I didn’t like all the unknowns.
My life had been supremely tidy up to now, by design. And Abram was the definition of messy—from the way he dressed to how infrequently he shaved to eating cold pizza, sleeping at random hours, approaching his responsibilities with a laissez-faire nonchalance, waiting until the last minute to get his mother a birthday gift, and did the man even have a job?—and liking him had the potential to be incredibly messy.
And yet, I did.
I liked him.
Talking to him was confoundedly easy. One might even say seductively easy. Seductive because, when we spoke, I was constantly forgetting to lie, or speak in one-word sentences, or try to be Lisa-like. I couldn’t help but default to being myself.
I liked, now that I understood the situation better, that he’d shunned Lisa (I know, I know, I’m strange) and firmly rejected her BS, setting down rules and laying out expectations with both her and Gabby upon our arrival. Lisa had behaved horribly to him in the past. Still, he’d agreed to help my brother and had forgiven her—me—as soon as I’d apologized.
Also, I was now mostly convinced he hadn’t been making fun of me during the sperm-whale-poop conversation at the guitar shop. He’d been teasing me and, upon recalling the conversation, I liked how his teasing had been clever and informed. He’d caught me by surprise with something I hadn’t known. I liked that his sarcasm was funny and quick-witted rather than biting and mean-spirited. Clearly, he was intelligent, though it was a species of applied, pragmatic intelligence mostly foreign to me.
But! He’s a slacker. And you’ve only known him for two days, Mona.
True. Very true.
In my world of faculty and fellows, data and research, practical smarts weren’t a requisite. In fact, I’d been told they were an impediment to expansive thinking. Theoretical intelligence was all that was needed, application of theory was for capitalists and corporations.
And yet, I couldn’t help but enjoy Abram’s pragmatism, like when he’d told me to take a bath instead of engineering a shower helmet (he’d been right!)
And finally, I liked how gentle he’d been last night when I’d freaked out. He’d been comforting and concerned. Of course, there was this morning, and how he’d woken me up with more gentleness. Even though there’d been unexpected touching, I’d liked everything about it.
But, again, you’ve only known him for two days!! And Lisa will be home very, very soon . . .
Also true. Very true.
When Lisa arrived home, ideally, she’d continue the lie. Abram would have to believe we were the same person. Which meant any friendly overtures, or clever teasing, or any looks of appreciation he sent my way would all eventually be shifted to her.
Twisting my lips to the side, I removed one of my hands from the wheel just long enough to rub my sternum. My chest ached, a strange expanding tightness against my lower ribs, and the thought of Abram teasing Lisa made me want to pull over and punch that stupid guy in his stupid hat on that stupid billboard I kept seeing all along I-94.
Once or twice, when the highway was free of other cars, I gave into the temptation to glance over at Abram’s silently sleeping form. Entirely quiet and motionless, his stillness verged on eerie. At one point I debated whether or not to pull over and check his pulse. That would’ve necessitated touching him, which I had mixed feelings about—he couldn’t give consent, but then again, he might be dead—which was ultimately why I didn’t do it. However, if I’d had a mirror on me, I probably would’ve pulled over to hold it under his nose.
Who sleeps like that?
Not me.
But back to Abram. I snuck another look and my stomach flip-flopped. He’d called me sleeping beauty, but the label firmly belonged to him and his dark lashes, his gently parted, gorgeous lips, the angle of his strong jaw, and the perfect curve of his bicep supporting his head. This was all transposed against tousled hair and rumpled clothes.
He was a messy Adonis and, despite myself, I just . . . really liked him.
But why?
To what purpose?
What are you doing, Mona? Stay on the path. Liking him is irrelevant.
My chest flared with another ache. Indigestion? I probably should have eaten something more substantial than granola.
Conclusion: I needed a healthy meal, and I needed to get control of this situation.
More precisely, after today, I needed to redouble my efforts to avoid Abram, and I needed to take care of my physical urges. Because that’s all this was really.
Embrace the null hypothesis, Mona!
Liking Abram was madness. It would never lead anywhere. Therefore, there was no decision to make. My choice was made by default. I didn’t actually like Abram. I had physical needs. Thanks to Gabby’s insidious text yesterday, I was having trouble concentrating. I thought I’d be able to wait until I made it back to California, but that wasn’t going to work. I’d have to take care of the physical urges now.
I glanced down at my form-fitting skirt hiked up to my mid-thigh. Well, not now now. More precisely, this evening now.
Maybe once that box was checked I’d stop noticing the prettiness and amber color of Abram’s eyes, and how great he smelled, and how the man chewed, and how achingly gentle and sincere he was with me when voicing his concern for my well-being, and I would be able to properly avoid him. Yes. This was a good plan. The moment we returned to the house? I was definitely going to avoid him and . . . do something.
But first, I needed to get through this expanse of highway, operating this vehicle without my license, his mother’s birthday, and the drive back to the house. After that, it would be all avoidance, all the time.
Four hours into our journey, just when a rest stop sign appeared and I was seriously close to pulling off and placing two fingers against his neck—not because I was itching to touch him, but because who wants to drive not only without a license but also with a corpse?—Abram finally stirred.
Without meaning to do so, I exhaled a large sigh, mumbling one of my anytime-phrases, “As the prophesy foretold,” and felt my shoulders relax.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Abram lift his head, rub his eyes, and peer out the windshield. “Hey. What time is it? Where are we?” His voice—deep and sleep-sandpapery—slid over me, making me sit up straighter. His voice was pleasing all the time, but newly awake Abram-voice was real nice.
But irrelevant.
“On I-94.” I cleared my throat, glancing at the car’s clock before remembering it was broken.
“What time is it?” he asked, peering at his phone where it was held suspended on the dash. “It’s after three? Did we-did you miss the turn off?”
“No. It’s still a few miles away.” I gestured to the looming green sign. “We passed Kalamazoo twenty minutes ago.”
I sensed rather than saw his stare. “Did you pull off for a while? Take a break from driving?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
He waited a beat, and then asked, “Is there something wrong with the car?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Again, he waited a beat before questioning me further, but this time I felt a mood shift. “Then what happened? We should have been there an hour ago.” He grabbed his phone from the dash, moving his thumb along the screen. “My mom has texted me five times.”
“Your mom texted you five times?”
“Yes. Haven’t you noticed the messages?”
“Yes, but I didn’t read them or know they were from her. I hid them when they came in.”
“You didn’t read them?”
“They’re not my messages, it would have been an invasion of privacy.” I gave a weak shrug. “Why? Why did she text?”
“Lisa, we’re very late and she’s worried.” He said this like it was obvious, as though all parents worried and texted their kids when they were late. “We’ve gone a hundred and fifty miles in four hours, why are you driving so slow?”
“I don’t have my driver’s license.”