SPACE

by Penny Reid

  “Holy shit,” I said, shocked. Shook.

  “No, we’re playing five card stud.” Mona shook her head, but then kept shaking it, like she couldn’t stop once she’d started.

  Closing the rest of the distance and kneeling in front of her, I hesitated for a second, and then I placed my hands on either side of her face to stop the motion. “Stop shaking your head. Where is your shirt?” Not waiting for her to answer, I dropped my hands to the cushion on either side of her thighs and glanced around the room. I didn’t see it.

  “Where is your shirt?” Allyn asked, also searching, yawning. “Didn’t you throw it outside?”

  “That’s right. I did.”

  I looked back at Mona. Her eyes were on me, hazy but hot, moving over my face.

  Lifting her fingers, she smoothed them over my beard, up to my temples, tugging lightly at my hair, sending arcing waves of sensation down my spine. Just as unexpectedly, she leaned closer, her lips inches from mine, and whispered, “I want to lick you like an ice cream and eat the fuck out of your cookie cone.”

  I started, staring, feeling like I’d just been shocked. A throb of energy pressed against my skin, electrifying. Mona’s hair was down, pulled out of its braid, and slipped over her shoulders as she straightened, brushing the tops of her breasts. Gorgeous.

  But then, holding my eyes, her fingers still tugging at my hair, she wobbled inelegantly. And I remembered.

  She.

  Is.

  Drunk.

  Clearing my throat, I ripped my eyes from hers, catching her wrists and removing her hands. I gulped air, released an unsteady breath, and made up my mind.

  “Come on.” I stood, not looking at her because doing so would’ve been unwise. Very unwise. Extremely unwise. “Let’s get you all to bed.” Then, before Mona could react or protest, I turned to Jenny Vee. “Do you know where your clothes are?”

  12

  Oscillatory Motion and Waves

  *Abram*

  After figuring out just how drunk everyone was—very, but not dangerously—I woke up Melvin and Lila. We put Jenny, Bruce, and Charlie to bed first since they were on the main level.

  I asked Melvin to help me get Allyn and Mona upstairs, and Lila to put bottles of water and pain relievers next to each drunk person’s bed. I also wanted her to double-check on the ladies, make sure they were all still sleeping alone, and lock everyone’s doors—whether they’d been drunk or not—just to be safe.

  They were both nice about it, which I appreciated.

  Giving up on finding anyone’s clothes, we wrapped Mona and Allyn in blankets. Melvin carried Allyn up under Lila’s supervision, and then they both came downstairs to clean the living room.

  “Take Mona up.” Melvin pushed me away from the coffee table, where I was stacking shot glasses.

  “I can take myself up,” she said from where she was crawling around on the ground, trying to pick up playing cards. I had to tear my eyes away from the image of Mona on all fours in just yoga pants and a bra, the blanket we’d wrapped around her forgotten somewhere on the floor.

  “Sorry about the mess, Melvin.” Mona stretched, her back arching as she reached for a king of hearts.

  Kill me now.

  “It’s fine, sweetie.” But then to me, in a quieter voice, he said, “Take her upstairs and we’ll clean this.”

  I gritted my teeth, shook my head, working to sweep away my frustrations and focus. It wasn’t just the state of the living room, it was the drunk people who’d made the mess. Mona bending over to reach for playing cards under the table, ass in the air, wasn’t helping either.

  “Let me get the glasses.” My voice was rough. I cleared my throat.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Lila gave me a warm smile as she walked in. “This is honestly no big deal. You should see this place after Kimberly and Troy’s parties.”

  “Who?”

  “Exotica and DJ Tang,” Melvin answered. “One time we had to replace all the carpets after they left.” He amazed me by chuckling, like it was a fond memory. “That was disgusting. This is nothing.”

  I decided I didn’t want to know.

  “Please.” Lila came to me, taking the glasses out of my hands. “You take Mona up. I’ve already put water and a pain reliever by her bed, and I’ll be up to check on her once we get this under control.”

  When I hesitated, she laughed at me. “Really, it’s our job. How would you like it if I tried to record your songs or write your music? Now go.”

  Heaving a sigh, I reluctantly passed the glasses over to her and nodded, feeling shitty about it. This wasn’t how I was raised. It felt wrong to leave them with a mess they hadn’t made.

  Once I found Mona’s blanket, I dropped it over her back and scooped her up.

  “Hey. Whoa, wait. Why is the room moving?”

  Ignoring her, I turned for the stairs.

  She was quiet until we were halfway up the first flight. “What are you doing?”

  “Carrying you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re drunk and there are many stairs.”

  “Oh yeah. I guess I am. It’s a good thing you’re so strong, and have this amazing body, otherwise we’d be shoulder hoofing it.”

  “Shoulder hoofing?”

  “You know, I put my arm around your shoulder, you put your arm around my waist, we try to make it work, but someone is going to fall down the stairs.” Her eyes were concentrated on the side of my face. In my peripheral vision I saw her lick her lips. “What do you think about my ice cream idea?”

  I stiffened, shoving away thoughts about that, and had the wherewithal to change the subject. “Why did you take off your shirt before your socks?”

  “My feet are cold. Also, I never told you, I love the way you smell.”

  My steps faltered. I blinked, flexed my jaw.

  “I’m sorry.” She sounded sorry. “Did that make you feel uncomfortable? If I’m making you feel uncomfortable, I’ll be quiet.”

  “No. That didn’t make me feel uncomfortable.”

  “Good. Because I need to talk to someone about it, and I’ve never mentioned it to anyone—the way you smell—because it’s not something people talk about, but I always want to talk about it.”

  “You always want to talk about how I smell?” I paused at the landing, lifting her higher and readjusting my hold before taking the next flight.

  “Yes. Sometimes, when people ask how I’m doing, I want to say: better if I could sniff Abram.”

  I rolled my lips between my teeth to keep from laughing, keeping my eyes forward.

  She wasn’t finished. “It’s like how chocolate, the really good kind, melts in your mouth. That’s what you do, smelling you, does to my body. I am chocolate, and your smell is the mouth in this analogy, and I just . . . melt.”

  I swallowed. “Maybe you shouldn’t talk.”

  “Why? Am I making you uncomfort—”

  “No. But you might not remember any of this tomorrow. I don’t want you to say anything you’ll regret.”

  “Well, I will remember it tomorrow, so you don’t have to worry about that. And, as for regretting it, I don’t think I will. I mean, I’ll be cosmically embarrassed, that’s for sure, but I’ll take it like a woman.”

  “Take it like a woman?” I smiled at the way she’d modified the take it like a man turn of phrase.

  “Yes. I’ll accept responsibility, apologize, be sensitive to your concerns, work to modify my behavior in the future, and suggest we try to find a way forward with minimal awkwardness. You know, take it like a woman.”

  “What would take it like a man look like? In comparison?”

  She shrugged, sighed, rested her head against my shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess, pretend it didn’t happen? Put on a brave face? Take you out for a beer?”

  I scoffed. “That’s what you think of men?”

  “What’s wrong with beer and bravery? I think very highly of men. Well, of some men. I think highly
of you, and Poe, and Leo, and Dr. Goldblatt, and Melvin, and you.”

  “You already said me.”

  “But I think very highly of you, so you deserve to be mentioned twice.” She paused, seemed to be contemplating the issue, and then asked, “Do you want me to take you out for a beer instead? Because I can take it like a man. We could arm wrestle! FEATS OF STRENGTH!” She shoved an arm into the air.

  “Shh. Mona, people are asleep.” Again, I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh.

  “Sorry. And sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable.”

  We reached her floor. I could’ve set her down and sent her on her way, watched her from a distance to make sure she made it into her room.

  Instead, I carried her. I was enjoying her honesty, even if it was fueled by whiskey. “You’re not going to say anything that will make me feel uncomfortable, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

  “I bet I can.”

  “I doubt it.” I used her feet to push her door open and stepped inside.

  “How much do you want to bet?”

  “Nothing, because I’ll win.” Glancing around at the huge space, I decided setting her on the window seat made the most sense. It wasn’t as close as the bed. But it wasn’t the bed.

  “Oh. I’m thinking of something right now and it’ll take you from zero to the speed of light on the uncomfortable Richter scale.”

  “The Richter scale measures earthquakes.” I paused in front of the window seat, looking at her in my arms, liking her there, the weight of her, and didn’t put her down like I should.

  “Yes.” She smiled up at me, sighing languidly like she was relaxed and enjoying herself. “But this will rock your world so much, it’ll send it hurtling through space at the speed of light.”

  Smirking, I shook my head once. “Nope.” It was time to go.

  “Do you want to hear it?” she whispered, like the question was the beginning of a secret.

  “I do, very much,” I whispered in return, bending to place her on the window seat and preparing to leave. “But I don’t want you to say anything that you’ll regret when you’re sober, and I don’t think—”

  “I loved you.”

  I stopped.

  I’d just set her down, was currently crouching in front of her, poised to straighten, stand, and leave, and I stopped. I couldn’t move.

  I looked at her and I wondered how she could believe the words she was saying even as I grasped at them, willing them to be true. My heart shoved itself against my ribcage and the suddenness and pain of it made anything other than complete stillness impossible.

  She smiled at me, her gaze tracing my features like she was memorizing them, or remembering them. “See?” she asked softly, lightly, the word a little slurred. “Now you’re uncomfortable. I win. Yay.”

  I shook my head, dazed. When I managed that small movement, I tried speaking. “I’m not uncomfortable.” My voice was hoarse.

  “You are.” Her golden-brown eyes inspected me, still cloudy with liquor, but no less intelligent or assessing. “And if that didn’t make you uncomfortable, this definitely will. I’m still in love with you. I’m so very, very much in love with you.”

  I closed my eyes, wondering if this was a dream. Maybe I was the one who was drunk. Maybe she wasn’t here, and this was me wishing.

  “Either I’m in love with you, or I’m in love with my guilty feelings. I don’t know. I’ve never been in love, so I have no baseline comparison. Six days! All it took was six days. Nothing about this makes sense. But it has to be love, because how else could it survive two-years of no contact? How else!? It won’t go away. And I win. I win at this game.” Her confused agony compelled my eyes open.

  Did she know what she was saying? What was love to Mona DaVinci? What did it look like? Did it open and stretch in front of her like a cavern, with no way around, no alternate course? Just through and through, into the unknown, the absence of it only coming into focus when the breadth of it was revealed?

  “I love you,” she repeated, firmer this time, but somehow awkward. “And that—if me saying so makes you uncomfortable, I understand.” Still drunk, her clumsiness of speech a sobering reminder. She’s still drunk, and these are just words absent evidence or action.

  I shook my head, scattering the hope. Thinking about this now, taking her seriously was foolishness. I’d been a fool for her once. If I could help it, I wanted to avoid being a fool for her again . . . if I can help it.

  With another deep inhale, I stood. “I’m still not uncomfortable.”

  She lifted her hands as though to reach for me. “Okay, how about if I said—”

  “Mona.” I caught her fingers before they made contact, pressed them between my palms. “Please stop talking. You are drunk and you don’t want to say these things.”

  “I do.” She stood and I backed away, letting her go and bringing my hands to my hips. Her voice was still a whisper as she insisted, “I do want to say them, I want to shout them. They burn me up with the heat of plasma, molecules of transcendent temperatures boiling inside me.”

  “Mona—”

  “You burned that letter, and I guess I know why. You thought it was going to be more tepid and polite requests. But it wasn’t. It was the opposite of polite.” It was unclear whether she was speaking to me or herself. She pushed her fingers into her hair, gripping her scalp. “It was all these hot feelings. I’m suffocating, choking on air, because it doesn’t smell like you. And now that you’re here, I’m still choking, because you hate me, and I don’t blame you. I hate me too.”

  These are still just words.

  I took another step away, stalling, needing to clear my throat before speaking. “I don’t . . . I don’t hate you.”

  “You should.” She glanced up suddenly, her stare glassy but fierce. “You should.”

  “And you should go to sleep.” I lifted my hands, palms out, hoping she would surrender. Talking about this now, while she was drunk, was pointless.

  It was pointless, and yet my heart beat frantically, like it was true.

  Her eyes followed me as I took another step backward, and then another, this new, unexpected connection between us stretching, the growing distance necessary, but painful. Would it last the night? God, I hope so. But I wasn’t counting on it.

  Mona watched my shuffling movements toward the door. I told myself the deliberateness of my steps was about being gentle, easing out of her room. It wasn’t about reluctance, or hungrily admiring her disheveled beauty.

  But before I made it fully to the door, she darted forward. “Since I’ve already said too much, and you’re not uncomfortable, can I ask for one more thing? And if it makes you feel uncomfortable, then—”

  “Mona.” I stopped, clearing my throat, my attention tracing the lines of her body in the low light. I needed to leave. Now. “Nothing you say, or ask, will make me feel uncomfortable. Ever.”

  “But you don’t want me to talk.” She was fidgety, her stare searching.

  “Only because I realize you’re drunk, and this isn’t you.”

  “This is me.” Pressing her lips together, her forehead wrinkled, like she was suddenly in deep thought. “Or, rather, a part of me I don’t like.”

  That struck me, and before I could stop myself, I asked, “Why?”

  “You mean, why don’t I like the part of myself that vocalized my problems and angst, and then vomited them all over the person I’ve victimized? You know, I think it’s probably because it makes me a total—”

  “You didn’t victimize me.”

  “I did. And if you don’t think I did, then I should make you a diagram and write you a proof that proves it. I could, you know.”

  I didn’t want to smile at her threat, but I couldn’t help myself. “You’re overthinking this.”

  “Yeah, probably. But that doesn’t make it any less true. Why don’t you hate me? After everything I’ve done, you should hate me. I hate that you don’t hate me.”

&n
bsp; Swallowing several versions of the truth, I settled on, “You’re very difficult to hate.”

  “But my actions demand it.” She hit the palm of one hand with the fist of the other. “If the world knew what I did to you, if social media caught wind of it, I’d be crucified and they’d be right. And then they’d call you weak for not hating me and wanting me crucified.”

  “Maybe that’s more telling of the problem with social media than with you.”

  “What? How does that make any sense?”

  “Love doesn’t have to make sense,” I said, thoughtlessly, stupidly, foolishly.

  Dammit.

  She let out a little breath, like I’d surprised her, and then she swayed. Instinctively, I reached for her, holding her steady. Mona’s eyes grew hazier as her gaze moved between mine.

  I couldn’t think. I worked to shut down the part of myself that was anticipating the morning, and the new confrontation, and everything that—hopefully honesty—would come after. She was drunk. I had questions and I had a list of demands, but those would have to wait, when her confessions weren’t tainted by intoxication.

  And then her attention dropped to my lips, and she made no attempt to disguise what she was thinking, what she wanted.

  Oh hell no.

  I wasn’t doing this now. Nope. Is that what this was about?

  I let her go. I stepped away and crossed my arms, clearing my throat of the choking anger.

  Fuck her.

  I should have fucking known better. I should’ve fucking known!

  She wanted me, that much was painfully clear. What had she said earlier? I want to lick you like an ice cream and eat the fuck out of your cookie cone. . .

  Fine. Alright. Okay. I got it. I understood what was going on here. If she’d proposed sex while sober, before pretending to have feelings for me, at least it would’ve been honest. But this? Telling me she loved me, she still loved me, and then this? Why had I expected more?