by Penny Reid
Abram’s face, less than two decimeters away, blurred, my vision becoming gray, cloudy. I wasn’t crying or close to it. I’d cried my quota for the last ten years over the past week. If I cried today, I would no longer be able to label myself “not a crier,” and that felt like an essential part of my identity.
But, given this news of his imminent departure, I probably would cry at some point. And then I’ll have to call myself a crier. I won’t be “not a crier” anymore.
. . .
Okay. That’s fine. I’ll just be a crier.
I made a mental note to invest in Kleenex.
“Mona?”
My name coming from Abram’s lips brought him back into focus. Apparently, I was nodding for some reason.
“Of course.” I continued nodding. Then I stood, studied the ground where we’d had our picnic for any left items, and then turned toward the house.
“Mona, talk to me.” He was right there, walking at my side while I swallowed reflexively and worked to paste a convincing smile on my face.
“Yes. We should definitely meet up again,” I said, trying to force a little cheerfulness into my tone.
He must’ve suspected something was off because I felt intensity behind his eyes as he continued to watch my profile. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Mona. Honesty.”
“Nothing. Not really.” Now I shook my head. “It’s just, I don’t know why I thought I would have more time with you before you had to leave.”
His hand on my arm brought me to a stop and he tugged, encouraging me to face him. “I wish we had more time too. But we’ll see each other. I’ll have breaks during the tour. I can come visit you.”
“In Geneva?”
Abram frowned, his fingers flexing on my arm. “What?”
“I’ll be in Geneva until at least June. Maybe longer.”
He stared at me, blinking several times. “Geneva, as in Switzerland?”
“Specifically, at CERN, at the European Laboratory for Particle Physics.”
I studied him while he absorbed this news, noted how his eyes lost focus and they darted around at nothing.
“I didn’t realize that,” he said quietly, like he was talking to himself.
“I didn’t tell you. Or, I mean, it didn’t occur to me to tell you, meaning we’ve only really been on speaking terms for about thirty-six hours and I honestly thought for some inexplicable reason that you would be here through Sunday. So . . .”
He stared at me. I stared at him. We were surrounded by a mountain of snow, but it felt like—instead of surrounding us—it stood between us.
But we can have tonight. We can—
“Mona.”
“Hmm?”
The muscle at his jaw flexed, his stare now determined. “We’ll make it work.”
I nodded, but the nod was a lie, so I stopped nodding and turned back to the house. His hand on my arm slid down to my gloved fingers, squeezing them.
We walked in silence, holding hands, for a while, reaching the house, removing our wet boots and outer layers in the mudroom. The silence continued as we walked up the stairs, each footstep sounding like the seconds ticking on a clock.
We made a detour to the kitchen where we dropped off the picnic stuff. Lila was putting the finishing touches on dinner and shooed us away when we tried to clean our dishes. She was so nice. I liked Lila.
Eventually, too soon, we reached my door. I placed my hand on the door handle, Abram at my shoulder, his hands in his pockets. I didn’t turn the handle.
I’d never experienced the sensation of time running out. Yes, I’d had projects with due dates—big ones—and deadlines. But it never felt like this. That whole “sands through the hourglass” thing made so much more sense to me now. Each grain of sand was a moment, a final moment.
The meal we’d shared was probably our last meal, together. Holding hands as we walked through the snow would be the last time we held hands. This would be the last time I opened my door with him standing next to me. Tonight he would come inside my room, we would be together, and the final—the very last—moment would follow.
And that would be the end.
Give me another minute. I just want one more minute.
Keeping my eyes forward, I said, “You should come inside.”
“Yes.” His answer was immediate. “Yes. I’ll come in.”
I opened the door. I walked inside. He followed. He closed the door. I turned on him. I grabbed him. I kissed him.
He kissed me back.
Smart Mona reminded me that we hadn’t yet discussed expectations and boundaries. He hadn’t consented. But, you know what? Neither had I. At no point had I consented to feeling like my heart was being ripped out of my body, that tomorrow didn’t matter because he would be gone. Thinking about the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that felt overwhelming, like attempting to comprehend the vastness of space.
It stretched on, forever. There was a hypothetical end, to the universe, to me, to all this pain and longing and damn yearning, but it remained just that. Hypothetical. Beyond my reach or understanding. I couldn’t fathom it.
But I could fathom now.
“Mona, what are you doing?” He caught my hands as I reached for the button of his pants, so I redirected them under his shirt, to the hard, glorious planes of his stomach and chest and back. He felt so good, hot, hard, necessary.
“I want you.” I kissed his neck, his jaw. “Don’t you want me?”
Time moving. Always away, always forward. Once lost, lost forever.
“There’s no rush,” he said, but his hands moved under my shirt too, lifting it, rushing to palm me through the fabric of my bra. “We can—” I felt his Adam’s apple move with a swallow, his fingers pulled down the cup, massaged me, he groaned, “—take our time. This isn’t goodbye.”
This isn’t goodbye.
My throat closed at the words. This was goodbye. In the morning, he’d be gone. His tour was twelve months. He’d be surrounded by women who desired him for his talent and body, and maybe even for his glorious heart. They would be gorgeous, and clever, and tempting, and probably lovely, good people.
Monogamy isn’t for musicians. They will feed his voracious creative soul.
“Wait.” Abram caught my hands again, lifting his mouth. “Wait. Mona. Stop.”
I did. I stopped. I dropped my chin to my chest and I took a deep, bracing breath.
“What is going on?”
“I told you, I want you.”
“No. You’re frantic.”
“I frantically want you.” I pulled my hands out of his grip and turned away, pacing to the window and opening it. “It’s stuffy in here,” I mumbled.
He watched me as I breathed in the cool air, saying nothing.
He watched me as I turned and walked to the bed, saying nothing.
He watched me as I sat on it, folding and refolding my hands, and he said, “You don’t believe me.”
“About what?”
“This isn’t goodbye.”
“It is goodbye.” My voice was robotic, because if any situation deserved a divorce of emotion from facts, it was this conversation.
“Oh? Really? You don’t want to see me after this?” He sounded so hurt.
I rubbed my chest, because the hurt in his voice echoed in the chambers of my heart. “I would love to see you after this. I would love to see you any time you want to see me.”
He seemed to pause here, as though trying to parse through what I’d just said, as though it were a riddle.
Eventually, he demanded, “Then why do you think this is goodbye?”
“Because—”
“Because you’ll be in Geneva? That’s not an issue. Distance won’t be an issue. We’ll make it work.”
I covered my face, rubbed my eyes, and then dropped my hands. “Because monogamy isn’t for musicians.”
The room fell eerily silent, almost like he’d
disappeared from it. Or maybe I’d disappeared.
Even if I was speaking to an empty room, I felt compelled to say, “A year is a long time. I know . . . I know what tours are like. I went on several with my parents. Lisa and I always got along with my dad’s friends. They’d take care of us backstage. One woman, Vivviane, taught us how to braid our hair into crowns.”
I lifted my eyes to Abram. He was still watching me, but his expression teetered between anguished and bracing. I suspected he already understood where I was going with this story.
Even so, I continued, “It wasn’t until I was eleven and my mom visited me at a science summer camp with one of her friends that I added one and one together, and I realized one plus one makes several more than two. After meeting her boyfriend, after she confirmed who and what he was, so many other things made sense—about the women I’d seen with my father when he’d taken us on tour, about why my parents never seemed to both be home at the same time, about the women who sometimes spent the week with us in Chicago, to keep my father company, while my mother was out of town.”
“Mona—”
“They’ve been open with us about it, and I don’t judge them for their lifestyle. In fact, they’ve always made a point to be sex positive with us, which I’ve appreciated. Sex should be fun. It should be equally beneficial for both parties. Reciprocation is a must. Clear consent, communication of expectations ahead of time, and safe words are essential. And, on that note, what’s your safe word?”
Abram’s forehead wrinkled, his dazed expression telling me he was having trouble keeping up. “You want to know my safe word.”
“Yes. I do.”
“Why?” he demanded, the anguish in his stare replaced with suspicion.
I was glad he’d burned my letter, the letter.
In addition to brimming with hot feelings, it also contained the hopes I’d had for our future. Ever since I’d driven through that neighborhood with him—his parents’ neighborhood—the recollection of those pretty houses with picket fences, and US flags, and gardens, and toys in the front yard had become the centerpiece of my imagined future.
My childhood had been so chaotic, and those houses, each looking so similar, exuded order and consistency. If he’d read the letter I’d been carrying with me for over two years, full of impossible dreams, then I wouldn’t have been able to say the words that were on the tip of my tongue. He would’ve known what I really wanted.
“I’d like to have sex with you,” I said, folding my arms. “And if you want to have sex with me—no pressure—we should talk about it, before we do it, make sure we’re both on the same page, you know?”
Abram, staring at me, his lips slightly parted, stood as though a statue for a count of four seconds. I know because I counted. And then a little puff of air left his parted lips, one of disbelief.
“You want to have sex with me,” he repeated, not a question, more like restating my take-out order, to confirm.
“That’s right. I’d like a fling. But, obviously, I’d like your consent first.”
Something behind his eyes shifted, grew darker. It reminded me of the sky when a sudden storm gathers, the light changes, the mood shifts.
He was angry. I’d made him angry.
Confirming this, through clenched teeth, he said, “I do not consent to a f—” he stopped himself, like he’d been about to say something he didn’t want to. Breathing out, he finished, “To a fling.”
I likewise gritted my teeth, a cloud of fury encased my brain. “Well. Fine. Fine. Okay then.”
“Mona—” He took a step forward.
I lifted a hand to stop him. “No. That’s, I mean. That’s it then. Right?”
“No!” He began pacing in front of me, pushing his hands through his hair, loosening it from the tie that held it back “Stop trying to put us in a fucking box!”
“Oh? You want space?”
“Mona—”
“I get it. You want to fly, right? You need freedom. For your creativity. For your—”
“Mona!” he snapped. Actually, he exploded, my name sounding like a command. “Shut. Up.”
I closed my mouth, pressing my lips together, and moving my eyes to the wall behind him. He crossed to me, knelt in front of me, covered my hands with his, and I flinched at the contact.
He noticed, his eyes flashing hurt, but he didn’t pull them away. “Listen to me. Listen. I’m in love with you.”
I scoffed, shaking my head, shifting my gaze to a spot beyond him. “You said yourself, you don’t know me.”
“I don’t want anyone but you.”
“That’s kind of you to say. Thank you.” I gave him a tight smile but not my eyes, removing one of my hands to pat his. “And, as we’ve established, I also want you.”
He exhaled, it sounded beyond frustrated. “No. I’m not—this isn’t—goddamnit!” His hands moved to my arms and I finally looked at him. His eyes were wild, his voice a deep growl. “Listen and believe me. I’ve done that. I’ve tried that. Maybe it works for some people. I hated it.” He shook his head firmly. “When you left, and all I could think of was you, all I wanted was you, but I thought I was crazy, I tried filling the hollowed out spaces with women. With alcohol. With violence and aggression. With anything that might distract me from the blinding absence of you.”
Ugh!
My eyes were stinging, and my emotions were banging at the door with a battering ram. Let us in! We want to hurt you!
“Abram—”
“What I’m telling you is this—” His fingers flexed and he bent his head, forcing me to maintain eye-contact. The courage and determination within his gaze stole my breath, it seemed endless, boundless, immeasurable. “I am not built that way. Being sober isn’t hard. Keeping my temper comes naturally unless it comes to you asking me to consent to a fling. I haven’t been with anyone in over a year, and I don’t miss it. I don’t miss women. I don’t crave women. I’ve never craved women. I crave you. There is no substitute, there is no additional accessory required. But if you don’t feel this way about me, if you don’t, you have to tell me. Now. Right now.”
It was no use. Feelings bashed through the last barrier, pitchforks in hand, and punched smart Mona in the face. She was down for the count, leaving stupid Mona to throw herself into Abram’s arms. I bawled. He caught me, cradled me, brought me to his lap on the floor, stroked my hair, kissed my face, held me close. He was so warm.
“I love you,” he said. “Trust me,” he said.
What else could I do?
I did.
I looked around the empty room, my gaze focusing on dust dancing in a beam of sunlight. A reminder.
There was so much, in life, in the world around us, that we rarely had a chance to see, but it didn’t make those things any less real. We might experience and have access to the by-product, but rarely the thing itself.
Invisible forces, energy, quarks, radiation, dust dancing in a sunbeam, Abram.
Abram wasn’t here. I couldn’t see him. But I could remember his words, his smile, his touch, the sound of his heart. When I left Aspen, I would download and listen to his music. He was real.
Nodding at the truth of this, and trying to find comfort in it, I fought against the rising wave of tears. I took several deep breaths, blinking my eyes, and promising myself I wouldn’t cry. I won’t cry, not until I made it to the bathroom for a box of tissues. And then I would cry like crying was my job.
Tossing my legs over the side of the bed, I paused to drape a blanket along my shoulders, smelling it because it smelled like him. And that’s when I spotted an envelope on the side table.
The outside read, Do not burn, but it wasn’t my handwriting. My heart leapt, and then fell, and then recovered enough to settle someplace in the vicinity of my throat. He hadn’t woken me when he left. We’d lain together, talking, holding each other, sometimes kissing, until I’d fallen asleep.
And when I awoke, he was gone.
I snatched the envelo
pe and stared at the blank ink on the white paper, the remarkably elegant cursive, and I opened it, feeling greedy for even a small portion of him.
Within was a piece of lined white paper that looked like it had been ripped out of a notebook. I unfolded the paper, taking care to press the crease neatly open, and I read the words.
Thoughts come easiest in the night.
In a room of light,
I see only the absence of you.
Darkness, though I cannot see,
Embraces me.
I’m blinded, yet my view is clear.
It feels possible that you are near, present, here.
So when you view your evening sky
Reach out to the night and there I’ll be.
This is not goodbye.
—Yours always, Abram
Pre-Order Laws of Physics Part 3: TIME
Coming April 15th 2019
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 ;-)
Other books by Penny Reid
Knitting in the City Series
(Contemporary Romantic Comedy)
Neanderthal Seeks Human: A Smart Romance (#1)
Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (#1.5)
Friends without Benefits: An Unrequited Romance (#2)
Love Hacked: A Reluctant Romance (#3)
Beauty and the Mustache: A Philosophical Romance (#4)
Ninja at First Sight (#4.75)
Happily Ever Ninja: A Married Romance (#5)
Dating-ish: A Humanoid Romance (#6)
Marriage of Inconvenience: (#7)