Laws of Physics Book 1: MOTION Read online

  * * *

  If someone had asked me for one word to describe myself prior to Lisa’s phone call earlier in the week, I would have replied, rational.

  But no person is just one thing, one label, one facet of their personality or single characteristic or decision they’ve made. This was a fact that could sometimes be super inconvenient. Like now.

  “What’s going on?”

  My eyes cut to Gabby’s. Held. I couldn’t believe she’d been quiet for so long. It must’ve been a full five minutes since she left her phone on the kitchen table and we climbed the stairs to Lisa’s room.

  Gabby sat on the low bookshelf at one end of the room, her legs extended in front of her, her ankles crossed, her false fingernails tapping on the wood. I sat on the bed, my feet flat on the floor, my arms crossed over my stomach. I’d been slouching and staring at nothing since entering the room.

  When I didn’t respond, because I was still debating what to say, she whispered, “Does he suspect?”

  “Suspect what?” I whispered back.

  Her lips formed a flat, frustrated line and she crossed to the bed, sitting next to me and leaning her head toward mine. She smelled like sweetness and flowers. “Does he suspect you’re you?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Because, man, he looked pissed when I got here.” She breathed out. Now she was slouching too. Her gaze turned assessing as it moved over me. “So, what’s going on then? What did I interrupt? And don’t say nothing, because I definitely interrupted something. Were you two fighting?”

  I stared at her, wondering where I’d placed those prunes.

  “Mona!” she whisper-hissed.

  I stood, waving my hands around my face, feeling harassed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I didn’t even want to think about it. That person in the kitchen? That wasn’t me. I wasn’t her. She wasn’t rational. And I didn’t know how to be rational about it. Or rationalize it.

  Gabby breathed out again, a huff this time. “You’re so frustrating.” She stood and shadowed me around the room. “Just tell me what happened. I will die of curiosity if you don’t. Do you want me to die? Don’t answer that!”

  Upon reaching the corner of the room, I spun, my hand nearly knocking over the pile of CDs I’d yet to put away. “Gabby. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Her nose scrunched and her lips became impossibly small. “Fine.”

  “Fine.” My arms were crossed again, but I didn’t remember crossing them. “Now, tell me—”

  “If you tell me what’s going on between you guys, I’ll tell you what happened with Lisa and Abram last year.”

  I laughed, it was a tired sound, and I shook my head at her. “You already promised to tell me about Lisa and Abram if I told you that stupid story about my TA.” Blarg! Rocks of emotion in my throat. Ignore! “And besides, Abram already told me what Lisa did.”

  Gabby flinched and stepped back. “He did?”

  “Yes, he did,” I said through clenched teeth, feeling angry all over again on Abram’s behalf. “How could Lisa do that? What the hell was she thinking?”

  Gabby exhaled loudly a third time, closing her eyes. “Okay, well, first of all, she was drunk.”

  “Not a good excuse.”

  “And she was angry at Tyler.” Gabby paced away, her tone resigned. “And Abram—I mean, you would’ve had to be there—was just the most delicious thing, so hot. And during his set? Talent is such a turn-on, you know? And that voice . . .” her tone held a dreamy quality and she was staring at nothing, clearly thinking about my messy Adonis.

  So, I snapped my fingers in front of her face. “Snap out of it!”

  She flinched, coming out of her daze, and glared at me. “What was that for?”

  “You’ve already expressed how happy he makes your hoo-hah. I don’t need to hear it again. Tell me what happened—from your perspective—with Lisa that night.” I fought to suppress an irrational flare of jealousy. Some primal part of myself wanted to claw her eyes out for thinking thoughts about Abram.

  NO THINKING THOUGHTS ALLOWED!

  Placing a hand on her hip and waving the other through the air, she continued. “Fine. After his set, I’m trying to get her upstairs, so she can sleep it off, and she gives me the slip. I freak out, because—you know, she’s shit-faced and somewhere—so I call Leo. He and I start searching the house, calling everyone, and then Abram calls Leo, says she’s with him.” Gabby paused here to wince and peek at me. “Naked.”

  The flare of irrational jealousy was now more of a campfire, every word out of her mouth building it higher. “What happened next?”

  “We race to his room and”—Gabby’s wince intensified—“he’d put a shirt on her, but she was all over him. And instead of laughing it off, or keeping her occupied—which is what would have made sense to me—he looks pissed and is pushing her away. I mean, he looked like he was about to lose his cool.” She stopped here to give me a look like, can you believe this guy?

  I couldn’t believe her.

  “Leo was all, like, apologizing. But I didn’t appreciate how Abram was kind of rough, you know? Pushing her away.”

  That had me straightening my spine. “He was rough with her?”

  Gabby’s eyes lost focus and moved to the wall behind me. “He wasn’t, like, rough physically. He wasn’t pushing her, he was pushing her hands away. But his words were totally disrespectful and he threatened to file charges.”

  “File charges. Wow.” Good. “What did he say?”

  “I don’t even remember. Something like, Don’t fucking touch me! And he kept telling her to get away from him.”

  I was so confused. How was Abram telling Lisa to back off disrespectful?

  “Did he call her names?”

  “Well. No. Just like I said, Get out of here! That kind of thing. Like I told you before, he was a dick to her. She wasn’t herself. She was drunk, and he wasn’t cool. And threatening her with calling the police, also not cool.”

  “Gabby.” I waited until I had her attention. I erased all emotion from my voice, because otherwise I was going to scream. “How would you have felt if you woke up and a strange guy was naked in your bed? And then he began touching you, groping you, and no matter what you said, he wouldn’t stop? Wouldn’t you want to file charges? And isn’t that what you said I should have done? Even though what happened to me, which was nothing, didn’t include—”

  “It’s not at all the same thing! You can’t compare the two.” Her lips flattened and a frown pulled her eyebrows together. “Firstly, it’s not like she could’ve hurt him, Mona! Or made him do anything he didn’t want to. Abram is three times her size.”

  I shook my head, wanting to scream, and instead closed my eyes. “I can’t believe you don’t think what Lisa did was wrong.”

  “Of course it was wrong!” Gabby’s voice lowered, now laced with an edge of seriousness. “Lisa felt like an asshole the next day, okay? And she wanted to apologize, but he was already gone, not to mention it was so embarrassing, alright? She regretted it immediately. The two situations are completely different! You can’t treat all these kinds of things like they’re the same. That’s stupid. She made a mistake. And I hate to break it to you, Mary Sue: people—other than you, obviously—make mistakes.”

  Leaning my shoulder against the wall, I rubbed the back of my neck and opened my eyes, a picture on the shelf snagging my attention, a moment in time forgotten until now. A shot of the three of us—of me, Gabby, and Lisa—from when we were eight leaned against a collection of dusty magazines. Gabby, in the middle, wore a dark brown wig to cover her red hair.

  “I make mistakes,” I mumbled, studying the photo, feeling strangely lethargic and heavy as well as a powerful sense of loss.

  Gabby didn’t respond at first, merely studied my profile. But then she came to stand next to me, presumably to peer at the shelf.

  “Ha,” she said, the smile in her voice drawin
g my attention. “I remember that day. I wanted to look like you and Lisa, so Leo got me that wig as a joke.” She turned her face to mine. We were standing so close, I could make out the dark blue flecks in her moss green eyes. “I wore it every day for a year,” she added softly.

  “I remember.” My lips curved into a small smile, some—most—of my anger dissolving as nostalgia took its place, and I remembered how she’d cried when Leo told her she couldn’t take the wig home. I’d hugged her then, comforting her, and telling her she would always be my second twin.

  As I gazed at Gabby now, I tried to chase the anger, to hold a new grudge, to judge her for excusing Lisa’s shoddy treatment of Abram so easily. But I couldn’t.

  What did I expect? This was Gabby. Gabby made mistakes. Gabby walked through life with blinders on either side of her face and a mirror in front. Gabby wouldn’t understand because she couldn’t. Did I expect anything differently? No. There was nothing to learn from Gabby other than how not to behave. That’s just how she is.

  And yet, did nostalgia mean I’d made excuses for her because I’d known her all my life? Definitely. Behold the power of nostalgia.

  Cursed nostalgia!

  What was it about nostalgia? I despised it even as I longed for it, often suspecting it was the most powerful emotion, eclipsing even grief and fear. Nostalgia seemed to make everything, no matter how large the offense, forgivable.

  Clearing my throat, I returned my attention to the photo. “What happened to the wig?”

  “I think my mom burned it after I tried to wear it to that movie premiere.” Gabby chuckled.

  But then she grew silent so suddenly I looked at her again. Her lips were pulled down at the corners and she seemed to be trying to swallow.

  “What? What is it?”

  She glanced at me and smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing my therapist hasn’t already heard.” She turned and strolled away, stuffing her hands in her back pockets. “Speaking of which, I could give you her name. If you want.”

  Pushing away from the wall, I straightened the stack of CDs I’d almost knocked over. “What for?”

  “You know I’ve been going to therapy for—like—ever, right? Well—” Gabby sat on the low bookshelf again “—I think maybe you should go to therapy and figure some shit out.”

  I couldn’t help but screw up my face and give her the side-eye. “I do not need therapy.” I rejected the mere notion on a visceral level and repeated words that Dr. Steward had said to me on any number of occasions: “We—all of us—are extremely privileged and lucky, and I recognize my privilege. I’ve been given every opportunity to succeed, and I recognize that I’ve grown up with virtually no hardship in my life.”

  My sister’s best friend watched me with wide eyes, her mouth hanging open, her eyebrows high on her forehead. “Wow. I—wooow.” Gabby leaned back, her gaze moving over my face as though she were seeing me for the first time.

  “Therapy would be a misuse of time and energy that could be spent attending to others who are actually in need of help.” This last statement hadn’t been one of Dr. Steward’s frequent reminders, but I could extrapolate. My discomforts were nothing in comparison to what other people lived on a daily basis, and I wouldn’t waste my time—or a therapist’s time—with my small concerns.

  Gabby and I stared at each other for several long seconds, during which she appeared to be stunned. It was clear she didn’t know what to say, but she had an abundance of thoughts on the subject. Conversely, I didn’t need to give the issue any additional consideration. I knew my thoughts, and therefore I knew what actions to take and how to behave.

  Eventually, the lack of conversation or action made me antsy. I turned from Gabby’s stare and reacquainted myself with our surroundings. Picking up the violin I’d left on Lisa’s desk, I carefully returned it to its case.

  “You are . . .” Gabby paused, and I looked at her. Her expression was free of judgment. “You are . . .” Again, she didn’t finish her thought. This time her mouth opened and closed, as though she were hunting for the most-accurate descriptive phrase possible, her eyes narrowing as her focus seemed to turn inward.

  Closing the violin case, I secured the latches and leaned it against the wall near where Gabby sat conducting her mental word search.

  I’d just straightened when Gabby asked, “Are you a virgin?”

  12

  Newton’s Second Law of Motion: Concept of a System

  I froze, shifting my eyes to her face. She’d asked the question evenly, thoughtfully, as though merely questioning whether I’d ever baked a turkey in the spatchcock position, and did I recommend it or have a good recipe.

  I shook my head. “I’m not answering that.”

  “Come on. Tell me. I’m seriously trying to help you.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gabby,” I leveled her with a glare, “You don’t even like me.”

  “That’s not true. I like you, but you are also so freaking irritating.”

  “Which means you don’t like me.”

  “Because you became a Mary Sue. But I love you.”

  I snorted, shaking my head, and returned to Lisa’s desk. Picking up the first half of the music books stacked there, I walked to the closet.

  “If you search your coldly rational soul, you will see that I am telling the truth.” She watched me for a few minutes as I ignored her and piled the sheet music neatly in the corner of Lisa’s closet. Eventually she added, “Mona, we’ve known each other almost our whole lives. I will always want what I think is best for you.”

  “You want what’s best for me? Which is what?” I returned to the desk, grabbing more music books.

  “First and foremost, a life of fulfillment. Secondarily, security, peace of mind, comfort, and companionship.”

  Her response surprised me to such an extent, I lost my grip on the second stack of music as I knelt, and they fell to the floor in a haphazard pile.

  “Did I surprise you?” She asked this feigning a British accent.

  I huffed a laugh, but said, “Yes. I find your answer surprising.”

  “You can thank my therapist. So—” she sauntered over and shoved my shoulder again with her fingers “—are you a virgin?”

  “No,” I ground out reluctantly, rearranging the pile.

  “And I assume you lost your virginity to a boyfriend?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

  “Really? Now you’ve surprised me.”

  “How so?”

  Gabby was quiet for a bit. I heard her take a deep breath. Release it. Take another. Meanwhile, finished stacking the music, I stood and returned to the bed, reclaiming my seat at the end of it.

  Finally, she said, “But, I guess, it does kind of make sense.”

  “What makes sense?”

  “You’ve never had a boyfriend, and that makes sense. It would require you asking someone to put you first.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Gabby—”

  “But how does that work? I mean, you yank away when I touch your arm and you’ve known me forever.”

  I tried to hide my wince by studying Lisa’s bedspread for lint. “So?”

  “Soooo, you don’t like to be touched. At all. How does sex work if you don’t like touching?”

  “I don’t like uninvited touching, when it’s a surprise.” I believed these words when I said them. But after they were out of my mouth, I discovered they weren’t entirely accurate—not recently, not with Abram—and worked to suppress a blooming yet distressing warmth low in my stomach.

  “I don’t get it. What do you do when you have sex? Announce what you’re going to do before you do it?”

  “Not all sex requires a lot of touching. I’m extremely clear regarding my expectations before sex, what I want out of the experience, what we will and will not do, what I hope to achieve. I ask my partner for the
same information. If the guy does anything unexpected, I simply end it.”

  “Reeeeeeally?” Gabby plopped down next to me on the bed, the intensity of her gaze told me she was absolutely fascinated. “Like, you talk about the sex before you have it? What you’re going to do? What’s going to happen?”

  “Exactly.” How else was I supposed to determine whether or not sex with a partner was necessary? The scientific method existed for a reason.

  “That’s so interesting!”

  I squinted at her. “You don’t?”

  She shook her head.

  “Not at all?”

  She shook her head again.

  I scrunched my nose. “If you don’t talk about it, about the plan, then how do you give consent?”

  She scrunched her nose in return but also laughed. “Uh, through my actions.”

  I turned away and stood before she could see my expression, walking to the desk. Consent through actions? Like people expected each other to read their minds and know what each person liked without talking about it first? And that assumed the other person would be mindful enough to ensure climax was reached? What about boundaries? Limits?

  Sure. Right. Okay. NOPE! Not for me.

  “I have more questions about your pre-sex discussions. But first, how many partners have you had?” Her voice adopted a tone I associated with academic discussions. For some reason, it helped me relax a bit, made the conversation feel less personal.

  Sitting on the edge of the desk, I crossed my arms. “Seven.”

  “Seven?” She stared at me, her eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “Oh. Okay. Wow. Also surprising.”

  “Why? How many have you had?”

  “One,” she said quietly, giving me the impression that her one had been meaningful. Clearing her throat, she continued, “Was any of the sex enjoyable?”

  I paused to mentally thumb through all relevant encounters. “Some.”

  “Were they all one-night stands?”

  “No.”

  “Some were multiple-night stands?”

  “Yes.”

  “But none became a boyfriend?” A renewed hint of curiosity edged into her voice.