he continued to be delighted by my outburst. Eventually, he changed the subject to my opinion on anti-laser masquerades, and then drilled me on what we (physicists) knew about merging neutron stars, seeming intensely fascinated by the subject.
Soon, I forgot that I’d made an idiot of myself, and settled into the conversation. Kaitlyn set a cup of coffee down in front of me, along with sugar and the carton of half-and-half, and two hours later I was stunned to discover so much time had passed.
This? Discussing subjects about which I was an expert? This was easy. So easy. This was the center of my rocket. Perhaps I’m pointing out the obvious, but I was always perplexed by people who found this part of me impressive. It’s easy to do something when you find it effortless. I mean, that’s the definition of easy.
“We should do a double date,” Kaitlyn announced to Martin during an extremely short pause in the conversation, like she’d been biding her time to make the proclamation. “The four of us should go out the next time Mona is in New York.”
Martin’s eyes narrowed on his fiancée. “You’re sneaky.”
“I am.” She grinned.
“What? Why are you sneaky?” I picked up my mug to take a drink and discovered it was empty. Clearly, drinking without thinking was becoming a habit of mine.
“Martin doesn’t like Abram,” Kaitlyn said. Just like that. Like she was saying, Martin doesn’t like tacos, which—for the record—seemed equally nuts to me.
“What?” I asked, ignoring the fact for a second that Abram and I would never be double-dating with anyone, and focusing on the impossibility that anyone wouldn’t like Abram.
He slid his blue eyes to me. “We don’t have anything in common,” he said, and I got the sense that this was Martin Sandeke trying to be tactful.
“You both have penises.” Kaitlyn hit him on the shoulder lightly and I was suddenly very glad my coffee cup had been empty.
Martin also looked like he was trying not to laugh, and he leaned closer to his fiancée, lowering his voice, “Other than that, we have nothing in common.”
Kaitlyn leaned around Martin and focused her attention on me. “I’ve been trying to get these two to hang out for over a year. Now that Abram is leaving on tour, it’ll never happen.”
“That’s not the only reason it’ll never happen.” Martin said, not under his breath, making me quirk an eyebrow at him.
“What’s the other reason?”
Martin glanced at me, his expression frank (I had a feeling his expression was always frank), and said, “Kaitlyn’s pregnant.”
My mouth dropped open and I asked unthinkingly, “Is the baby Abram’s?”
WHAT? MONA! YOU DOOFUS!!
Kaitlyn sucked in a breath, and then tossed her head back to laugh, hitting the counter with her palm.
Martin’s lips twisted, like he also thought my question was funny (but maybe also not funny), and he shook his head. “No.”
“Oh.” Again, embarrassment climbed up my face and I glanced around the kitchen, hoping Leo and Allyn hadn’t overheard my stupidity. They weren’t anywhere and must’ve left at some point without me noticing. “I’m sorry. That was, that was—”
“It’s fine.” Kaitlyn grinned at me, wiping her eyes. “I needed that laugh. Thanks for that.” She sniffled, still chuckling.
“Uh, I guess, uh, I don’t understand then.” I glanced between the two of them. “What does Kaitlyn being pregnant have to do with Martin not hanging out with Abram?”
Martin straightened on his stool, his eyes flickering over me. “We’ll have the baby. I’m not going to have time to hang out with anyone, especially not some rock star with groupies all over him, and—”
Kaitlyn elbowed Martin, sending him a stern look. “You know he’s not like that.”
Martin scoffed. “All men are like that.”
Her eyes hardened, and she challenged, “Really? Are you like that?”
I couldn’t help it, I watched this interaction with interest, hanging on every word. I suddenly wished for popcorn, or a large houseplant to hide behind.
“Of course not, not for a long time and never again. You know how excited I am about the baby, our baby. I can’t wait. You know better than to ask that. Which one of us is the one pushing for the house? So we’ll have a yard?”
Her expression seemed to soften, a small smile curving her lips, but then he added quietly, “But I was like that. And your friend Abram is about to travel the world with a fucking harem.”
She flinched and said firmly, “Abram has changed.” Her gaze darted to me, then away.
“Come on, he’s never going to settle down. Remember when you asked him where he wanted to live after the tour? If he was coming back to New York? He said he had no idea, that he had no plans. He just did that underwear modeling thing, soon there will be posters of the guy in his underwear everywhere. That’s not a guy who’s changed. That’s a guy who is just getting started.”
Underwear modeling?
Martin’s words made my heart do strange things in my chest, but my brain seemed to be nodding along, like it wasn’t surprised by any of this. Yep, yep, yep. I agree.
“You don’t know him.” Kaitlyn sounded angry.
“So you keep saying,” Martin mumbled, clearly disbelieving, and clearly just—in general—disliking Abram.
For the firs
t time since I’d met her, Kaitlyn’s face was devoid of humor, and she was staring at Martin like she wanted to singe his eyebrows off with a hot poker.
And that was my cue to leave.
“Well.” I stood, making a show out of looking at the clock over the ovens. “It was nice talking with you.”
Martin lifted his chin in my direction, and I detected a glimmer of something like devious satisfaction behind his eyes. “You too, Mona.”
I looked at Kaitlyn—just briefly—and gave her a tight smile. She seemed to be experiencing many emotions, and I had no doubt that as soon as I left the kitchen, she was going to have a few choice words for her fiancé.
I marched around in the snow, stomping it down for no reason other than to feel it crunch and compress under my boots. I was extremely agitated. But I didn’t have a right to be. Therefore, I stomped.
Maybe I’ll start an avalanche and it can match the avalanche of feelings IN MY HEART!!
I sighed, glaring at the horizon, talking myself back from the edge.
Drama llama green isn’t a good shade on you, Mona. It brings out your pores.
Try as I might, and despite how exhausted and cold I eventually became, I couldn’t escape the agitation caused by accepting my fate. We, Abram and I, were a red giant. A dying star. And that was that.
I sat on the snow, breathing hard from my last bout of stomping, and drew my legs up. Resting my elbows on my knees and clasping my gloved hands together lightly, I stared at the cloudless blue sky.
You know what? I can do this.
Abram and I had a few days left before Sunday. It was only Wednesday. We could fill these hours with a lifetime of memories. Not every happily ever after lasts forever. Why couldn’t ours be days instead of years?
I can do this.
I’d had sexual contact with men without being in a relationship. In fact, I’d never been in a romantic, committed relationship, so this—with Abram—should be easy. I’d done it before. Why not with Abram? It made so much sense.
I’m going to do this.
But just like those encounters, what I needed from Abram was his explicit consent. Of course, first I would define my expectations and boundaries, he would define his expectations and boundaries, and then we’d enter into our brief arrangement fully informed. Perfect!
Consent was good. Consent saved people heartache. It removed doubt and disorder and hopefully would dispel this nebulous agitation.
Good. This is good. Good plan.
Movement in the corner of my vision caught my attention and I turned my head. As though I’d conjured him, Abram was there, walking toward me, his hands in his jacket pockets, a lazy smile on his face.
Goodness. I sighed.
I watched him come, enjoying every movement of his body, every moment of his approach. I took a greedy snapshot, saving the image for later, when I needed it.
“Hey there,” he said, his voice still sounding sandpapery with sleep. Abram sat next to me in the snow and immediately leaned close to give me a kiss, his hand fisting in my coat to tug and hold me closer.
When our mouths met, he tasted like mint, and his beard tickled my cold face, and warm lips were soon replaced with hot tongue, and that’s when my body decided to climb onto his lap. Lifting to one knee, I straddled him, grabbing the front of his coat like he’d done with mine, tugging and holding him closer.
Yeah. We made out in the snow. I felt him grow hard beneath me, through underwear and snow pants and maybe leggings. It frustrated me. Unlike my bathing suit, there were too many layers to yield any real friction or satisfaction. But his mouth made up for the constraints of my clothes, the heat of it moving from my lips to my jaw to my neck to my ear, increasing the temperature of my entire body, my breath hitching, my mind frenzied.
And then, just like he’d done in the pool and in the kitchen yesterday, he stopped. He breathed against my neck for several seconds, sending ticklish shivers racing along my clothed skin, and his hands were gripping me through my puffy coat. Even with the fabric and feathers between his fingers and my body, I felt the strength of him, of them, how he held me.
“Thank you for the note,” he said, his voice strained.
He was still hard, pressing against my inner thigh. The man’s self-control was impressive, and frustrating.
“You didn’t burn it?” I took a deep breath, inhaling his delectable scent, and then leaned back to look at his face.
Abram was smiling. “You told me not to. You wrote DO NOT BURN on the outside of the envelope.”
Delighted with his grin, without considering my words I said, “I missed your smile. It’s infinite-dimensional.” That wasn’t even the right way to express the concept, but my ability to form words, coherent, intelligent phrases, didn’t feel necessary at present.
His smile grew, and he laughed. “Infinite-dimensional?”
“Oh yes. Thank you for it.” I moved my arms to twist around his neck. “And I missed it, a lot. Your smiles in photos—and even when I first arrived—they weren’t. But this one, up close, and without meanness, definitely is.”
“My smiles were mean?”
“Yes. Since we’re talking about it, I also remember you being funnier,” I teased.
“What?” He continued to grin at me, sounding mock-offended.
“You’re not a very funny person anymore.”
“How can you say I’m not funny? You were begging me yesterday to stop telling jokes.”
“Yes, but those were Chuck Norris jokes. Those are universally funny.” Now I was laughing.
Abram flashed his teeth, making a face like a snarl. “Is this a mean smile? How can a smile be mean?”
“I don’t know, but it’s something you’ve perfected. Mean smiles, no jokes, broody eyebrows. You’re like an arthouse movie but without the nudity.”
He laughed, hard, at that, and so did I, loving his face right now. I decided I loved his face best when he laughed.
Eventually, tilting his head to the side, he said, “Well, I can fix that.”
“Good. Because, like I said, I really miss your smile. And you—”
“I meant the nudity.”
I barked a laugh, and his answering chuckle sounded low and sinister.
“Very funny,” I said, shaking my head at him. “Now you’re a comedian.”
He smiled, just a small one, but my heart lifted at the sight. Though it was small, it looked meaningful, intentional, like a gift just for me. My breath caught and, again, I sighed.
“Am I smiling?” he asked, his eyes on my lips. “Is it mean?”
“No,” I responded, dazed. “It’s a good one.” It was the best. I took another greedy snapshot, saving the image for later.
When I needed it.
17
Selected Radioactive Isotopes
*Mona*
We made snow angels. Together. It was fun. His were huge.
He’d also brought food with him in a bag I hadn’t noticed earlier. My Abram-tunnel vision was apparently a strong force.
Abram spread out a picnic of hot broccoli and cheese soup, warm, crusty sourdough bread, and hot tea laced with the barest hint of whiskey. He warned me before drinking it, pointing out that he’d brought un-spiked tea as well. I was freezing, so I’d had the winter tea.
We spent several hours in the snow, having the best time while I struggled to find just the right moment to bring up my proposal. My fling proposal, to be precise. But whenever a break in conversation occurred, I swallowed the words, bargaining with myself, reasoning that I could do it later.
Ten more minutes.
But then the perfect moment presented itself. We’d just finished the picnic and were packing up, quietly working side by side. Our previous conversation had just wrapped up—about his sister and how she was engaged and getting married soon—and I had my chance.
And so, sucking in a breath for bravery, I asked, “Do you think you’ll ever want to get married?”
Ah. Comet
balls!
That wasn’t asking him about a fling. That was literally the opposite of asking him about a fling.
He smiled a small smile, his attention on his hands as they packed the bag. “To be honest, I’ve never really thought about it.”
I nodded, my blood rushing between my ears. I couldn’t think. How could I save this conversation and redirect it toward fling territory?
Abram added, “I read an article about you once where the interviewer asked that same question.” He lifted his eyes, they ensnared mine. “You said, ‘Irrelevant. Next question.’”
“Oh. Ha!” I tried to laugh lightly, but it sounded forced. “They always ask me that, and it irritates me, because no one asks any of my male colleagues. It’s always, ‘What will you do when you have kids?’ and I’m like, ‘The same thing I do every night, Pinky. Try to take over the world.’”
He grinned at me, shaking his head like I was too much of something wonderful. “I loved that cartoon.”
“I would judge you if you didn’t.” Returning his smile, I gave into the urge to grab his coat and pull him forward for a quick kiss. Because I could.
But when I went to lean away, I discovered he’d caught my jacket again and I couldn’t move.
Staring at me, his gorgeous brown eyes serious and searching, he said, “Mona, I want to see you again.”
A spike of blissful happiness was followed quickly by a spike of dread. I blinked, bracing myself, it was now or never.
Here we go.
“Of course.” I nodded, my throat full of fire. “Actually, yes. I want to talk to you about that. I’m—” I uncurled his fingers from my coat “—I’m glad you brought it up.”
“Good.” His tone was firm. “I wanted to bring it up yesterday, but I didn’t want to ruin our time together. Mona . . .” Abram opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, his gaze felt both eager and restrained. “Mona, I leave tomorrow morning. We have to be at the airport by 4:30 AM.”
. . . Oh.