SPACE

by Penny Reid

  “Nothing. But I like to make the good stuff.”

  I finished opening the can and pushed it toward her. “You make the good stuff every time?”

  She grabbed the can and scraped out the thick liquid with a spatula. “Yes.”

  “Fancy,” I teased.

  Her eyes lifted, connected with mine, and she promptly returned to her task. “I rarely have hot chocolate, so I want to make it count.”

  Considering this, I watched her place the ingredients into the saucepan—the milk, the cocoa, cinnamon, cardamom, orange zest, a pinch of salt—and a thought occurred to me.

  I hadn’t decided whether or not to share the thought when she said, “You look like you want to say something.”

  “I was just thinking.” I tugged on my beard, just under my bottom lip. “I’m not saying this is the case, but maybe you only like having hot chocolate so rarely because you only drink the kind that requires a lot of work and cleanup.”

  She stood at the range, stirring the mixture with a whisk, splitting her attention between me and the hot chocolate. “It’s not that much work.”

  I moved my eyes to the orange and the zester and the measuring spoons and the spices. “Not everything worth having requires a struggle. Sometimes, things that are easy are also very, very good.”

  Her lips quirked to the side. “You say that, but just wait until you drink this.” She nodded to herself. “Then you’ll be singing a different tune. Struggle can sometimes make the end result so much better.”

  “The end result is the end result. A struggle doesn’t change it.”

  “Ha! I disagree.”

  I leaned my elbow on the countertop, placing my thumb beneath my chin and pressing my index finger along my bottom lip. “How so?”

  “Because then you know you’ve earned it.”

  My eyebrows jumped. “Does everything have to be earned?”

  Mona kept her eyes on the saucepan, and it seemed like she was working to keep her features free of telling expression. “Not everything. Just most things.”

  “Really.”

  “In my experience,” she said quietly, her lips thinning.

  I blinked at her, because a great deal of Mona DaVinci had just come into focus, and this clarity had me asking, “You expect people to earn a place with you? To prove themselves?”

  Her frown was immediate, and she looked confused as her gaze searched mine. “What?”

  “You expect people to struggle? To earn a place?”

  Now she reared back, looking genuinely perplexed by my conclusion. “No. Of course not.”

  “Then what did you mean? ‘In your experience’?”

  “Just that—” she shrugged, stirring the hot chocolate faster “—I don’t want anyone to give me something I don’t deserve. I want to feel like I’ve earned what I have, then I know it’s mine.” She sighed, and then huffed a laugh devoid of humor. “And, believe me, I understand the irony of my statement. Here I am, in my parents’ mansion, surrounded by luxury I had nothing to do with.”

  I want to feel like I’ve earned what I have.

  Huh. . . well, damn.

  A conversation I’d had with Melvin the evening Mona had arrived resurfaced in my memory, felt pertinent to the conversation she and I were having now. Suddenly, it was difficult to breathe.

  Mona brought her own food. She made her own bed. She cleaned up after herself.

  “Did you pay for your own college?” I asked.

  Mona gave me a funny look. “Yes. Kind of. I had a scholarship.”

  “And now? Grad school?”

  “Yes. I have grants, and scholarships.”

  “What about living expenses?” I was being tactless, but now that the suspicion surfaced, I needed to know. “Who pays those?”

  Mona closed one eye, scrunching her face, and peeked at me through the other. “I do. Why?”

  Of course.

  “What did you get your brother for his birthday?”

  She swallowed. “A few things.”

  “And what did he get you?”

  Her lips thinned again. She didn’t answer.

  I stood. “And your parents? Did you get them anything?”

  She shrugged.

  “And they sent nothing, right?”

  Mona tucked her lips between her teeth and when she lifted her eyes to mine, they were cool, aloof. “What’s your point?”

  The urge to wrap her in a hug had my feet moving before I’d told them to and I gave myself a mental kick for having it backward. Mona didn’t expect anything from anyone. She’d saved her sister, because that’s who she was.

  Which meant what for us?

  Did she think she needed to earn me? Conversations, interactions between us—both here and in Chicago—reframed themselves, and one in particular struck me as important.

  “When we were in the pool, in Chicago,” I started carefully, trailing my fingers on the kitchen counter as I moved slowly closer, absorbing every shift and change behind her gaze. “When we raced.”

  Mona straightened her spine, her attention darting over every part of me except my eyes. “What about it?”

  “What were you trying to earn?” Her anger at me, when I’d forfeited the race, had never made sense. I stopped swimming because I didn’t want to fight with her, and also because seeing her in that bikini had been torture.

  Currently, Mona pressed her lips together, swallowed again, and when she spoke her voice was gravelly, quiet. “If you remember, the bet was that whoever won got to stay and do laps, and the other person had to leave. I wanted to earn the right to stay and swim laps.”

  “But that wasn’t the reason why you were angry. What were you really trying to earn?” I’d made it to where she stood, still stirring the hot chocolate, but I didn’t touch her.

  She huffed another laugh, this one sounded nervous. “It was—I was being silly.” She turned off the stove, wiped her hands on a towel, her movements fidgety.

  “Tell me.”

  “You want honesty,” she said, and I got the sense she was talking to herself, reminding herself. “If you want to know the truth, fine. I made a secret bet with myself too. That if I won the race, then I’d, uh—” she crossed to a cabinet, finishing her sentence with her back turned while she pulled mugs down for the hot chocolate “—I’d tell you the truth, right then, about who I was and why I was there.”

  I flinched, stunned, blinking rapidly, feeling like I’d been slapped. Holding my breath for a moment so I couldn’t—so I won’t—yell, are you fucking kidding me right now?

  Instead, I waited. I stalled. I tried to think of as many words as possible that rhymed with regret—which ironically included bet—and then I switched to the word resentment.

  I waited until the edges of my vision cleared, and then I did my best to match my volume to hers, since what I really wanted—what I really fucking wanted—was to rage. “But you didn’t. You didn’t tell me.”

  How different would things be now if I’d just finished that damn race? She’d been winning. She was so fast and fierce, and it had turned me on to the point of torment. I hadn’t wanted to fight with her any more. I’d wanted to lift her to the edge of the pool, pull the tie on that flimsy bikini, and taste her, make her come with my mouth and fingers, right there. And then I’d—

  Stop.

  Back up.

  Take a deep breath.

  Shit.

  There was no hiding from that night. I’d dreamt about her and that night many, many times; and we did many, many things in those dreams; but none of those things included fighting.

  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t win. You forfeited and I didn’t earn the right to tell you,” she said, making it sound entirely reasonable in retrospect. But at the time, she’d been angry. She’d been furious.

  I didn’t earn the right. . . My bones ached, my breath became shallow with the effort. What happened to her to make her this way? Make her think she wasn’t deserving? That she
needed to earn the right to tell the truth and take what she wanted? And what would’ve happened if I’d pushed her?

  What if I’d kissed her? What if I had lifted her to the edge and untied the bikini? What if I hadn’t been patient?

  And what does this mean for us, now?

  Mona’s shoulders were stiff, and she seemed to take a few deep breaths before returning to the range and to me. She didn’t look at me. She served the hot chocolate and handed me my cup first.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly, my fury slowly morphing to frustration, and then to grief.

  Looking at her now, at her lovely face, so deserving of every beautiful, wonderful thing, I couldn’t help but think back to real Lisa, not Mona-as-Lisa, and what she’d told me about making other people happy.

  They have to do that for themselves, she’d said. Was she right? I had no idea. I hoped not.

  Setting aside my mug, I took Mona’s cup from her hand, drawing her hesitant and beautiful gaze to mine. I wrapped her in my arms and placed a lingering kiss on her neck. I held her tightly and I stroked her back.

  “You deserve everything,” I whispered.

  Instead of relaxing, she held me tighter.

  I hoped Lisa was wrong. I hoped, if you love someone enough, it was possible to show them what they deserved, and be their source of happiness.

  16

  Atomic Masses

  *Mona*

  I awoke to the sound of a heartbeat, and I smiled.

  Blinking open my eyes, I carefully lifted my head from Abram’s chest, doing my best to make as little noise or movement as possible while propping my chin on my palm and gazing down at him. He was divine. And he was 100 percent asleep.

  What time did he come to bed?

  After hot chocolate, the conversation had become much lighter and easier. I hypothesized Abram was trying to stay away from heavy topics after grilling me about whether I paid for my own school and whether my family reciprocated birthday gifts. They didn’t, but I honestly didn’t mind. I was a hard person to buy gifts for—as my sister and my mom’s personal assistant in charge of shopping had told me countless times—and I appreciated the fact that they didn’t send me things just to send me something.

  It was fine. I was fine.

  And I was grateful he’d dropped the topic. I’d wanted to spend time with him, get to know him, not discuss my family.

  We’d talked about so many things, including how I didn’t like cereal, or anything that grows soggy, and that my favorite element on the periodic table was sodium. Then, he’d made a periodic table Chuck Norris joke, and I’d laughed with more gusto than I’d expected, surprising myself. Which led him to telling his entire arsenal of Chuck Norris jokes for at least a half hour. I laughed so hard my face hurt.

  Lila came in at that point to start dinner and Abram asked her if she could make ours to go. That earned him a look from me.

  “What?” he’d asked, drinking the rest of his hot chocolate, his gorgeous brown eyes dancing.

  “If we’re both missing, people are going to notice.”

  “Let them notice.” He placed a soft kiss on my forehead, followed by another on my cheek, and then the corner of my mouth, his beard brushing against my face. Holy particle accelerator, Batman. My stomach fluttered mercilessly.

  And then he’d followed up the kissy-face treatment with, “I only want to be with you.”

  He was too good with the words. Damn poet.

  I glanced at Lila, who was trying not to be too obvious about watching us. Regardless, I felt myself smile.

  We had our meal in the solarium on the second floor, just the two of us, but I made a point to leave a note for Allyn under her door. I wanted to give her a heads up. She’d integrated with the group just fine, genuinely seemed to be having a good time, but still. I’d been the one to invite her. I worried I was being a bad friend leaving her alone for dinner again.

  Abram proved to be an excellent distraction from my worries. I didn’t typically mind quiet. I’ve never been one of those people who felt compelled to always fill it, and Abram didn’t seem to be either. But, between the two of us, there was no break in conversation, no spots of silence. Every void was filled, every empty place occupied, and it didn’t occur to either of us to check the time until I suppressed my second yawn.

  “It’s late,” he said, and my stomach dropped as he showed me the time on his phone. “And as much as I want to keep you up all night talking, you need to sleep.”

  “What about you? Don’t you need to sleep? You should sleep. We could both sleep.” We’d been sitting on the couch under the lemon tree, facing each other, holding hands over the back of the couch. It was SO AWESOME!!!!

  I thought I was already melty and relaxed, but his small, sexy grin liquified me. “Mona DaVinci, do you want to sleep with me?”

  I tried not to smile, but I failed so hard. “Honestly? Yes. Sleeping with you in Chicago, in the theater room, is one of my fondest memories.” At this point, after the day we’d had, confessing these small truths didn’t feel brave anymore. With every confession, he made me feel less and less self-conscious, always confessing something in return.

  I almost forgot that we were doomed. Doomed like a dying star.

  “It’s my heartbeat, isn’t it? That’s what you’re after.”

  Yes. It’s your heart I want. “Yes. It is. And your body. I really love your body.”

  “I really love your body,” he said, like it was an easy and natural thing for two people to admit to each other, making my own heart do a wonderful and painful flip-flop. “But I need to write before I can sleep.”

  “Okay.” I nodded tiredly. “I can stay up for a while longer. If you don’t mind the company, I can read while you write. I finished the books I brought, but I have two journals I need to read before I leave.”

  Abram’s gaze dropped suddenly and so did his smile. Before I could ask him about it, he said, “How about you go to sleep, and when I’m finished, I’ll come up and lie down with you? No pressure.”

  I was already nodding enthusiastically before he’d finished. “Sounds great!”

  And that’s what we’d done. He’d tucked me in with a toe-curling kiss, and then left. But now he was here.

  As I looked at him, sleeping so deeply, I realized, in addition to still wearing his jeans and long sleeve T-shirt, he was lying above the covers. Smiling at his strangeness, I took a moment to study his face, working to memorize every detail. I then placed my head on his chest again and listened to his heart.

  I’m going to miss this. A lot.

  Sadness abruptly weighed down on me, felt as tangible as the blanket covering my body, and I squeezed my eyes shut. The Abram chant sounded between my ears, telling me to be honest, telling me this was fleeting, telling me to be cautious, reminding me that I was leaving on Sunday.

  I tried to reason with my reason, asking myself, What is the harm in staying a little longer? Will listening to the cadence of his heart now make leaving him later more difficult?

  YES!

  Absolutely. Yes.

  Dammit.

  Allowing myself to linger, to grow used to this closeness, would just make everything worse in the long run. I needed to get up. I needed to keep living my normal life. I couldn’t pause it, like I’d done the last time, because reentry into reality would feel impossible and I’d crash.

  If I were smart, I’d start distancing myself now.

  . . . Just another ten minutes.

  My heart squeezed and I held my breath. Yesterday had been wonderful, and I would treasure it and whatever time we had left. Always. But smart Mona was right. And unfortunately, smart Mona was also the primary decision maker.

  With great care, I lifted away from Abram’s glorious heart and body, and rolled out of the bed. The effort required made my pulse hammer between my ears. Standing, I hurriedly turned back to Abram and covered him with the blanket, I didn’t want him to be cold.

  And then I walked quie
tly to the bathroom and began going through the motions of my normal day.

  I left Abram a note on the side table. On the envelope I wrote, “DO NOT BURN,” hoping it would make him laugh. Though I was still a little sore about him burning my letter, and I sorta mourned the loss of it, I recognized now that I’d dodged a bullet.

  My first draft of the new letter read,

  Abram,

  Dear Abram,

  My dearest Abram,

  I hope you slept well had sweet dreams. When you wake up, and if you feel inclined, please come find me. I’ll be in the solarium reading until the afternoon, and then I think I’ll go outside and take advantage of the sun and the snow. I’ll be by the sledding slope. Maybe I’ll build a snow fort! But I’m happy to modify my plans if you’d prefer to do something else I’m up for anything if you want to spend the day together.

  Regards,

  Missing you.

  Love, Mona

  The final version didn’t have all the strikeouts, obviously, and it struck me as reckless. I’d fretted over the word love for far too long, but eventually committed to it. It felt like the truth, so it stayed.

  I didn’t see anyone as I walked down the stairs and halls leading to the kitchen, but I did hear conversation coming from the living room. I wasn’t avoiding anyone, but I was hungry, so I decided to stop by the kitchen first, eat, and then seek out Allyn.

  As it turns out, the two activities weren’t mutually exclusive. Allyn was sitting at the kitchen table next to Leo, and the way they seemed to be so entirely engrossed in each other, and whatever they were talking about, made me smile. Even though I was still annoyed with my brother about our conversation yesterday, I wished him nothing but the best, and Allyn was the best.

  “Hey, Mona.” Kaitlyn’s greeting had me turning toward her voice.

  “Oh. Hi, Kaitlyn. How are you?” I hadn’t spotted her when I first walked in. She was standing by the refrigerator, holding a carton of half-and-half.

  “Great!” she said, her smile bright. “I don’t think you’ve met Martin yet?” Lifting her chin, she gestured to a man, another person I hadn’t immediately noticed upon entering the kitchen.