What else could I do? I shot to my feet and marched out of the living room, dropping my hands and running up the main staircase.
She owed him an apology and . . . and . . . a voluntarily executed restraining order, a promise to stay one hundred meters away at all times. I clutched my forehead as I made it to the second floor, pausing only for a second when I registered the sound of his footsteps rushing up the stairs behind me. Sucking in a large breath, I jogged to my room—dammit!—and pivoted as soon as I realized the error, turning to Lisa’s room just as Abram crested the top stair.
“Hey, wait. Wait.” Abram stepped in front of Lisa’s door and held his hands out as though to catch me by the shoulders, but I rocked back before he could make contact. He looked bemused and amused.
“You think this is funny?” I asked, though it was really an accusation.
“I guess I do.” His gaze traveled over my face, and—like before—he was looking at me like I’d surprised him, delighted him, like I was something new.
I was too angry at Lisa to worry about what this look might mean. Did he suspect I was Mona? I didn’t think so, but I couldn’t be sure because I couldn’t concentrate. My attention was split between my disgust with my sister’s actions and trying to shake off all the damn noticing I was doing of Abram’s every damn mannerism.
Plus, his current obvious amusement did not help.
Gritting my teeth, I was having trouble holding his gaze but forced myself to do so anyway. “How can you think this is funny? I think it’s horrifying.”
Abram lifted an eyebrow. “You think it’s horrifying?”
It was a wonder he’d been so nice to me—to Lisa—up to now. No wonder he’d been so standoffish when we arrived. No wonder he’d looked at me with such hostility. If I’d been him, I would have refused Leo’s request. Abram is a saint! A SAINT!
And Gabby knew about it this whole time . . .
“You’re owed an apology.” Crossing my arms and lifting my chin a notch, I nodded my head. “On behalf of—on behalf of that Lisa, who did that to you, who behaved in an unforgivable way, I apologize.”
His eyes softened, the focus of their warmth shifting from inward amusement to outward . . . something else.
“You’re forgiven,” he said in a way that was a little breathless, dazed. His stare had turned hazy, velvet and hot. I felt the words and the weight of this new look straight to my heart, and now I was also breathless.
What is happening?
We passed a moment, staring at each other, where all I felt was confusion and chaos and a frenzied sort of all-directional momentum. Though I know it is theoretically impossible, which really just means improbable, time slowed until it merged with the physical plane, and I lived every infinite possibility that touched this second: leaving, staying, staring, kissing, shaking hands, touching, grabbing, high-fiving, walking backward to a bed—
But then Abram leaned closer, his attention dropping to my mouth. He blinked dazedly, and whispered, “Lisa.”
Lisa.
. . . LISA!
Her name was a vomit pie to the face and merged all the infinite possibilities into just one inescapable path forward.
The bizarre moment broken, I huffed a shaky laugh. Unable to maintain eye contact, I backed away. I didn’t believe in predestination, but Abram and I were predestined to be less than friends, hopefully not even acquaintances. For order to exist and be maintained in my universe, we must be absolutely nothing to each other.
“Don’t forgive me,” I said, my voice gravelly, surveying the space between Abram and my sister’s open door behind him, looking for a way into the room that wouldn’t bring our bodies into contact. Finding none, I turned for the stairs, calling over my shoulder, “In fact, do us both a favor: hold a grudge.”
*
I slept in my parents’ room, but not in their bed. Their bed was huge and huge beds had never held any allure for me. Since going to college, I’d been a nervous sleeper, waking up several times a night, tangling myself in my sheets. I never make my bed because it would be an inefficient use of time, and big beds with big sheets give me drowning dreams.
The cushioned window seat was my bed for the night and I used one of the many plush blankets piled high in the linen closet. They smelled of geranium and rose. The housekeeper had layered the blankets with linen squares scented with essential oils, as per my mother’s instructions. She had a sensitive nose and had always been very particular about how things smelled.
Other than my looks, I’d never considered that I might share any traits with my mother. She was very glamorous, vivacious, and charismatic.
I was . . . not.
But as I tossed and turned on the cushioned seat, and despite the aroma of geranium and rose, I couldn’t stop thinking about Abram and how delicious he smelled and how the fragrance of him fogged my brain.
I’d always enjoyed good smells—fresh baked bread, warm cookies straight out of the oven, cinnamon, donuts, apple cider, orange blossoms, lavender and lemon—but I’d never thought of myself as being sensitive to them. Until now.
Thoughts of Abram’s heady scent on my mind, I forced my eyes closed by laying a forearm over my eyelids. I must have eventually fallen asleep because I dreamt of him. I dreamt of that moment in the hall and all those infinite possibilities.
I looked into his eyes, hazy and velvet and trusting. Instead of saying my sister’s name, he’d said, “Mona . . .”
And knew what I wanted with a clarity that, even though I was merely dreaming, it was jarring.
In general—in my experience—good decisions were always made by default. Living your best life wasn’t about active choice, it was about the risk/benefit ratio, an equation that balanced the greatest good against the least harm. The logical path forward was the only path forward.
But I wanted him.
So, I made an active choice to be reckless.
I placed my hand against his cheek without an invitation. I dropped my eyes to his lips and thought of nothing but my own selfishness and how much I wanted to taste them. I stepped closer, into his warmth, absorbing his heat, pressing my body to his without asking for permission, and finally—finally—took his beautiful lips with mine.
And then inexplicably, just as an explosion of heat and taste invaded my mouth, he said, “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.”
The soft slide of fingers brushing loose strands off my forehead paired with his soft, grumbly whisper made no sense. We were kissing. How could he be speaking when we were kissing?
But we aren’t kissing, not really.
Rousing reluctantly, I turned my face toward his voice, stretching languidly, feeling relaxed and calm and inhaling a chest-expanding breath.
“What time is it?” I asked, brushing the back of my knuckles against my lips.
“Ten,” he said.
He said. . .
Who said?
Abram.
And just like that, I was awake. But I didn’t open my eyes. Nor did I tense, or shrink away. Instead, for reasons unknown, I held perfectly still.
His hand made another pass over my forehead. His fingertips, rough and callused, pushed into my hair gently, curving back around so that his knuckles skimmed over my upper cheek, down my jaw, the pad of his thumb caressing a little circle around my chin. It felt like he was tracing me, drawing me into wakefulness, and—once I stopped attempting to calculate the risk/benefit of this moment—it felt really, really nice.
“Sorry I have to wake you,” he said, sounding sorry, and sleepy, and extremely close. “But we have to go.”
“Where are we going?” I asked, still not opening my eyes, hoping he’d trace my face again.
He did, his fingers followed the same lazy path. “To Michigan.”
“What’s in Michigan?”
Finished with his third tracing, his hand paused on my shoulder, and then slid slowly down my arm. That felt good too. The rough spots a surprising texture, his touch a three-dimensional, complex experience. He had nice hands.
“My parents’ house.”