Space (Laws of Physics #2)(27)
I concocted a plan in the shower.
First, I would write Abram a note, which—after drying off, dressing, and braiding my hair—I did. It went through several revisions.
Dearest Abram,
Dear Mr. Fletcher,
Abram,
Mr. Fletcher,
If you have the time and inclination, I was hoping I would be most appreciative if you would meet with me extend me the courtesy of meeting today sometime this week for a short conversation about what happened in Chicago two summers ago an important matter.
If you have neither the time nor inclination, I completely understand and wish you nothing but the best, the happiest, and the most fulfilling everything, you deserve it well.
Please don’t hate me.
Love,
Sincerely,
Wishing you the best,
Best Regards, Mona DaVinci (Leo’s sister)
Content with the final version, I placed the letter in an envelope, which I sealed and stuffed in the side pocket of my black cargo pants. Of note, I loved cargo pants. They were my favorite due to the plethora of pockets.
My work uniform consisted of a white button-down shirt and either black, brown, or navy cargo pants. If I needed to look more business casual, I’d wear a suit jacket of a coordinating color over the white shirt. No muss. No fuss. No making myself nuts, wondering what to wear.
In addition to my jacket, gloves, hat, etc., all I’d packed (other than utilitarian swim shorts and a swimming top for the pool, underwear, bras, and wool socks) were black leggings, black snoga pants—like yoga pants, but for the snow—black cargo pants, and black drywear long sleeve shirts. Therefore, picking out an outfit for the truth telling wasn’t an issue.
Walking to the door, I turned and surveyed my room. The bed was a crazy mess, the comforter and blankets a twisted pile in the center as usual. But everything else was tidy. My attention snagged on the other note, the letter I always carried, laying on the side table.
On a whim I didn’t bother examining too closely, I strolled to it, picked it up, and placed it in the pocket at my knee. I always carried the letter, why wouldn’t I carry it now? Turning back to the door, I breathed in through my nose, told myself to be brave, and then slipped out of the room.
It was early enough that I hoped most of the house would still be asleep, but that Lila and Melvin would be up. Discovering which room Abram occupied should be easy, Lila always kept a chart of who was sleeping in which room, no matter the number of guests. Then it would only be a matter of interacting with the others, acting normal, and waiting.
My suspicions proved right. The corridors were quiet, but Lila was up and moving around the kitchen. After exchanging a bit of friendliness, where I asked after her sprained ankle and she asked about my work, Lila relayed the morning’s gossip, like father like daughter, and informed me of a few critical facts:
Number one: I was the second person down for breakfast if you didn’t count her or Melvin.
Number two: Melvin and the nice—but rough-looking—young man named Abram had left about forty-five minutes ago to go clear the slate path and the base area around the garages.
Number three: Leo had been expecting more than the twenty-three guests already present, but these extra people—spouses and significant others—were delayed due to the heavy snow.
Number four: She showed me the chart where she’d assigned everyone’s rooms. Abram was on the main level, in the green room with teak paneling, as opposed to the green room with ash paneling or the blue room with teak paneling.
Thanking her, and even though I didn’t like the idea of her cooking for me, I promised to return in a little bit for a Belgian waffle since she’d already made the batter.
The most direct path, even though it was the most public, took me through the main floor great room. Running into one of Leo’s guests wouldn’t be the worst thing in the word. I’d behaved oddly last night, I knew that, I regretted it, and the sooner I started smiling at people and making chit-chat, the better. These people were important to my brother, otherwise he wouldn’t have invited them. Therefore, they were important to me. I would make an effort!
No one was encountered on my way to Abram’s room. I knew he wasn’t inside, but I knocked anyway, my heart in my throat. There was no answer. I tried the knob. It turned. I walked in. My plan was to leave the envelope on his pillow, where he’d certainly see it, and then leave. That was the plan.
Instead, I took a moment to stand just inside the doorway and stare like a lunatic at his things, cataloguing them: his phone appeared to have a cracked screen, unclear as to whether it was the screen cover or the screen itself that was cracked. It sat on the side table. Next to it were two quarters and a penny, and a book. I longed to read the cover of the book. I didn’t.
Counting his change and noticing the fractured screen of his phone was one thing, but inspecting the title of his novel felt like an invasion of privacy, so I tore my eyes away, swallowing around my aching heart lodged in my throat, and rushed to his bed, endeavoring not to notice the contents of his suitcase open on the floor.
Do not look. Do not look. Do not look.
I looked. Clothes and more books and—
AH! STOP LOOKING!
Screwing my eyes shut, I withdrew the envelope. Peeking just one eye open, I placed the envelope on his side table, on top of his phone instead of on his pillow which I suddenly decided felt too intimate, and turned for the door. Breath held, I made it to the door without any more creeping on Abram’s stuff, shut the door, and turned back toward the kitchen for a waffle.