Space (Laws of Physics #2)(19)

Punderdome? That sounds—

I interrupted the rhythm of my thoughts. Gripping the shovel tighter at the realization we’d just spent the last ten minutes talking about the one person I least wanted to talk about, I shook my head, scowling at the snow.

Stop asking about her.

I’d spent over two years trying to forget about one week. Nothing Melvin said, or was going to say, would help me move on. Clearly, he liked her, respected her. Fine.

Stop talking about her.

“Mona is real good at chess though, never have beat her at that game. But she—”

Enough.

“Hey, I’ll move up here and get this taken care of. Why don’t you get the bags?”

Melvin’s perspective on Mona confused me, unsettled my mind. The man might talk all night about her if I let him, and part of me wanted to let him. But that would’ve been counterproductive.

Stop thinking about her.

I didn’t want to like Mona, nor did I appreciate this urge I’d carried with me, this wanting to know her, the real her, all about her, sketch an accurate likeness of her character. What was the point?

She’d lied to me. She’d pretended to be someone else. Knowing Mona DaVinci better wasn’t going to change that.

Melvin paused his shoveling at my abrupt suggestion, but then he chuckled. “Getting cold?”

Stop wanting her.

I forced a quick, tight smile and nodded. “Yeah. Something like that.”





Melvin took me around to the side door of the house, which was much closer than the path Leo and I had shoveled earlier to the main entrance. We both removed our jackets, boots, gloves, and snow pants and hung them up in the mudroom closet.

“Here, I’ll take the luggage up. Go get warm by the fire in the big room, go see your friends.”

I hesitated, glancing at the small stairway behind him that led to the upper floors, struggling with the desire to seek her out. Bringing her luggage up would be a perfect excuse. Then again, not taking advantage of the opportunity to see her was an opportunity in and of itself.

Stop thinking about her.

“While you’re there, do you mind checking on the fire? Might need more wood,” Melvin called over his shoulder, already on the fifth stair.

Curling my hands into tight fists, I nodded and stepped back, removing myself from the temptation of the suitcases. Watching Melvin disappear up the flight of stairs felt both good—like I’d finally been successful in flexing that self-control muscle—and not good. I stared at the roller case he’d left behind, a hollow, restlessness in my stomach.

Turning toward the faint sound of a piano, I walked out of the mudroom and toward the music, not looking at the remaining bag despite feeling a pull to return, pick up the case, and take it to the third floor where Mona and her friend were staying.

Earlier, when I’d left the house under the guise of helping Leo and Melvin with the snow, the crowd Leo had gathered were in high spirits. I knew most of them, but not all. Leo had this magical superpower of bringing talented people together and making valuable connections within the community he’d built.

The only valuable connection I’d ever introduced to Leo, and not the other way around, was my songwriting partner, Kaitlyn Parker. Meanwhile, Leo had been the one to introduce me to our drummer when I was fifteen, our lead guitarist five years ago, and our producer three years ago. Our producer was the one who’d eventually helped sign us to the label.

My mind on suitcases and perfect excuses, I slowed as I approached the entrance to the main floor living room, a thought suddenly occurring to me. What if Mona was here, on the main level with everyone else? What if, by attempting to avoid her, I was actually achieving the opposite?

Mouth suddenly dry, I approached the wide doorframe and stopped, taking a moment to scan the room. Leo wasn’t there, neither were Mona or her friend, but most everyone else seemed to be. The mood had shifted since I’d left over an hour earlier.

Instead of everyone gathering around the piano, playing music, talking in a haphazard circle, they’d separated themselves into smaller, two- or three-person clusters. They were talking quietly. No one looked especially happy. And the music wasn’t helping.

My attention moved to Kaitlyn sitting at the piano, playing a technically brilliant and woefully ominous sounding piece on the instrument. I suspected it was improvised, something she was making up on the spot, as was her habit.

Rubbing my cold hands together, I entered the large living room—which looked more like a medium-sized hotel lobby than a living room—nodding at our drummer, Charlie, as I passed, and declining our guitarist’s invitation to join her small group on my way to the piano. I did take the long way around to check on the fire. It wasn’t low, but I added another two logs anyway.

Sitting next to Kaitlyn on the bench, I brought my folded fingers to my mouth, breathing hot air into my cupped hands, and bumping her shoulder lightly. “What’s that?”

Without stopping her improvisation or looking at me, she said, “I’m providing the soundtrack.”

“The soundtrack?”

“Yes. If we were in a movie, this would be the soundtrack for the moment,” she whispered. “Earlier, before the arrival, everything was light and fun and fancy-free, like a Disney cartoon. C major.”

I glanced between her profile and where she depressed the keys. A maudlin tune, with frequent dramatic pauses, reverberated from the grand piano.