by Reid, Penny
I had no answers. Furthermore, I was frustrated that the questions persisted. The decision had been made. Lisa was in trouble and probably scared out of her mind. As much as the situation gave me a sour stomach, I was more worried for her than for me.
And anyway, allowing myself to be swept up and along by momentum was normal for me. Momentum was good. It made sense. It existed for a reason. It helped people stay on the right path.
Second-guessing my decisions was not normal. It, the impersonation of my sister and the lies, was already happening. I was already doing this. I’d promised my sister. I’d promised. And I never snitched.
So, defeating the impulse to check my phone and call the lawyer, I hid.
My hiding spot was the mudroom off the back door. The light was excellent for reading, and it housed a cozy cushioned cubby built into the wall, a space that had likely been a small closet at one point. There was no chance of being happened upon as no one used the back door.
I read my book, Moby Dick, while ignoring the whispers of doubt until they faded. I also listened for Abe. Once he was up and about, I’d make an appearance in the kitchen just after he finished his breakfast/when he was on his way out. That way he would see me, but there’d be no loitering and or making of further chitchat.
Maybe I’d pretend to be on my way to the bathroom.
A while later—a long while later—I came up for breath and glanced at my surroundings. The earlier post-dawn diffused glow now felt like midmorning sunlight. I frowned, worried that Abe had grabbed breakfast at some point, I hadn’t heard him, and I’d neglected to check in. Chewing the inside of my bottom lip, I set my book to the side and tiptoed to the kitchen, searching for any sign of life and checking the clock mounted above the wood-fired pizza oven.
I experienced a shock. It was now past 1:00 PM. I then experienced a spike of alarm, hoping Ahab hadn’t gone looking for Lisa, given up, and called my parents.
“Doom, doom, doom!” I murmured, dashing toward the back stairs. I would have to find Ahab and convince him I’d been home all morning, and then I’d—
“Did you just say ‘doom doom doom,’ or ‘zoom, zoom, zoom’?”
I stopped short and was forced to take several steps backward. Ahab was walking down the stairs, his longish hair in messy disarray, his voice roughened with sleep, and his eyes squinted like the room was too bright.
“I . . .” Incredulous, I inspected his rumpled attire. He was still wearing the same T-shirt and jeans he’d been wearing yesterday. “Did—did you just wake up?” And he slept in his clothes?
Yawning, his gaze moving down and up my person, he nodded. “What time is it? I think I left my phone down here.”
My eyes bugged. Wasn’t he supposed to be watching Lisa? Wasn’t he supposed to take her phone and ensure she didn’t call Tyler and didn’t leave and didn’t do anything stupid? And he was just now waking up? I could have been out all morning. I could have met with and had sex with and dropped acid with Tyler ten times by now!
To be fair, I didn’t know how long it took to drop acid, but based on various data sources and movies I’d watched, I could extrapolate.
“You—did you—your—” I couldn’t figure out which question I wanted to ask first.
“Is there still pizza?” he asked, walking past me and making a straight line for the fridge.
Confounded, certain I was missing something critical, I stumbled after him. “I can’t believe you’re just waking up.”
I’d never slept until 1:00 PM. Never. Not after a long international flight, not on the weekend after pulling several all-nighters the week prior, not even when I’d been sick with the flu. Never ever, ever.
Sending me a quick, small, sleepy smile, Ahab opened the fridge. “Why? When did you wake up?”
Crossing my arms, I wished for my bag of prunes or something else to chew. I suspected this was one of those situations where telling the truth would make a negative impact to my Lisa-credibility. It was a safe bet to assume my sister didn’t often wake up at 6:30 AM.
Rather than outright lie, I decided vague was just as good. “A while ago. When did you go to sleep?”
“Around five.”
I started, blinking several times. “Five? AM?”
“Yep.” He pulled the pizza from the fridge and placed it on the island, flipping open the box.
“That’s insane, Ahab. What were you doing until five AM?”
He’d been lifting a slice of cold pizza—COLD PIZZA!—when I spoke, but his hand halted midway to his mouth and he glared at me.
“What did you just say?”
“I said, that’s insane.” Frowning at him and the slice of cold pizza in turn, I had to ask, “Do you want me to heat that up for you?”
He returned the pizza to the box, staring at me like I was a curiosity. “My name is Abram.”
Dammit. Abram!! Why didn’t I just call him Abe?
I blinked some more. “Uh, I don’t mind heating up the pizza.” Maybe if I ignored the slipup, he’d let it drop?
“You just called me Ahab.”
Oh noes! He wasn’t going to let it drop.
“Pardon? I mean, what? I mean, no I didn’t.” I laughed, backing away, stuffing my hands into the back pockets of Lisa’s only pair of semi-tight jeans instead of boa-constrictor-tight jeans.
“Yes, you did.” His eyes narrowed, moving over me.
I tossed my thumb over my shoulder. “Would you believe that I was just reading Moby Dick?”
He shook his head, and I didn’t know how to feel, because that was good, right? I mean, it wasn’t good that I’d messed up his name, but it was good that he didn’t believe I’d been reading Moby Dick. I felt a level of certainty that Lisa wouldn’t read Moby Dick, so he must’ve still believed I was Lisa . . . right?
“Ahab?” His voice dripped with irritation.
“Why would I call you Ahab? I don’t think that happened. Your name is Abram. You heard wrong. You’re an unreliable witness.” I glanced behind me, not knowing where I was going. I only had three feet until my back hit the wall, so I pivoted, still walking backward but aiming for the arched doorway.
“Unreliable witness?” His left dimple reappeared followed by the right, and he was doing that smile-frown thing again. It was cute. How irksome.
“Yes. You just woke up. You’re muddled. Go eat your disgusting cold pizza. Whatever!” I was almost to the arched doorway, which would lead me to the back stairs, which meant I could hide for the rest of the afternoon. It would probably take all afternoon for my heart rate to return to normal.
“Fine, I will.” He lifted the pizza to his mouth and added, “And then we’re going out, Liza.”
That had my feet coming to a halt. “Pardon?”
“Your name is Liza, isn’t it?” He said this with a sardonic twist to his lips.
But I didn’t care what he called me as long as it wasn’t Mona. I was more concerned with the first part of this statement. “We’re going out? Where?”
Abram didn’t respond right away, instead he took a bite of pizza and chewed. My attention dropped to his jaw and neck and, for some inexplicable reason, I was entranced by the sight of his jaw working, flexing, and the action of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. I can honestly say, I’d never noticed the way someone chewed before, because why would I? But in his case, I don’t know. . . It was just all extraordinarily man-like.
“I’m looking at a guitar, the guy is holding it for me until three.”
“Why do I need to go?” I forced my eyes back to his and crossed my arms, bewildered by my preoccupation with his chewing. So weird.
“I can’t leave you here by yourself.” He said this like it was obvious.
I regathered the threads of the conversation just in time to find critical fault in his logic. “But you’ll sleep until after noon? What if I’d gone out this morning?”
“Did you go out this morning?” He asked this like he already knew the answer.
&
nbsp; “That’s not the point. I could have.”
“But you didn’t.”
“But I could have. You trusted me to stay put this morning, but not this afternoon?”
“This morning is in the past, this afternoon is now. You’re coming.”
I glared at him and his stunning lack of sense. “You make no sense.”
“I don’t have to make sense.” He stalked around the kitchen island holding two pieces of pizza, his grin smug, slowly regaining the steps I’d placed between us. “I just have to keep you from doing anything stupid until your parents’ assistant shows up. You’re coming, Liza.”
Giving me another second of his smug grin, he walked around me, bumping my shoulder with his arm as he did so, and walked up the stairs.
Once I was fairly certain he was out of earshot, I mumbled darkly to myself, “So . . . it has come to this.”
Full-out avoidance was now no longer an option. At least not for the next few hours. Since I had no choice but to accompany Abram on his errand, my new plan was to avoid conversation. I would do this by taking Gabby’s advice regarding single word answers.
While Abram showered and changed on the third floor, I crept to the kitchen pantry, pulled my phone from the hidden backpack, and checked for messages from Lisa or her lawyer. There were none.
But my good friend Allyn had messaged, and so had Gabby. I ignored the Gabster for now and opened Allyn’s thread.
Allyn: How’s it going in CA? Remember, you’re eating avocados for two. I am living vicariously through you. Also, send pictures of the avocados before you eat them.
Allyn: PS I love you for more than just your avocado pics!
I grinned, because she was so weird and cool. We’d met my senior year, which happened to be her freshman year, and we’d clicked instantly. I’d begun to doubt clicking with anyone in any sort of situation was ever going to happen. And then I’d met Allyn, in the cafeteria, picking through sad avocado flesh. We’d shared a sigh over the substandard options and she’d taken that as an open invitation to become my best friend. I had no objections, because she was everything I was not—funny, open, engaging, comfortable in her own skin—but definitely wanted to be.
I sent her a quick text, promising to send her photos when possible—probably next week—and, with extreme reluctance, navigated to Gabby’s texts, a series of messages beginning last night and through this afternoon.
Gabby: I will be over tomorrow evening to check on you. Stay strong, nerdy grasshopper.
Gabby: Don’t forget to apply makeup in the morning. Heavy on the liner.
Gabby: And do your hair.
Gabby: Good morning, sunshine. How are things?
Gabby: Since you haven’t responded, I’m assuming you’re sitting on Abram’s face and I totally applaud this development.
I stopped here, sucking in a small, startled breath as a lurid flash of an underwearless me sitting on Abram’s face suffused every millimeter of my consciousness and sent pinpricks of tingling awareness racing beneath my skin. It was like being assaulted with hot honey, leaving me flushed and sticky and confused, because why would someone assault another person with hot honey? That would be strange.
“Jeez, Gabby,” I murmured to my phone, fanning my shirt and blinking away the vivid image, though the visceral effects lingered. I endeavored to not dwell on the fact that none of my initial, secondary, or tertiary reactions to the thought had been displeasure or disgust.
No. Best not to dwell on that.
But I did dwell on it, how could I not? Thankfully, my brain rescued me, reminding me that my last quasi-sexual encounter with another person had been several months ago, after which I’d definitively determined that sexual partners were optional—often superfluous—to the sex act.
Abram had an attractive exterior and therefore I was attracted to it, and that was normal. My body had physical urges that I’d neglected, and that was also normal.
Yet being attracted to someone’s exterior and having neglected urges did not mean taking action with that exterior was a foregone conclusion. I wasn’t a slave to my physical urges and attractive exteriors. I could, and would, simply ignore the attraction and attend to myself when convenient. Maybe tomorrow. Perhaps even tonight.
But where . . . ?
Plugging my phone into the portable USB charger I always carried in my bag, I stuffed both into the backpack, and stuffed the backpack back into place. I’d taken too much time already, I’d have to call the lawyer to check on Lisa another time.
Wiping clammy hands on my pants, I stood and searched the snack shelf for something quick to eat. Granola bars seemed like the best choice, given my options, but I did note that there were four more bags of unopened prunes near the edge.
The discovery made me feel a modicum better about grabbing one of the bags earlier. Of all the snacks, prunes were in the greatest abundance. Statistically speaking, I’d been more likely to grab prunes than anything else on the shelf. But as I left the pantry, granola bars in hand, I couldn’t help wondering why we had so many prunes, and who had bought them.
I made quick work of the granola bar and washed it down with water, setting the glass by the sink for later use. Checking the time, I meandered to the front door and searched the shoe cubby for footwear. I found some of my old Birkenstocks and a pair of Lisa’s flip-flops—Vera Wang, black soles with bejeweled straps. Gazing longingly at the Birkenstocks, I pulled on the Vera Wang sandals.
But then, when I stood and tested them, I was shook. Fantastic arch support, supple leather straps, soft soles. They were the most comfortable sandals I’d ever worn.
“Huh,” I said to my feet’s reflection in the mirror as I rocked back and forth, testing their flexibility. “Nice.” Maybe I’d have to invest in some fancy Vera Wang sandals.
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
Abram’s question pulled my attention away from my feet to his approach. I noted his hair was wet and his clothes were different.
“Yes.” Glancing down at myself, at the semi-tight jeans and plain black tank top I’d been wearing all day, and then back to him, I asked, “Why?”
Abram lowered a pair of aviator sunglasses into place, blocking his eyes. “No reason.”
“Should I change?” I tossed my thumb toward the kitchen stairs. “Is this a rococo guitar shop? Is there a dress code?”
“What’s rococo?” Abram walked to the front door, stopping directly in front of me.
His approach and proximity made me tense, so I believe I can be excused for not thinking before responding, “Rococo is characterized by an elaborately ornamental late baroque style of decor prevalent in 18th-century Continental Europe, with asymmetrical patterns involving motifs and scrollwork.”
His left dimple made a brief appearance, a very brief appearance, but I almost didn’t notice because, just then, I caught a whiff of soap and shaving cream and something else I couldn’t identify. It—he—smelled SUPER amazing. Wet and fresh and warm and clean. It smelled so good the tension in my body dissipated, leaving goose bumps and a languid kind of stunned relaxation instead. From a smell.
“No. Not rococo. Let’s go,” he said flatly, opening the door and motioning for me to exit.
I didn’t move. I lowered my eyes to scan his clothes while also maybe inhaling deeply. I told myself I was comparing his clothes to mine to determine if I were dressed appropriately while also breathing normally. I was not sniffing.
Upon completing my perusal and inhaling the glorious scent of him—but not sniffing—a few more times, I could see no deficit in my outfit. In fact, after his shower he’d changed and now we were similarly attired: jeans, black shirt, he was in dark sneakers, I was in dark sandals. One might even say we matched.
Lifting my chin to peer up at him, I found him gazing down at me. Right there. Super close. Still smelling super good. My breath caught and any comments I had about the similarity between our attire scattered. I could feel the heat from his body.
Did he move? Or were we always standing this close? And why wasn’t I cringing away? Goodness, his face would be nice to sit on.
AAHHHH!
“Um.” I flinched, startled by the direction of my thoughts, and stepped back, scratching my cheek. Frowning, flustered by how flustered and hot I suddenly felt—flustered squared—I sputtered, “I, uh, yeah. I go. Out. The door.” Unnecessarily, I pointed to the open door, and then dashed through it, my heart swooping between my throat and cervix.
Shading my face from the afternoon sun, I took two large breaths and endeavored to regain my dismantled composure. It was hot, even for August. I replaced the lingering exquisite smell of him with the city air, a heady aroma of pavement and steadily rising temperature. Pushing open the gate, I darted through it and began speed walking up the street.
“Where are you going? That’s the wrong way,” Abram’s voice called after me.
I turned, rubbing my forehead. I had no idea where we were going.
“There’s no escape from destiny,” I mumbled one of my anytime-occasion phrases to myself, jogging back, and keeping my attention pointed at the sidewalk behind him. “I’ll follow you.”
He didn’t move, and I felt his scrutinizing gaze travel over me. I thought about tossing out whatever while also actively biting back the urge to say another of my anytime-phrases, such as, As the prophesy foretold or So . . . it has come to this.
The less I spoke at this point, the better. Clearly, Gabby’s text had lit a spark, and that spark had flared, and now oxidation of a nearby fuel source had occurred. I needed to keep my head down, be quiet, and stop thinking about sitting on his face. The flames must not be fanned!
Damn Gabby and the power of suggestion!
