I said nothing. The butterflies swirled. He still smelled so atypically delicious, I fleetingly wondered if what I was actually smelling were Abram-specific pheromones mixed with fancy sperm whale poop instead of cologne.
“Look it up if you don’t believe me.” His statement sounded like a dare. His dimple and voice deepening, Abram’s stare seemed to dance as it traveled lower, from my eyes to my nose, mouth, chin, and neck. And then, he smiled.
I turned abruptly—needing . . . away, from all that—walking aimlessly forward. “Aren’t we here to get a guitar?”
“You really don’t believe me?” He was trailing close behind and I didn’t need to look to know he was shadowing my steps.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I lie?” Abram’s voice held his smile and was still deep and lovely. For some reason this caused a shiver to race down my spine.
“It was an acoustic, right?” Meanwhile, my voice was tight, held a hint of betraying nerves, and why was my neck hot?
Abram chuckled, like he was enjoying himself, and the sound—close to my ear—gave me new goose bumps. “No. It’s a bass. You want to make a bet?”
NO BETS! Right then and there, I solemnly promised myself I would never make a bet with Abram as long as I lived, with the universe as my witness.
“I want to get your new bass guitar so we can get back to the house,” I said stiffly, pretending to be interested in a used Rogue RA Dreadnought. How had a discussion about whale excrement turn into something that made my body temperature go wonky? And wasn’t I supposed to be giving one-word answers?
Needing to hurriedly analyze the situation, I listed the facts: I’d just discovered my sister had—allegedly—been selling drugs to minors; I’d been roped into unwittingly covering for her; I was upset and flustered and off-balance and Abram had very pretty man parts I shouldn’t be noticing, because they’re irrelevant.
Conclusion: DEFLECT!
“How about if I’m right, then you—”
I spun, glaring at him towering over me. “Fine. Then Tyler is whale vomit. Happy?”
Abram sucked in a breath between his teeth while also—blatantly—still grinning. “Actually, whale vomit is also expensive.”
“Now I know you’re making this up.”
“I’m not.” He pressed a hand to his chest, laughing. “Partly indigestible beaks of squid cause sperm whales to have indigestion, and their vomit also contains ambergris.”
Partly indigestible beaks of what? Scrunching my face, I shook my head, rejecting his nonsense.
He mimicked my headshake and face-scrunch while still smiling. “The indigestible beak causes irritation in the intestines, and this results in a build-up, like a rock, to form inside the whale. Ambergris is expelled.”
“No.”
He was laughing again. “It’s like an extremely rare, smelly rock.”
“Smelly rock. Riiiiiight.”
Now he was laughing harder. “And they wash up on shore.”
“You are full of ambergris.”
Now he was laughing so hard, he was forced to take a step back and was holding his stomach. Goodness, that smile. My heart thumped and stuttered; my chest ached; my mouth curved into an answering grin (against my will). That smile is lethal. Wow.
However, before basking in or allowing myself to comprehend the full effect of his smile, it was tempered by a sudden thought: was he laughing in good humor or laughing at my expense?
I’d never been gifted in the art of solving situations for this unknown variable. There’d been many incidences—especially during my freshman year of college—when I’d thought my classmates and professors were laughing in good humor. As it turned out, it had been the other . . .
“I will prove it to you.” He reached for my arm.
I backed away before his hand could make contact, the butterflies ceasing abruptly, my stomach turning cold.
What did I know about Abram? He’d lucked out in the genetics lottery with his face and body and voice. He slept past noon. He’d dropped out of high school for reasons unknown. He wasn’t a fan of consistently applying logic. Like my parents, he was a musician (ugh). He smelled like the Orion Nebula looked (beautiful). He didn’t like Lisa. He thinks I’m Lisa.
He was probably laughing at me.
A lump formed in my throat.
So what if he was laughing at me? So what? Technically, he was laughing at Lisa. But that didn’t make me feel better, either. I didn’t want anyone laughing at my sister—unless she’s been selling cocaine to sixteen-year-olds. Then all bets are off!
“Whatever,” I said, glaring at him, trying to find fault with his maddeningly attractive face.
“I insist. I will prove it.” He didn’t see my glare, he was too busy pulling out his phone and swiping his thumb over the number keys to unlock it.
“Your source better not be Wikipedia. I don’t trust crowd-sourced data. You could have created the page and edited it.” These words came out more hostile than I’d intended. I told myself to relax.
“Fine.” He peered at me, big fat grin on his face, eyebrow raised in a challenge, looking arrogant and tremendously attractive and standing too close. “What do you trust?”
“Peer-reviewed publications,” I whisper-croaked, dropping my gaze to the glass case on my left and giving him just my profile.
Why couldn’t he just pick up his guitar so we could leave? And why was my throat so tight?
His eyes were on me, I felt them. Mine were studiously focused on the glass case, but I wasn’t looking within. A few seconds ticked by, during which I meditated on slowing my breathing and concentrated on pretending he wasn’t there, pushing his presence and the echoes of his laughter aside.
Swallowing against the tightness, I ventured to my happiest place, picturing the concave dome of a planetarium above me, a blanket of deceptive white dots overhead, planets and galaxies and solar systems masquerading as stars. And between the white dots? Black matter. What we could not see, what we did not yet understand.
The universe—in all its infinite complexity and beauty—struck me as an apt reverse allegory for human interaction. We are deceived by the white dots. We label them stars. Often, they’re so much more. Layered. Complex. Important. Surprising. Beautiful.
This was, I found, the opposite of people. In both cases, we label stars based on first impressions. The universe never disappoints or fails to inspire wonder, but people usually do.
Or maybe—maybe it wasn’t a reverse allegory. Maybe it was exactly correct. After all, the brightest object in earth’s night sky was usually our little moon. Whereas the majority of the dim, twinkling lights in the distance, the ones we barely noticed, were not only stars but something altogether more awe-inspiring once you took the time to investigate. To know.
“Hey.”
The softly spoken word pulled me out of my reflections and I glanced at Abram. He was standing close, like before. His face was still unreasonably handsome, his scent still captivating, and his eyes appeared warm and interested. He was no longer (outwardly) laughing at me.
“Pardon? Did you say something?” I felt none of the earlier chaos or discomfort. Both had been replaced with cool dispassion. Abram is a moon, most people are.
His eyebrows pulled together as his attention flickered over me. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. You?”
He blinked, like I’d blown dust in his eyes, and he seemed to rock back on his heels. Abram’s lips parted, perhaps intending to speak. But then he snapped his mouth shut, frowning like I’d done or said something to confuse him.
Giving him one more cursory glance, I twisted at the waist and called to the man in the corner, “This is Abram. He’s here for a bass guitar. I believe you’re holding it for him?”
*
As soon as we returned, I left Abram in the entranceway and reclaimed my seat in the mudroom by the back door. Picking up my book, I opened to the bookmark and stared at the words. I did not read them. My earlier cool dispassion hadn’t lasted long. During the silent march home, I’d felt increasingly . . .