Space (Laws of Physics #2)(23)

“I’m sorry,” I croaked, even though I’d cleared my throat before speaking.

She sighed, her head tilting to one side as she examined me. “The yelling? You have to tell me what the deal is with the yelling.”

I shook my head. “I wasn’t yelling.”

“What were you doing?”

Hesitating, I lifted my eyes to the tall, vaulted ceiling, and tried, “Growling?”

“Growling?”

“Yes?”

Allyn made a sound of confusion, and then asked, “Why do all your answers sound like questions?”

I brought my gaze back to hers. “Because they are?”

That made her laugh lightly, but she still looked concerned. Now, sitting here, looking at my behavior over the last hour or so, I understood why she was concerned.

After Abram left, unceremoniously shutting the door in my face, I’d watched the funicular until it disappeared down the mountain. I then stared at the darkness where the small car should (approximately) be for much longer, all the while arguing with myself.

He knows the truth. He doesn’t.

He does. He definitely, definitely does. He doesn’t know. How could he know? And at this point, why would he care?

The way he looked at me, like he hates me. He knows, and he hates me, and now I feel like becoming one with the snow. I want to make snow angels until every part of me is numb and I can’t think, or feel my toes, or my heart. He doesn’t know and stop being so dramatic. If he knew, wouldn’t he have reached out? Confronted you? Or told your parents? Or told Leo? Or a million other things?

Then why did he look at me like that? Maybe he still has feelings for Lisa? Maybe you remind him of her and that’s why he was distant?

But he wasn’t just distant, he was aggressively aloof!

I’d rubbed my chest, wincing. It hurt. It hurt reminiscent of those early days after Chicago, with the searing intensity of sitting too close to a campfire, in a sauna, while severely sunburned, under a heat lamp, and sitting on coals. My brain was a mess—again—and I couldn’t draw a full breath no matter how much I tried.

What are you going to do? I don’t know.

I didn’t know what to do. Standing there in the funicular structure, staring at black nothing, I hurt all over and I didn’t know what to do.

DAMMIT ALL TO HECK!

Therefore, I’d growled. Glaring at the ceiling of the funicular house and foisting my free hand into the air while I gripped the backpack to my chest with the other, I turned and marched down the hallway, growling. Once I was outside, in the snow and wind, I growled again, raging. This time louder and longer, like maybe a tiger might do, or a mountain lioness. And then I did it again and again and again.

I wasn’t thinking because I didn’t know what to think. The truth was, I didn’t want to think. But I also didn’t want to feel, because it hurt, and it was an inescapable hurt. It hunted me relentlessly, except when I growled—or, I guess, yelled—all I felt was the cold beating against my face and the rawness of my throat and the constricting of my abdominal muscles. Yelling had been a relief, until I sucked in another breath and—

“Mo-naaaah!”

I’d stiffened, squinting at the snow around me, wondering at first if what sounded like my name was actually an echo of my growl/yell. But then I spotted movement on the path ahead and heard a second call, “Mo!”

It was my brother.

Exhausted, I’d exhaled a sigh, but then pressed my lips together when the sigh sounded dangerously like a sob. Stumbling forward, I pushed my arms into the straps of my backpack and attempted to gain control or administer some semblance of order over my chaotic thoughts:

I needed to go inside, because I was freezing. I needed a minute, or sixty, to come to terms with the sudden reality of seeing Abram. I needed to figure out whether Abram knew the truth. If he didn’t know, I needed to figure out what to do next.

But if he did know? And he hated me?

I can’t think about that. If I think about that, I’ll start making snow angels and never go inside the house.

The several minutes that followed were a blur, mostly because I’d spent them in my happy planetarium, gazing at the stars, blanketing my awareness with the sparseness and peacefulness and darkness of space. I remembered walking into the house with my brother. I remembered there being a lot of people. I remembered making an effort to look at each of them as they were introduced, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to shake anyone’s hand.

And then we went up the stairs and I sat on the window seat while Leo and Allyn spoke in hushed tones. Sometime later, Leo left. Sometime after that, Melvin arrived with the bags, but he also left.

Now it was just Allyn, me, and all these horrible feelings. Horrible feelings were the third, fourth, and fifth beings in the room, making the large room feel crowded, suffocating, uninvited guests on what was supposed to be my vacation.

“Did something happen, between you and Abram Fletcher, after Leo and I left?” Allyn’s question had me looking at her sharply.

“Fletcher? Who?”

Her gaze was steady, patient. “Abram Fletcher. The guy who went down to help Melvin?”

A strange buzzing sounded between my ears. Abram Fletcher. Fletcher. Why did that name sound so familiar?

“Mona?”

I squinted at her. “You know who he is?”