Laws of Physics Book 1: MOTION Page 11

  Thankfully, the doors opened immediately, and he didn’t protest as I pushed him onto the elevator. In fact, my pushing seemed to amuse him.

  “Okay, see you soon.” I ignored the way my skin heated at his warm expression, focusing instead on what needed to be done. “And if you use the stairs, promise me you’ll hold onto the rail. I don’t want you falling down.”

  “Yeah, gravity can be such a downer,” Abram mumbled, repeating my words from the prior evening, and that gave me pause.

  I watched him closely as he leaned backward against the wall of the car, as though standing upright took too much energy. His sleepy, half-lidded gaze moved over me. His smile grew.

  “You look . . . nice,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

  Frowning in confusion, I glanced down at myself, at my braless chest in the skimpy pink tank top and boy-short PJs. Awareness caused a shock of pinpricks beneath my skin and I lifted startled eyes, catching the tail end of his transparently hot and appreciative look just as the doors slid shut.

  8

  Falling Objects

  I assembled a birthday package for Abram’s mom, pulled on one of my—Mona’s—dresses as it felt more appropriate for the situation; unbraided and brushed my hair, ignoring the bottle of dry shampoo; applied the eye makeup; and grabbed two granola bars. The bars I washed down with a glass of milk just as Abram called Lisa’s name from the foyer.

  “That’s a nice dress,” he said, leaning against the front door and watching me as I entered.

  Glancing down at my somewhat fitted skirt, I shrugged. His gaze persisted, but I ignored it, instead turning to the mirror and pretending to fuss with my appearance.

  “Very librarian chic.” His voice was deeper than usual, probably because he hadn’t slept at all. “All you need now is glasses, a ruler, and a very disapproving scowl.”

  I fought against the sudden urge to scowl disapprovingly—just to see what he’d do—and said, “It’s Mona’s.”

  Telling the truth here made the most sense. I’d never worn it before, so I didn’t have to worry about any pictures of me (Mona) in this dress somewhere in the house. Yet, it definitely wasn’t Lisa’s style: “boring” navy blue cotton, capped sleeves, a conservative neckline with a little collar, and an equally conservative hemline that fell just past my knees. However, it was form-fitting, which was why I’d never worn it, but was why I thought maybe it was a good compromise for today.

  Abram pushed away from the door and strolled to my shoulder. “You’ll need this.”

  Avoiding eye contact (and speaking and smelling), I turned to him and accepted the phone he held. Google Maps was already pulled up, and an address in Michigan was already mapped out.

  Wordlessly, he guided me out the door, ten meters to the right beyond our gate, and to his car, a 1999 Honda Civic. Good thing I knew how to drive a stick shift. But, unfortunately, the stick shift also meant I had to hike my fitted skirt up a bit to use the clutch. Feeling acutely self-conscious—especially after the look he’d given me this morning before the elevator doors closed—I had difficulty swallowing until I glanced at my companion.

  Abram had already fallen asleep, zonking out as soon as I’d pulled away from the curb. Seeing this, I laughed at my silly self-consciousness, hiked my skirt up a little more for ease of clutch-usage, and released a giant sigh.

  I must be in an alternate dimension. My brain has officially gone off the rails.

  I felt . . . lost. Not geographically lost, thanks to Abram’s GPS, but mentally and emotionally and physically muddled. Since talking everything over with Allyn was out of the question, I used the long, quiet drive to sort through the tangle of thoughts in my brain and the bundle of nerves in my stomach without her help.

  First and foremost, I was nervous because I’d never operated a motor vehicle without my driver’s license before. If sleeping in my day clothes felt disobedient, this felt exponentially disobedient. I couldn’t relax. I felt the illegal nature of my actions like an elusive hair in my mouth, but instead IN MY BRAIN. Which was why I drove ten to twenty miles under the speed limit the entire way, with both hands on the steering wheel. At all times.

  Second, there was that dream from last night and that look from this morning. I tried to talk myself into believing that look had been imagined. But then I’d recall the image of his hot eyes in his super handsome face, staring at me daringly, brazenly.

  No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t talk myself into believing something false. Abram had been ogling me. Fact.

  No. Not me. Lisa.

  Except, in that moment, I wasn’t Lisa. But, I also was her. Confusing.

  Which brings me to the third item: everything else. The tense moment between Abram and I last night in front of Lisa’s door and whatever that meant; the revelation that Lisa had appeared naked and uninvited in his bed last year; the fact that I’d told Gabby about that stupid story with that stupid TA my freshman year (Why oh why had I done that?); the possibility that Lisa had been dealing drugs to teenagers; the unknowns surrounding her arrest; and the fact that I was a lying liar, pretending to be her, right now. What a mess.

  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 str
ange 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.”

  He waited, like he expected me to continue. When I didn’t, he asked, “So?”

  “So, I didn’t want to get pulled over.” I glanced at him, found him staring at me. “Hey. Don’t give me that look. You’re not the one operating a motor vehicle illegally.”

  “It’s not illegal to drive without a license. It’s illegal to drive if you have no license.”

  Sending him a quick glare, I readjusted my hand placement on the steering wheel. “Is that some kind of riddle? If I say your name backward three times, will you drive?”

  Abram barked a laugh, drawing my attention. I found him looking at me with glassy eyes, his hand over his mouth, hiding his smile while shaking his head. His shoulders shook with quiet laughter.

  “You are . . .” he started, stopped, sighed, then chuckled. “I should be mad at you.”

  “You’re mad at me?” I felt equal parts indignant and contrite, which was a weird, new combination for me.

  “But I’m not. You are so much different than I thought you would be.”

  Unsurprisingly, that had me gripping the steering wheel tighter and flailing for something to say that might sound Lisa-like.

  But then I stopped flailing.

  If my actions and our conversations over the last few days hadn’t made him suspicious, then he wasn’t going to be suspicious. At all. In fact, now I had a suspicion Abram wasn’t ever going to be suspicious of me.

  Conclusion: No need for me to worry about acting Lisa-like, because—to him—I was her.

  Which, I conceded with a good measure of uneasiness, when she arrived, she’d have to act like me.

  * * *

  I’d never been to a suburb before.

  Driving through Abram’s parents’ neighborhood was like visiting a movie set. The houses all looked remarkably similar, the front lawns were perfectly maintained, US flags flew from flagpoles, wreaths hung on doors. I even spotted a few picket fences.

  Honestly? I loved it.

  “You grew up here?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do your parents do?” I asked, making a left onto another street that looked just like the last street. Everything was so delightfully tidy.

  He didn’t answer immediately, so I glanced at him. He looked uncomfortable.

  “What?” I split my attention between him and the street. “Do they run a grow house?”

  Abram coughed a laugh, now staring at me. “No! My parents don’t run a grow house!”

  “This neighborhood reminds me of that show, Breaking Bad. Of course, we’re in Michigan, not New Mexico, and the house styles are different, but the neighborhood has a similar feel. Have you ever watched it?”

  “No.” His tone held amusement, but also maybe defensiveness. Or something like
defensiveness.

  “It’s a good show. The chemistry stuff is spot on,” I said distractedly. A house with a picket fence, a rooster weather vane, and a towering flagpole with a US flag snagged my attention. The outside was painted white, the shutters were trimmed forest green, the door was red. A summery-looking wreath with yellow flowers was affixed to the door. It probably had a welcome mat.

  I want to live there.

  “How would you know about the chemistry stuff?” he asked, also sounding distracted.

  Instead of being flustered or worried that I’d made a mistake by mentioning chemistry, I saw his question for exactly what it was: a way to avoid answering my earlier query about his parents.

  So I said, “Mona knows chemistry stuff,” which wasn’t a lie, but rather a true statement meant to deflect, and then asked again, “So, what do your parents do?”

  Abram released an audible breath, shifted in his seat, and then finally said, “They’re retired.”

  “Retired?”

  He nodded.

  “What did they do before they retired?” I lifted my eyebrows expectantly. When he didn’t answer, I suggested, “Run a grow house?”

  “No.”

  I peeked at him, found him grinning and trying to hide his grin by covering the bottom half of his mouth with his hand, his elbow propped on the window sill. He was giving me an amused side-eye.

  Finally, he answered, “My dad was a general contractor and my mom ran the business part. They had my sister late, and me even later.”

  “Oh.” I made a right. “How late?”

  “Mom was forty when she had me and dad was forty-seven.”

  “Oh.” I made another right, scanning the scrolling numbers on the side of the mailboxes. We were four houses away. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  That’s right. Gabby had said something about him being three or four years older than us.

  “So she’s sixty-four today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” I slowed as we approached the address, studying the two-story yellow house.