by Reid, Penny
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice pitched high and slightly hysterical.
He shook his head. “I forfeit.”
“You- you- you what?” Unthinkingly, I waded toward him, my dismayed stare transfixed on his extremely cool one.
“You win, I’ll leave.” Shrugging, he gave the water a languid stroke, bringing him closer, but only incidentally. I could see now that his destination was the pool steps, not me.
“No!” I darted to the side, putting myself in his path, forcing him to backtrack so as not to collide with me. “No, I don’t win! It’s not winning if you give up.”
“What’s the problem? You win.” His glare had returned, his dark eyebrows descending over equally dark eyes.
“You forfeit, that’s giving up. Not the same as me winning!” My voice was now a frantic, enraged whisper. I slammed the water with my hands, splashing it everywhere. I didn’t care, angry tears were making it impossible for me to see.
God, I just . . . I just . . . I couldn’t remember ever being so angry before.
“What the hell is your problem?” Once again, Abram was speaking through his teeth.
“You’re my problem.” I shoved my face into his. “You don’t forfeit—i.e. give up—in the last leg of the last lap. That’s a shitty thing to do.”
“Oh? Really? Was that shitty of me?” Likewise, he shoved his face forward, not that he had much room to move.
“Yes. Very shitty,” I whispered, but then swallowed the last word because the current of the water—waves caused by our race—pushed me forward. My front knocked into and then slid against his, the slippery friction like a KO punch to my good sense and a wake-up call to everything else.
Him. His eyes. His body. Just . . . yesssss. Yes. The texture, the warmth, the hard planes, the everything. My eyes fell to his lips, pink lusciousness framed by the black shadow of his scruff, a blushing rose among thorns, and I could not look away.
Abram sucked in a hissing breath, his hands immediately coming to my arms and separating us by gently—and firmly—moving me away. But he only moved me six or seven centimeters. We were still plenty close. But not close enough. But still plenty.
“What. Are. You. Doing?” he growled, sounding frustrated and furious. But the question also sounded like a plea.
Still transfixed by his mouth, I shook my head, blinking, breathing just as hard as I’d been when I’d finished the race.
Lie.
Walk away.
Say one of your anytime-phrases.
These were all signposts on the logical path forward. But I didn’t do any of these. I couldn’t. I was caught in some unknown field, propelled and shredded by an unidentified force, not contact, neither gravitational, magnetic, nor electrical.
Struggling against it made it worse. Ignoring it made it stronger. The only thing I hadn’t tried was accepting it. But I can’t.
“I can’t . . .”
“You can’t what?”
A wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows, something flaring behind his eyes as they drilled into mine. He released my arms, pushing his fingers through the fall of hair on his forehead, pushing it away with both hands, and then he waited. Glaring at me, his arms falling to his sides, standing still while his chest rose and fell with his slowing breaths.
He waited. He waited for me.
And I was such a mess, wanting to rage and laugh and cry; wanting him to pull me close, and dreading what would happen if he did; wanting to rewind time to the moment he’d stopped swimming so I could also stop and scream at him to finish, so I could win, so I could tell him the truth.
Now we were here and “by forfeit” was not how a bargain with the universe was won. This was not winning. This was neither winning nor losing, which meant I was back at square one. Which was losing.
I felt my chin wobble and I firmed it, pressing my lips together to stop the revealing involuntary waver, but it was too late. He’d seen it. I knew at once because he took a deep breath, the force of anger in his glare dwindling to merely mystified uncertainty.
“Lisa. What are you doing? Why are you doing this?” he asked with impossible tenderness. “You win. You don’t want me. I’m done. I’m leaving.”
“It doesn’t feel like winning.” My voice was unsteady and my words were unplanned, so were the hot tears that spilled over my cheeks. I’m a mess!
I hoped they’d be camouflaged by the residual pool water but knew at once this was not the case. Abram’s gaze watched their progress, gliding down my face. His features were restive, betraying his indecision, his uncertainty. But the hesitation didn’t last.
Lifting his hands to cup my face, his thumbs brushing away the tracks of saltwater, Abram’s gaze softened. All contrary emotions dissolved, replaced by resolute concern.
“Don’t cry.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “Please don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying.” I sniffled, closing my eyes, more tears leaking from beneath my lashes, my stupid chin wobbling. Why did he have to forfeit?
He chuckled. “Why are you crying?”
“Why did you forfeit?” I’d been aiming for accusatory, but the question came out sounding watery and just plain sad.
“You’re crying because I forfeit?” His voice held humor and incredulity.
“No. That’s not—” I sniffled again, taking several deep breaths, and then said firmly, “I’m not crying.”
“Stubborn.”
“I’m not—”
“Shh.” Against my lips I felt his shushing breath, which made me hold mine. The ever present, simmering desire low in my belly twisted, but the paralyzing restlessness within me thawed. How my body could respond in this dichotomous way, at once relaxing and tightening when he touched me, I had no idea.
Abram’s fingers pushed into my wet hair, curling around my neck, and his nose slid against mine, nuzzling.
“You have to tell me what you want,” he whispered gruffly. “If you don’t want me, tell me. But you have to know, you must know, I only want to make you happy.”
17
Elasticity: Stress and Strain
Sigh.
My heart.
I opened my eyes. Our gazes didn’t clash, they mated. Instead of cymbals between my ears, I heard the gentle lapping of the pool against the tile, the sounds of the city, the hum of summer insects in our little garden oasis.
I breathed out, lifting my chin by a millimeter, licking my lips. Kiss me.
His gorgeous stare never wavered from mine, he didn’t move, not to close the scant distance between our mouths, not to push me away. No.
He was waiting. Again. Waiting for me.
Please. Please kiss me.
I wanted him to end this torture because I couldn’t be the one to end it. Telling him the truth was not an option because it would jeopardize my sister, and I refused to be another person who let her down. But kissing Abram without telling him the truth was also not an option, a line I absolutely couldn’t cross.
However.
If he kisses me, I reasoned and bartered with the universe, searching for a new deal, I’ll have to tell him the truth, right? I wouldn’t have a choice. The decision would be made.
“Lisa,” he said, a gentle whisper, the single-word reminder of reality breaking the spell so completely, it jarred me to my core. The seismic equivalent of telling a roomful of kindergarteners that they would never have candy again. And then following that devastation with a forty-five-minute lecture on taxes.
Stepping away, I dropped my head and closed my eyes, feeling the weight of air and dark matter and cosmic dust press down on my shoulders. I wanted to hit the water again. I wanted to throw a giant tantrum.
Instead I whispered, “Fuck.”
A moment later, I heard Abram sigh. A moment after that, I heard the telltale sound of him moving through the water, leaving. My stomach sunk and I swallowed around the rocks in my throat, but I wouldn’t cry. It was an unfair situation, of my own making, and he
deserved better. So, so, so much better.
Let him go. And let this be the last time.
But then I felt his palm slide against mine, his fingers entwined my fingers, and he squeezed. My eyes flew open and, wide-eyed, I looked up at him. He wasn’t looking at me. Jaw set, Abram’s eyes were on the stairs leading out of the pool. Without pausing, he pulled me after him.
I found my voice as I crested the last step. “Where are we going?”
Releasing my hand, he passed me my towel, only glancing at me briefly. “Here. Dry off.”
I accepted it, wrapping it around my body and reflexively folding the top over so it wouldn’t unravel.
Abram wiped at his face, neck, and torso with forceful strokes, and then wrapped his around his hips. Reaching for and grabbing my hand again, we were on the move.
To the house, up the stairs, into the mudroom, down the hall. He stopped in the kitchen, turning to face me, but not releasing my hand.
“We should watch a movie. You like movies?” The words were abrupt, direct, and had an edge of impatience.
“Movies?” I parroted dumbly.
“Yes. Movies.”
Inspecting him, I searched his face for some sign as to his thoughts, what he hoped to accomplish. He didn’t look angry.
Disappointed? Yes.
Angry? Not at all.
But you know what? Of the two, the disappointment felt worse.
Gathering a deep breath, I couldn’t help what expression my face was making, but I assumed it was something like dismayed remorse. “Abram, I am so sorry. I never—”
He waved away my apology. “Nope. No apologies. No explaining. No talking. No.”
“No . . . ? No talk—”
“Go upstairs, change, shower, whatever. Come down when you’re ready, to the basement. We’ll watch a movie.”
I shook my head, feeling my eyebrows pull together, not understanding what was happening. He won’t close the distance of three centimeters to kiss me, so he wants to watch a movie?
He must’ve read the confused anguish in my eyes and on my face, especially since I was unable and disinclined to hide them, because his left dimple made an appearance. “Look—” he brought my hand up, pressing it flat between both of his “—I trust you, so trust me. I just want to spend time with you. We don’t have to talk. You don’t need to apologize for anything. We can sit together, watch a movie, share popcorn.”
A little breath escaped me, one of wonder and distress. How was he so damn perfect all the damn time?
“There’s nothing wrong with watching a movie, people do it all the time,” he prodded gently, tilting his head, his hand coming to my hair, smoothing over the wet strands and down my back. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
* * *
It meant something.
Lying next to Abram on the big, red, plush love seat, tucked under his arm, my cheek on his chest, smelling his man-fragrance while we watched The Blues Brothers on the home theater screen, it definitely meant something.
But that didn’t make him a liar, because it hadn’t started out meaning anything.
After I went upstairs and showered, haphazardly blow-drying my hair and applying minimal makeup, I changed into a pair of yoga pants and a tank top. My brain on self-destruct autopilot, I didn’t think about the logical path forward or fretting about my actions. I thought about popcorn.
We’d begun the movie in the chairs, with the popcorn between us on a buffer seat. He’d given me a polite smile, saying nothing, and motioned that I should take the chair on the other side of the popcorn. The theater seats were a good size, but Abram was taller than average. He shifted in his chair several times, crossing his legs at the knee when he couldn’t stretch them out fully in front of him.
But ten minutes after the movie started, Abram sighed, picked up the popcorn and moved to the love seat at the front of the room, reclining on his back, a hand behind his head, his feet and legs stretched out toward the screen.
The love seat wasn’t a typical love seat, which was a smaller version of a sofa. It was the width of a love seat with a pull-out ottoman piece extending towards the screen that turned it into a giant chaise lounge, basically a full-sized bed with sofa cushions at the back.
“Hey,” I called out disgruntledly after he settled in, raising my voice over the action of the film.
He lifted on his elbow and twisted his neck to look at me. “What?”
“You took the popcorn.”
He held out the bag with his other arm. “Come take it if you want it.”
My frowning gaze flickered between the bag and his face. He’d made the popcorn. It didn’t make sense for me to take the whole thing. I could go to the kitchen and get a bowl so the popcorn was split evenly, or I could take several trips (up to where he held the popcorn hostage) several times during the movie to grab handfuls, or I could—
“Or just sit up here with me. Whatever.”
Well. Since he suggested it.
Clearly self-destruction autopilot was still engaged, because I crossed to the love seat, scooched back until I rested against the sofa cushions, my legs stretched out in front of me, and stuck my hand in the popcorn bag between us.
Around the halfway mark, my eyes glanced over at Abram. The popcorn was gone, so the bag wasn’t between us. His ankles were crossed. He had a hand on the T-shirt covering his stomach and an arm behind his head. His eyes were on the screen and a smile was on his mouth. A sliver of skin where his T-shirt hem had lifted away from his jeans was visible, as was the gray-and-black waistband of his boxers (which might have been boxer briefs, more data were required before a definitive classification could be made).
He looked comfortable, relaxed, happy, and I felt an answering desire to an unasked question: I wanted to be as he was.
In his own way, but in a way that was entirely alien to me, Abram was stunningly pragmatic and rational. Here he was, in a state of disappointment, and yet also in a comfortable, relaxed, and happy state. How did he do that? How could one state follow the other so seamlessly? Or exist in tandem?
I formulated no hypothesis, because a second later, he caught me staring.
As usual, I quickly tore my eyes away, a blaze of self-consciousness rushing to my cheeks. His eyes were on me. I felt them, but I also confirmed this sense with a quick glance in his direction. His eyes were on me and it wasn’t a quick scrutinizing. Now he was staring. Unabashedly.
“Hey,” he said after a protracted moment, lifting his hand from his stomach and placing it on my back. His palm moved in a slow circle over the thin fabric of my tank top. “Are you comfortable? You wanna lie down?”
I wasn’t comfortable only because I wanted to lie down. The logical path was to remain in my present position as lying down felt a little stupid and dangerous, like acknowledging the slipperiness of the slope and attempting the slope anyway.
Even so, self-destruct autopilot engaged, I nodded and lay down. His arm behind me didn’t move as I readjusted myself, which meant my head rested on his bicep when I finally reclined. The butterflies in my stomach made concentrating on the film difficult, so when his arm came around me, squeezing me to his chest during a particularly funny part, I only knew it was funny because he was laughing so hard.
That was the moment my head ended up over his heart. Instead of listening to Dan Aykroyd and John Belushi tell me about their mission from God, I counted Abram’s heartbeats, slowing my breathing to see if I could match his pulse to mine.
Tangentially, I realized that listening to Abram’s heart had been a terrible idea, a critical error in judgment. Now—even with the tempo still filling my ear—I knew with absolute certainty I would never tire of the sound. In fact, I would crave it for the rest of my life, from this moment forward.
Our society warns us from an early age to eschew drugs that might be addictive, or habits and hobbies—like gambling or video games or fantasy worlds—that employ Skinner box tactics meant to target addiction-cau
sing pleasure centers of the brain.
But no one tells you to avoid the sound of a heartbeat.
This was also the moment. Laying here with Abram was the memory I would keep, the one I would retrieve on rainy days, the one that would inspire wistful daydreams. And as beautiful as he’d been in the pool, as utterly perfect of an exterior he possessed, I wouldn’t be thinking of his body when I missed him, I would be thinking of his heart.
By the final musical act, the entire length of me was pressed against Abram’s body, one arm draped over his stomach, my other arm tucked between us, our feet tangled, his hand lazily moving up and down my side. When the end credits rolled, I didn’t notice.
“Hey,” he said eventually after the final credit had scrolled, the screen had faded to black. “The movie is over.”
“Yep.” I tightened my arm around his torso, holding on and squeezing my eyes shut. Maybe if I refused to acknowledge the existence of reality, reality would cease to exist. All hypotheses are worth exploring! Even the crazy ones.
He took a deep breath, his chest rising and lifting my head as he filled his lungs with air. I clung to him.
“Lisa.” I felt him shift, his hand that had been supporting his head came to my forearm and he caressed the length of it with his palm. “Do you want to get up?”
“No.”
He chuckled, and then sighed. “Okay. Do you want to talk?”
“No.”
Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten . . . I was counting the beats of his heart between questions and noted with some interest that his pulse had just increased. His heart was beating faster, which meant mine—which had been in sync with his for the last quarter of the movie— also began beating faster.
“What do you want to do?” His voice deepened, and there was no mistaking the grumbly, suggestive quality to it.
“So many things,” I whispered. My leg constricted over his thigh, my arm around his waist now squeezing, I scrunched my eyes tighter.
He waited, his breath becoming shallow.
