by Penny Reid
“Yeah, Mona. Where have you been? It’s been playing everywhere for weeks. You can’t go into a coffee shop without hearing his album.”
This was . . . this was terrible.
I swallowed around the rocks in my throat and was once more croaking my replies, “You don’t say.”
For some reason, a very specific teenage memory was summoned. My mother had invited me to lunch at a swanky hotel near my summer camp and I was excited. But when I arrived, she wasn’t alone. She introduced me to a man, and when she left to use the lady’s room, he told me that he was one of her lovers.
One of her lovers.
One of them.
I didn’t believe him, but I’d been twelve at the time. But when I told my mother what he’d said, she confirmed it.
“Monogamy isn’t for musicians, honey,” she said. Her voice had been gentle, her expression compassionate. “I love your father, and he loves me. Love isn’t supposed to be confining, it’s about allowing the space for the other to fly. We both have many partners who feed our creativity in different ways. The soul of an artist is too needy. Once person could never be enough.”
I knew this. This was fact. And Lisa also knew this, which was why—when Tyler hadn’t been faithful to her—no one was surprised.
Presently, Allyn lifted her phone in the air above her, as though searching for a signal. “If you were on any social media at all, you would know this. Or watched TV other than those Turkish shows with the hot guys. Or listened to the song lists I send you. I’ve been following Redburn for seven months, before they released the studio album. I think their next single releases this week—their fifth—let me see . . .”
I was having too many thoughts. Too many. Way too many.
However, the logical path forward decided to do me a solid and reveal itself, a miraculous unveiling of crystal-clear obviousness. If I thought about it rather than bemoaning it, I wasn’t surprised by Abram’s success, just like I wasn’t surprised by my ignorance of it.
“Shoot. I have no connection here and I didn’t download the album.” She frowned at her phone. “You should turn on the radio every so often, or check out the top ten once a month.”
Allyn was right. I didn’t listen to the radio. I didn’t visit coffee shops. I didn’t watch TV. I wasn’t on social media and I didn’t care to be. I no longer read articles written about me. Ever. Other than semi-stalking Abram’s sister Marie’s bylines and articles, I didn’t read much other than scientific journals.
Popular culture was a world I’d purposefully and systematically eschewed.
It didn’t matter if Abram knew who I was. It didn’t matter if he’d figured everything out. It didn’t even matter if he hated me. He was a wildly successful musician, living on the same planet as me, but now existing within a world firmly removed from mine.
The last two and a half years had been like waiting in a line with no guaranteed destination. It had been a line for the sake of lining up, for the sake of having a spot to stand. Then, abruptly and randomly, I was now at the front of the line. Standing in place and waiting were no longer options.
Abram and I, we were two circles in a Venn diagram that would never overlap.
We were two asteroids on opposite sides of the solar system, ensnared by Jupiter’s gravity, destined to orbit the asteroid belt in the same direction, but never together.
We were two magnets with the same polarity.
Conclusion: If he didn’t know about my deception, I would tell him the truth. It was the right thing to do. It was time. First, I’d call Lisa and inform her of my decision. And if he already knew, okay. That was fine.
But I knew now, reality being what it was, my logical path forward didn’t include Abram Harris (Fletcher), it never really had. The past, our past, and this present random encounter were irrelevant to my future.
Just like my existence was irrelevant to his.
I slept horribly. But, no matter. That was the thing about sleep, there would always be more time to practice.
As soon as I opened my eyes, the events of the prior evening came back to me. But, again, no matter. I was prepared. The space suit of numbness, my recognition and swift acceptance of the futility of wanting Abram, saved me from a repeat of the searing pain.
Sitting up in bed, I checked the time on my phone, 6:14 AM, my hand knocking the letter I always carried to the floor. Leaning over the edge, I picked up the letter, my thumbs moving over the worn, smooth corners of the envelope, and gently returned it to the side table.
I needed to ready myself for the day. There was still the small matter of telling Abram the truth, assuming he didn’t already know. And in order to accomplish that with a clear conscience, I would have to call my sister. And that’s what I did.
Reaching for my phone again, I unlocked it, dialed her number, and waited. She’d become an early riser and our weekly phone calls typically took place before 7:00 AM, so I knew she’d be up now. The line rang on the other end, but the connection sounded spotty, broken, like a skipping record.
When she answered, I immediately asked, “Lisa? Lisa? Can you hear me?”
“Yes. Hey, Mo. I can hear you. Where are you? Aren’t you supposed to be in—” the sound dropped off, replaced with clicks and scratching sounds, and then suddenly she was back “—thought you were going this week?”
“You’re breaking up. Listen, I have to talk to you about something important.” I pushed the covers back and strolled to the window seat where Allyn and I had taken up residence the previous evening until close to 2:00 AM. Without any prompting, I’d told Allyn the whole story about my week in Chicago before we’d gone to bed last night, and I do mean the whole story.
I figured, if I was really going to tell Abram the truth today—and despite the fact that any interaction with him was ultimately pointless to my future—I would still require some level of moral support after the task had been accomplished. I continued to have alarmingly nebulous and irrational feelings for the man. It would therefore make sense that my subsequent antiphon post-truth-telling would also be likewise irrational.
I wanted to be prepared, so I’d made preparations.
“What? Sorry, you’re breaking up,” Lisa’s voice sounded from the other end of the phone.
“This is important. Can you hear me?”
“Yes. I can hear you now, but there’s static on the line or something.”
“Okay. I’ll make it quick. Listen, Abram is here.”
“What?”
“Abram.” I whisper-yelled, stepping into a corner of the room, as though facing the corner would keep my voice from leaving the little triangle of secret shame I’d created with my body and the two walls. See? Already, just talking about him made me behave in strange and mysterious ways.
“Oh shit. Abram?”
“Yes. Listen.” I clutched my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut. “Just listen.”
“You want to tell him the truth,” she said, surprising the heck out of me, but also relieved that she’d guessed.
Gripping the front of my shirt, I twisted the neckline of my sleep shirt around my middle and index finger. “Yes. I want to tell him. He’s here, at the house, in Aspen, with Leo and other music people of an indeterminate number. It’s snowing, and we’re trapped. If he hasn’t figured it out yet, he definitely will now that we’re—”
“You’re breaking up again. Before the call drops, if you’re asking, my vote is to do it.”
My eyes flew open. “What?”
“Do it. Tell him. Mom and Dad will never cut you off, so I think them finding out now won’t hurt you. And they aren’t looking for reasons to cut me off anymore. I mean, they don’t talk to me, but I’ve let go of ever being a priority to—” She cut off for several seconds and I frowned, willing the line to reconnect. It did midsentence, “—getting to the point where I don’t even care. I have a good job, I have school, things are good, I can take care of myself. If that was keeping you from telling Abram, don
’t worry about me. At this point, it’s not like the story would be interesting to his reporter sister. No one would care and it would just make him look idiotic. And if after all this time you still—” The line clicked and hissed, and I only caught skipped syllables of what she said for a few seconds, but then it picked back up, “—and it’s still really bothering you, then I say do it. I never should have asked you to lie in the first place. You tell him, clear your conscience, and don’t worry about me. I’m good, we’re good, I understand why you want to do it. You have my support one hundred percent.”
For some reason, my breathing was labored. Instead of feeling better upon receiving her blessing, I felt worse.
I said and thought at the same time, “How long have you felt this way?”
“What?”
“How long have you, I mean, how long ago could I have told him?”
She hesitated, and I thought for a second that the line had cut out, but then she asked, “Wait. Mona, have you had feelings for Abram all this time?” She sounded confused, like it hadn’t occurred to her that this might’ve been a possibility.
I let my forehead fall to the junction of the two walls and confessed the truth. “Yes.” As the prophesy foretold.
Yes, I’m not over him.
Yes, I think about him daily.
Yes, I’ve wanted to tell him the truth since I left and have lived in a state of readiness to do so, carrying that letter everywhere I go.
Yes, I’ll never be able to mentally move on until he knows, until that equation is solved, that hypothesis proves null.
I had no choice now but to move on. He was a famous musician, a fact that was inescapable. I had no desire to live in that world ever again. Even if, by some cosmic miracle and warping of reality, he was eventually interested at some point—which he definitely would never be—we might as well have existed in different dimensions.
The line cracked, buzzed, but was otherwise silent for several seconds until finally she said, “You should have told me.”
“Told you? I thought you knew.”
“No! I had no idea!”
I had to press the phone closer to my ear because her voice was quiet, and I struggled to keep my voice loud enough to be heard on her side. “How could you have no idea?”
“You never said anything! I can’t read your mind, Mona. You never say anything about how you’re doing, how you’re feeling, what you want. All you talk about is telescopes and—” she cut out again, and so I counted.
One, two, three, four, five, six—
“—we’re all going to eventually use blackholes to power settled planets in different solar systems.” She sounded exasperated. “The only time you mentioned him was that one time, when he changed his last name. I kept waiting for you to ask for his new name, but you didn’t. And then, when I tried to get you to talk about Abram, you kept changing the subject. I kept expecting you to talk to me about him, about what happened after you left, but you didn’t want to hear it and—God, honestly?—I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to make anything harder, after what you did for me. But Abram had been everywhere this year, his songs are everywhere, his face is everywhere, and still nothing from you until right now. Until he’s there, in front of you, and you have no choice but to confront it.”
Yikes.
She had a point. I’d never talked to her about Abram, or what happened the day after I’d left. I’d only told Poe about Abram because I’d been drunk—very sloppy of me—and Allyn knew nothing about my fateful trip to Chicago at all.
“Okay. Yes, it’s my fault. You’re right.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. It’s not your fault. It’s—”
Another break in the line. One, two, three, four, five, six.
“—but you have to stop pretending like you don’t have any emotions.” Her voice was steady now, louder. “If you have feelings for Abram, then tell him. Maybe he feels the same, maybe he doesn’t, maybe he’ll break your heart, maybe he’ll disappoint you, but you can’t expect him or anyone else to know what you’re thinking if you keep quiet, or if you keep denying your feelings, or pretending they don’t matter. You have to stop acting like you don’t need anyone. You have to let people care about you, and I’m not just talking about this guy, or whatever guy or person you ultimately—”
One, two, three—I thought about interrupting her, explaining that telling Abram the truth now wasn’t about hoping for a future with him, but rather giving our past closure. However, my sister was really on a roll with this rant and I doubted I’d be able to get a word in. At this point, I just wanted to get off the phone, tell Abram the truth, and finally place all this messiness behind me—four, five, six.
“—come visit me, you’re always invited. I mean it. Okay?”
“Okay. Thank you. Sounds good. I appreciate you supporting me in this decision.”
“Uh, no problem? I mean—uh—wait. Are you coming to visit me or what?”
“Sure. Yes. I can do that.”
She huffed. “When?”
I closed my eyes again, scrunching them shut tighter. “When?”
“Mona!”
“I’ll email you.”
“Fine. I’ll come to California. I’ll visit you.” It sounded like a threat.
“How about next week?”
“Next week?” I could tell I’d surprised her with the offer, but I was serious.
“Yes. Next week. I have nothing for the next two weeks but prepping my stuff for next semester in Europe, and everything is basically done. I can come next week.”
“And we’ll hang out?” She sounded so hopeful and—despite the blanket of numbness to protect me from the Abram-angstravaganza—my heart softened.
“Yes.”
“Awesome! Okay. Well.” Even with the static on the line, I heard her take a deep breath. “I guess I’ll see you next week.”
“See you next week.” I opened my eyes, sighing, nodding resolutely, and turning away from the corner to face the room.
Step one, done. Step two, after a shower!
“And good luck with Abram,” she added. “And though I’ve never believed he was actually in—”
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and so forth. I waited until the count of twenty before the line made a definitive click-off sound, followed by a beeping dial tone.
Frowning, I reselected her number, wanting to ask Lisa to finish her sentence, but also end the call the right way, with I love yous and plans to talk about my trip to see her next week. But each time I tried to dial her number again, it wouldn’t connect. Peeking out the window, seeing the blizzard-like, whiteout conditions, I understood why.
I gave up, for now. Gathering a steadying breath and placing my phone next to the letter on the side-table, I dragged myself into the bathroom to take a shower.
Soon, all of this choas would be set to order.
6
Geometric Optics
*Mona*
I concocted a plan in the shower.
First, I would write Abram a note, which—after drying off, dressing, and braiding my hair—I did. It went through several revisions.
Dearest Abram,
Dear Mr. Fletcher,
Abram,
Mr. Fletcher,
If you have the time and inclination, I was hoping I would be most appreciative if you would meet with me extend me the courtesy of meeting today sometime this week for a short conversation about what happened in Chicago two summers ago an important matter.
If you have neither the time nor inclination, I completely understand and wish you nothing but the best, the happiest, and the most fulfilling everything, you deserve it well.
Please don’t hate me.
Love,
Sincerely,
Wishing you the best,
Best Regards, Mona DaVinci (Leo’s sister)
Content with the final version, I placed the letter in an envelope, which I sealed and stuffed
in the side pocket of my black cargo pants. Of note, I loved cargo pants. They were my favorite due to the plethora of pockets.
My work uniform consisted of a white button-down shirt and either black, brown, or navy cargo pants. If I needed to look more business casual, I’d wear a suit jacket of a coordinating color over the white shirt. No muss. No fuss. No making myself nuts, wondering what to wear.
In addition to my jacket, gloves, hat, etc., all I’d packed (other than utilitarian swim shorts and a swimming top for the pool, underwear, bras, and wool socks) were black leggings, black snoga pants—like yoga pants, but for the snow—black cargo pants, and black drywear long sleeve shirts. Therefore, picking out an outfit for the truth telling wasn’t an issue.
Walking to the door, I turned and surveyed my room. The bed was a crazy mess, the comforter and blankets a twisted pile in the center as usual. But everything else was tidy. My attention snagged on the other note, the letter I always carried, laying on the side table.
On a whim I didn’t bother examining too closely, I strolled to it, picked it up, and placed it in the pocket at my knee. I always carried the letter, why wouldn’t I carry it now? Turning back to the door, I breathed in through my nose, told myself to be brave, and then slipped out of the room.
It was early enough that I hoped most of the house would still be asleep, but that Lila and Melvin would be up. Discovering which room Abram occupied should be easy, Lila always kept a chart of who was sleeping in which room, no matter the number of guests. Then it would only be a matter of interacting with the others, acting normal, and waiting.
My suspicions proved right. The corridors were quiet, but Lila was up and moving around the kitchen. After exchanging a bit of friendliness, where I asked after her sprained ankle and she asked about my work, Lila relayed the morning’s gossip, like father like daughter, and informed me of a few critical facts:
Number one: I was the second person down for breakfast if you didn’t count her or Melvin.
Number two: Melvin and the nice—but rough-looking—young man named Abram had left about forty-five minutes ago to go clear the slate path and the base area around the garages.
