“I can’t leave you here by yourself.” He said this like it was obvious.
I regathered the threads of the conversation just in time to find critical fault in his logic. “But you’ll sleep until after noon? What if I’d gone out this morning?”
“Did you go out this morning?” He asked this like he already knew the answer.
“That’s not the point. I could have.”
“But you didn’t.”
“But I could have. You trusted me to stay put this morning, but not this afternoon?”
“This morning is in the past, this afternoon is now. You’re coming.”
I glared at him and his stunning lack of sense. “You make no sense.”
“I don’t have to make sense.” He stalked around the kitchen island holding two pieces of pizza, his grin smug, slowly regaining the steps I’d placed between us. “I just have to keep you from doing anything stupid until your parents’ assistant shows up. You’re coming, Liza.”
Giving me another second of his smug grin, he walked around me, bumping my shoulder with his arm as he did so, and walked up the stairs.
Once I was fairly certain he was out of earshot, I mumbled darkly to myself, “So . . . it has come to this.”
Full-out avoidance was now no longer an option. At least not for the next few hours. Since I had no choice but to accompany Abram on his errand, my new plan was to avoid conversation. I would do this by taking Gabby’s advice regarding single word answers.
While Abram showered and changed on the third floor, I crept to the kitchen pantry, pulled my phone from the hidden backpack, and checked for messages from Lisa or her lawyer. There were none.
But my good friend Allyn had messaged, and so had Gabby. I ignored the Gabster for now and opened Allyn’s thread.
Allyn: How’s it going in CA? Remember, you’re eating avocados for two. I am living vicariously through you. Also, send pictures of the avocados before you eat them.
Allyn: PS I love you for more than just your avocado pics!
I grinned, because she was so weird and cool. We’d met my senior year, which happened to be her freshman year, and we’d clicked instantly. I’d begun to doubt clicking with anyone in any sort of situation was ever going to happen. And then I’d met Allyn, in the cafeteria, picking through sad avocado flesh. We’d shared a sigh over the substandard options and she’d taken that as an open invitation to become my best friend. I had no objections, because she was everything I was not—funny, open, engaging, comfortable in her own skin—but definitely wanted to be.
I sent her a quick text, promising to send her photos when possible—probably next week—and, with extreme reluctance, navigated to Gabby’s texts, a series of messages beginning last night and through this afternoon.
Gabby: I will be over tomorrow evening to check on you. Stay strong, nerdy grasshopper.
Gabby: Don’t forget to apply makeup in the morning. Heavy on the liner.
Gabby: And do your hair.
Gabby: Good morning, sunshine. How are things?
Gabby: Since you haven’t responded, I’m assuming you’re sitting on Abram’s face and I totally applaud this development.
I stopped here, sucking in a small, startled breath as a lurid flash of an underwearless me sitting on Abram’s face suffused every millimeter of my consciousness and sent pinpricks of tingling awareness racing beneath my skin. It was like being assaulted with hot honey, leaving me flushed and sticky and confused, because why would someone assault another person with hot honey? That would be strange.
“Jeez, Gabby,” I murmured to my phone, fanning my shirt and blinking away the vivid image, though the visceral effects lingered. I endeavored to not dwell on the fact that none of my initial, secondary, or tertiary reactions to the thought had been displeasure or disgust.
No. Best not to dwell on that.
But I did dwell on it, how could I not? Thankfully, my brain rescued me, reminding me that my last quasi-sexual encounter with another person had been several months ago, after which I’d definitively determined that sexual partners were optional—often superfluous—to the sex act.
Abram had an attractive exterior and therefore I was attracted to it, and that was normal. My body had physical urges that I’d neglected, and that was also normal.
Yet being attracted to someone’s exterior and having neglected urges did not mean taking action with that exterior was a foregone conclusion. I wasn’t a slave to my physical urges and attractive exteriors. I could, and would, simply ignore the attraction and attend to myself when convenient. Maybe tomorrow. Perhaps even tonight.
But where . . . ?
Plugging my phone into the portable USB charger I always carried in my bag, I stuffed both into the backpack, and stuffed the backpack back into place. I’d taken too much time already, I’d have to call the lawyer to check on Lisa another time.
Wiping clammy hands on my pants, I stood and searched the snack shelf for something quick to eat. Granola bars seemed like the best choice, given my options, but I did note that there were four more bags of unopened prunes near the edge.
The discovery made me feel a modicum better about grabbing one of the bags earlier. Of all the snacks, prunes were in the greatest abundance. Statistically speaking, I’d been more likely to grab prunes than anything else on the shelf. But as I left the pantry, granola bars in hand, I couldn’t help wondering why we had so many prunes, and who had bought them.
I made quick work of the granola bar and washed it down with water, setting the glass by the sink for later use. Checking the time, I meandered to the front door and searched the shoe cubby for footwear. I found some of my old Birkenstocks and a pair of Lisa’s flip-flops—Vera Wang, black soles with bejeweled straps. Gazing longingly at the Birkenstocks, I pulled on the Vera Wang sandals.
But then, when I stood and tested them, I was shook. Fantastic arch support, supple leather straps, soft soles. They were the most comfortable sandals I’d ever worn.
“Huh,” I said to my feet’s reflection in the mirror as I rocked back and forth, testing their flexibility. “Nice.” Maybe I’d have to invest in some fancy Vera Wang sandals.
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
Abram’s question pulled my attention away from my feet to his approach. I noted his hair was wet and his clothes were different.
“Yes.” Glancing down at myself, at the semi-tight jeans and plain black tank top I’d been wearing all day, and then back to him, I asked, “Why?”
Abram lowered a pair of aviator sunglasses into place, blocking his eyes. “No reason.”
“Should I change?” I tossed my thumb toward the kitchen stairs. “Is this a rococo guitar shop? Is there a dress code?”
“What’s rococo?” Abram walked to the front door, stopping directly in front of me.
His approach and proximity made me tense, so I believe I can be excused for not thinking before responding, “Rococo is characterized by an elaborately ornamental late baroque style of decor prevalent in 18th-century Continental Europe, with asymmetrical patterns involving motifs and scrollwork.”
His left dimple made a brief appearance, a very brief appearance, but I almost didn’t notice because, just then, I caught a whiff of soap and shaving cream and something else I couldn’t identify. It—he—smelled SUPER amazing. Wet and fresh and warm and clean. It smelled so good the tension in my body dissipated, leaving goose bumps and a languid kind of stunned relaxation instead. From a smell.
“No. Not rococo. Let’s go,” he said flatly, opening the door and motioning for me to exit.