SPACE

by Penny Reid

  “Which is?” I asked around a yawn, dizzy, sleep irresistible.

  “Securing an official clarification of expectations, with roles defined.”

  “Expectations? Roles?”

  “Exclusive. Not exclusive. Boyfriend. Girlfriend.”

  I liked the sound of exclusive. Maybe her plan wasn’t so bad.

  “And then,” she said, her words punctuated by the sound of the curtain being drawn, “phase three is—”

  “How many phases are there?”

  “The phases continue until you reach your goal, whatever that is.” Her hands were back, and I felt her righting my covers, tucking me in with perfunctory movements. “Hopefully, the goal is happiness, for both of you.”

  Without thinking, I muttered, “I think I’d die happy if we made it to phase one.”

  Kaitlyn chuckled. It sounded farther away. I couldn’t say for certain because I was already half asleep.

  “Then you better draw up a will before phase four.”

  “What’s that?” My words sounded slurred even to me.

  “I’ll give you a hint, it rhymes with trucking.”

  My eyes flew open and I groaned, glaring at my friend where she stood holding the doorknob. “Great. Thanks. Now I’ll never sleep.”

  “And rucking. And mucking. And sucking. Actually, it involves sucking—”

  I threw a pillow at her.

  14

  Fluid Statics

  *Mona*

  Upon waking, the first thought that popped into my head—the instant my eyes opened—was, Did I tell Abram last night that I wanted to lick him like an ice cream and eat the fuck out of his cookie cone?

  Or did I dream that?

  Staring at the ceiling, studying the vaulted beams of exposed wood, I realized that, no. It hadn’t been a dream. And furthermore, the statement hadn’t been the most shocking proposal I’d made.

  Am I making you uncomfortable?

  I loved you.

  I’m still in love with you.

  I’m so very, very much in love with you.

  I’m suffocating, choking on air, because it doesn’t smell like you.

  Can I listen to your heart?

  A rush of mortification—so intense it made me groan out loud—crashed over me. It was a nuclear blast of embarrassment, befitting the gamma-ray burst that was Abram (Harris) Fletcher’s death grip on my psyche. Because I could, I ducked under my covers and squeezed my eyes shut, wishing for the wolves to actually come.

  I don’t know how long I stayed like that, replaying the evening over and over. The moment our eyes met across the dining room, how awful I’d been to Kaitlyn, how beautiful and meaningful his song had been, how brave and foolish it made me—stupid bravery!—and how he’d thrown the letter I’d been carrying around for years into the fire.

  Into. The. Fire.

  I’d been so angry. So angry. The closest I’d ever come to that kind of anger was the last time I’d been with Abram, when he’d forfeited the pool race in Chicago. I didn’t get angry like that. I simmered, but I never struck out.

  But Abram makes me SO ANGRY!

  The rest of the evening—the drunken game of strip poker, Abram finding me, the disappointment in his eyes, my sloppy confessions, him leaving without a word after I’d asked to listen to his heart, me crying myself to sleep—made me sad.

  Therefore, instead, I focused on the lost letter. I was tired of being sad, so sad. Between madness and sadness, I chose the former.

  Tossing the mess of covers from my body, I stood and frowned at my surroundings. He’d been here, in this room, just a few hours ago. When my heart fluttered a little, achy, wistful, I told it to cease and desist. It didn’t listen.

  Therefore, I left. I rushed through getting dressed, intent on spending some quality cold time in the snow, and marched out of my room. I’d have to see him at some point, hopefully when I was too tired and numb to care that I’d revealed too much of myself, or that he’d repaid my honesty by burning my love letter, and later walking out on me.

  I was almost to the mudroom when I heard Leo call my name. “Wait, Mona! Wait.”

  I turned toward the sound of his voice, and then twisted completely around when I saw he was jogging toward me.

  “Leo. Should you be out of bed?” I felt his forehead as soon as he reached my location. He was still warm. “Why are you up?”

  “I need to talk to you.” His words and his expression were grim.

  “Okay. Fine. Let’s go back to your room.”

  Frowning his stern frown, his gaze traveled over me. “Where are you going?”

  “Outside. For a walk.”

  “Here, I’ll come down with you.”

  “You’re not going outside, you still have a fever.”

  He gave me a half-eyeroll. “We can talk in the mudroom.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure you—”

  Leo nodded and brusquely walked past, leading the way.

  I chalked his abruptness up to still being sick, so when we reached the lower room and he closed the door, I was surprised to see how annoyed he was.

  “You know,” he started, gritting his teeth, and then exhaled a humorless laugh. “Abram is a good friend of mine. I mean, a really good friend. He and I have been through a lot, and he’s always been there for me.”

  Standing straighter, I flinched back a little, realizing that Leo must’ve heard what happened last night after Abram played his song. No one had asked me what was going on with Abram, not even Kaitlyn when she came over and sat with Allyn and I on the couch. She’d talked about satellite internet delivery and a non-profit organization that helped provide internet connectivity to underserved areas. You know, the normal stuff women talk about when they hang out.

  I’d been thankful for her company and for her lack of Abram-related questions at the time, grateful for the distraction, even though I hadn’t been totally distracted. I kept looking for Abram, hoping he’d come back, and unsure of what I would do if or when he did.

  Everyone else kept their distance until Nicole suggested shots. Then, we’d all become fast friends. There was no greater bonding agent between strangers than alcohol.

  But now I could see, even though Leo’s friends hadn’t asked me about Abram, they’d obviously asked him.

  And Leo was pissed.

  “Leo, I—”

  “I get it, okay? I should’ve checked with you first before bringing everyone here. I knew you were going to be here, and I shouldn’t have invited a house party.”

  “It’s fine. It’s honestly not a big deal. The house is huge, and I—”

  “Why Abram?” he demanded, stone-jawed, his feverish eyes flinty. “Why him? He’s my oldest friend.”

  I reared back. “Did—did Abram say something—”

  “No. He’s asleep. I haven’t talked to him yet. Kaitlyn said he was up all night, so he’s sleeping now. God, Mona.” Leo growled, shaking his head and turning away to pace. “I really don’t want to lose his friendship, okay? Can you understand that?”

  “Yes. Of course.” My instinct was to soothe my brother, especially since he was sick, but I didn’t understand precisely why he was so agitated, so I tried again for clarification. “I don’t understand why you would lose Abram as a friend, or why you think you’re going to. Because we argued?”

  I didn’t add that, if Abram hadn’t walked away from our nutty family already, after what Lisa and I had done, I couldn’t fathom what would make him walk away now.

  “Because!” He rushed forward, his eyes wide. “He’s into you, okay? I heard what happened, and it was obvious to everyone—and everyone was there to see it.”

  That had me searching the walls around him, hunting for the puzzle pieces I was missing. “Wait. Wait a minute. You’re worried about losing Abram as a friend because you think he’s ‘into’ me?”

  “Yes,” he spat, gritting his teeth, his hands coming to his waist. “Could you avoid him? Please? Just until I get a chanc
e to smooth things over? Or . . . just don’t make it worse.”

  I stared at my brother, my stomach lifting quickly to my throat, and then dropping slowly to my feet with the comprehension of what he was saying.

  A short, stunned exhale pushed itself out of my chest. It tasted sour, and I said and thought at the same time, “I can’t believe you.”

  Leo glanced at me, his eyebrows suspending high on his forehead. “What? What can’t you believe? That I don’t want to lose a good friend?”

  “How good of a friend could he possibly be if he let this—supposed feelings for me—impact your friendship?”

  Gritting his teeth, he angled his chin, his eyelids drooping to administer a glare.

  I wasn’t finished. “If Allyn liked you, and you didn’t like her—”

  He perked up. “You think Allyn likes me?”

  “Shut it, Leo. And listen,” I whispered harshly.

  He snapped his mouth closed and rocked back on his heels, looking feverish and exhausted and confused. And since he looked feverish and exhausted, I worked to harness my temper at his confusion.

  I’d walked down here on a cloud of anger, clutching it close, because the only other option had been sorrow. Had I made mistakes with Abram? Yes. Did Leo deserve to lose his friend because of my mistakes? No. Obviously not.

  But, dammit. “I’m your sister,” I whispered, less harsh, searching my brother’s gaze for some spark of understanding. “I would never do anything to hurt you, or Lisa. Or Mom and Dad. I’m your family. I want that to mean something.”

  He swallowed with what looked like effort and sighed. “It does, Mona. But—” he stopped himself, shaking his head as though to clear it. “Abram isn’t the first, okay?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I lose friends whenever they meet you. They meet you. They fall fucking crazy stupid for you. You shoot them down. They don’t want to know me.” He didn’t sound angry. In fact, he sounded calm-ish, reasonable. He made it all sound so reasonable, and like it was my fault. “I don’t want to lose any more friends, okay? Friends are how you make it in this business. It’s all about who you know.”

  My eyes stung. So did my nose. So did my heart, and I asked the first question that popped into my mind. “Would you rather lose a sister?”

  Again, he rocked back like I’d surprised him. Again, he looked confused. He struggled. I could see he struggled to respond, and it occurred to me that, had he been well, without a fever, he probably wouldn’t be saying or thinking any of this. The temptation to soothe him, to apologize, to promise to avoid Abram—if that’s what Leo wanted—surfaced once more.

  But the words wouldn’t leave my mouth.

  Don’t be too smart. Don’t admit you’re smart. Don’t think you’re smart. Be brilliant. Make some mistakes. Give your opinion. Don’t make any mistakes. Stop trying to be perfect. Don’t talk so much. Talk more. Don’t be too nice. Be nice. Smile. Don’t smile so much. Act like a man. Act like a woman. Be assertive. Don’t be emotional. Be sensitive. Not too assertive. Be nice to my friends. Don’t lead them on. Let them down gently.

  I was so tired of walking a tightrope, at work, here, with my family, with everyone. Enough. I’d had enough.

  Turning from my brother, I pulled on my hat and opened the door leading outside. I shut it. I didn’t look back.

  Four hours in the snow, making snow angels, listening to silence, and staring at the sky was just the kind of numbness I’d needed. But now I was freezing my nipples off and needed to pee.

  Trudging through the snow, debating what to do with the rest of my day, and deciding something hot was in order, I made it back to the house just after two in the afternoon. I left all my snow clothes in the mudroom closet, my gaze lingering on the sweater I recognized as the one Abram wore last night while he sang “Hold a Grudge.”

  I hadn’t been prepared last night to face the music (pun intended), but I was ready now. Tired and resigned, I was prepared. In fact, I was at peek detachment (i.e. preparedness).

  Finished stripping off my outer layer, I swung by the kitchen to grab a bite to eat, and then I climbed the stairs to my room. The basement had a saltwater pool and a hot tub, and both of those options sounded absolutely divine. The idea of a few laps followed by a warm soak sped my movements, and after changing and wrapping myself in a bathrobe, it was back down the stairs, to the basement, past the studio, and to the pool.

  The pool was a simple rectangle, and the space in which it was located ran the entire length of the house. It was a long, narrow room that smelled like salt, chlorine, and water. With lounge chairs at one end, the pool and then the hot tub until about three-fourths of the way down, a little shed-type structure at the far end and that’s it, every sound echoed.

  The shed was set away from the wall and housed a bathroom. Why the original owners had opted for a shed instead of a built-in closet and bathroom, I had no idea. Maybe they wanted to give the illusion of being outside? The walls were painted light blue, like the sky, so that was a distinct possibility.

  Leaving my bathrobe on a lounge chair, and after grabbing some goggles from the shed, I walked to the water’s edge and dipped my toe in the water. The temperature wasn’t particularly hot, I estimated close to 302 degrees Kelvin (84 Fahrenheit/29 Celsius for all the non-physics nerds in the room). But it felt wonderfully warm given how cold my body was after the snow.

  Using the pool steps, I submerged myself, my bikini shorts, and my swim shirt, pushing my hair out of the way as I surfaced and wiping my eyes. I’d just turned my attention to the googles when I heard the door to the pool room open. Glancing up from the water, I did a double take, and then my muscles spasmed. I dropped the goggles.

  It was . . .

  He was—

  “Abram.”

  His deep brown eyes were on me and his shirt was nowhere and those seemed like the two most relevant facts at the moment. Yes, he wore a bathing suit. But his chest—my God, his chest.

  What looked like a single tattoo covered one side of his torso—the left side—disappearing into his shorts, swirling over his shoulder and down the entirety of his arm. A full sleeve, gorgeous ocean waves in black and gray and vivid blue.

  A small, stunned, panting breath escaped me, and I backed up a step. Tangentially, I realized my mouth was hanging open, my eyes were approaching circular, and it was a good thing I was in the pool because I might have been drooling. And his shoulders? HIS SHOULDERS??! No one was prepared for the reality of his shoulders, least of all me.

  His gorgeousness felt like an attack. I felt personally attacked. He wasn’t Hallmark handsome, he was Turkish TV show handsome.

  WHAT IS EVEN HAPPENING?!

  “Hey,” he said, and my eyes cut to his.

  He wore a small smile on his lips and in his eyes, and I snapped my mouth shut, swallowing the thirst. But there was so much thirst. So much. So. Much. I was in very real danger of choking on my thirst.

  As Abram made it to the pool, walking down the steps and toward me in fluid, unhurried movements, I realized I was not prepared. I mean, I’d been prepared for talking to him, or hearing him talk while I listened thoughtfully, contritely, and apologized for my drunken honesty-vomit. If we’d come across each other in the hall, as an example, or taken our discussion to the study again, I would’ve been more prepared than an Eagle Scout.

  But now?

  No.

  No.

  It was impossible to be prepared because it was impossible to be mindful when one’s brain is addled by metric tons of lust. My lust was so huge, so substantial and unwieldy, it probably had its own gravitational field.

  The water pushed me, swirled as he approached, the sound of gentle, lapping waves echoing in the cavernous, relatively bare room. And when he was just a few short decimeters away, he stopped. And then he waited.

  And then he asked, “Aren’t you going to say hi?”

  “Hi,” I said, the greeting weak, because apparently hi
s body made me a weak woman. Gravitational lust was a weak force. Good to know.

  His smile widened, his eyes that familiar shade of amber I remembered from Chicago, sparkly and twinkly and hitting me right in the nostalgia amblagada (which was the lesser known, fictional counterpart to the medulla amblagada).

  With one more look, he dunked himself under the water briefly, returning to a standing position, but now fully wet. He was so beautiful, it hurt. It hurt so bad.

  This is the worst.

  I had a nagging suspicion that he was doing this on purpose, that this was payback for the night in Chicago when I’d shown up to the pool wearing a string bikini. He’d looked like he wanted to strangle me. If that’s what this was, I applauded him, because his payback plan was a raging success.

  And if he’d felt even half as turned on as I felt now? He deserved a standing ovation.

  I swallowed, telling my eyes not to look at the droplets rolling down his sculpted chest, or pooling at his sternum. He wiped his beard and eyes and lips, and returned his eyes to mine, like they belonged to me.

  “What do you remember?” The question was softly spoken, and he was closer now.

  I didn’t remember that happening—him moving closer—which made me wonder how long I’d been staring at him, but I did manage to say, “Everything.”

  “Everything?” He lifted an eyebrow, studying me, his voice low.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?” With this question he drifted closer.

  “Yes.” I nodded, sobriety finally penetrating the lust fog, because I did remember. With the memory came embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?”

  “Yes.”

  “For what?”

  “For making the mess in the living room. And for—uh—if what I said made you feel uncomfortable last night, I’m sorry.”

  He nodded slowly, his hands moving back and forth under the surface of the pool, like he was caressing the water. I was now jealous of the water.