Space (Laws of Physics #2)(4)

Yes. That was it. I missed her. And missing someone is not just the absence of the person. Distance exists. Separation is real. It is a measurable construct, but also intangible.

This space between us is what? This space of separation is what?

Distracted, I left the bathroom and crossed the hall to the studio, flipping on the light and moving to my pile of notebooks. They weren’t organized by anything other than the approximate date, and so I picked up the only one that was neither full nor empty and wrote those first three lines of a stanza that might become a song.

Then, when I reached the fourth line, I frowned at my reflection in the studio glass. I shook my head.

Gone, and . . . what do I miss about Lisa when she is gone?

Potential answers immediately and effortlessly piled upon each other: her eyes when she laughed; her smile; her body in that white bikini; smooth, hot skin; her strength; a silk waterfall of dark hair spread over my chest while she slept; her humor; her eyes when she was angry; her kindness; the color of embarrassment on her cheeks; her voice; her surprising cleverness; her equally surprising awkwardness; how, with each breath last night, the rise and fall of her breasts pressed against my side; her eyes when she was surprised; the weight of her, the warmth, and the awareness where every inch of her touched every inch of me; her mouth; her softness.

Her softness.

Yes.

I don’t think women understand how much decent men appreciate softness, not just in the woman they admire and desire, but in the world. I’d had conversations with Leo about this a few times.

“What is it about her?” I’d asked the last time he’d gone crazy for a woman.

We’d been sitting in a VIP room at a club called Outrageous. He liked it because they changed the interior often. This made it feel like we were going to a new place but without the hassle of learning the names of new waitstaff, bartenders, bouncers, and managers.

“She’s soft, you know? Like, she’s not jaded. Man, my parents and everyone I know are so fucking jaded. It’s just nice to be around someone who still has the wonder.” He took a drink from his beer, smiling an uncertain little smile, his knee bouncing in time with the bass. “That’s why I keep you around, Abram.”

“Oh yeah? Do I have the wonder?” I didn’t smile. I wasn’t convinced.

“You so do, man. Yeah, you’re also an abyss of deep thoughts and depressing shit, but—” he leaned forward, hit my shoulder “—you still make me feel my age, not . . .” His eyes drifted to the crowd beyond the wall of glass separating our VIP box from the club. “You don’t make me feel like I’m ninety years old all the damn time.”

I’d smiled. I knew he was referring to Charlie, our other good friend, drummer, and frequent co-conspirator. Where Leo was an optimist, Charlie was an eternal pessimist. I fell somewhere in the middle. They were both good guys, and unlike many of our mutual acquaintances, neither Charlie nor Leo needed to be high or drunk to have a real conversation.

“You have the wonder too, Leo.” I returned the compliment, because I thought maybe he needed to hear it.

“Thanks.” His eyes grew big, solemn. “Seriously, thank you, man. I try. I try to stay soft, but the world makes it hard.”

I try to stay soft, but the world makes it hard.

I’d written down Leo’s words about softness because they were true. It was maybe the truest thing I’d ever heard. What he’d said was brave and a difficult thing to live. I respected Leo for trying to be soft, but I respected him even more for never forcing it.

Presently, staring at the studio glass, I didn’t sit on the stool by the soundboard. But I did flip through the last few pages of my notebook, letting my eyes skate over the iterative versions of a poem I knew would eventually be a song entitled, Hold a Grudge.

I wasn’t finished. Hold a Grudge needed a chorus and structured stanzas, I still needed to figure out where to put the bridge, how often to repeat the chorus, and how to end it. But first, it needed the right melody. I was a much better lyricist than a composer. I found myself nodding at the accuracy of the poem, and then I flipped back to the new lines I’d just written.

Gone, and . . . What sounds like shape? Manscape? God, no.

I rolled my eyes at myself, and then read the three lines of this new poem again. I repeated them silently until they were fully memorized. And then I closed the book and returned it to the pile, certain the last line would come to me sooner rather than later. But right now, I was anxious to see Lisa, so I left the studio in search of her.

The longer I was awake, the more urgent the need to be in her company. This had been the case since the morning we drove to Michigan. At the time, I’d assumed it was because I was worried about her, because of how shaken she’d been that night before we drove to my parents’ house. But now there was no mistaking it or explaining it away.

I was in love with her.

I didn’t lie, not even to myself, not even when the truth felt impossible to explain. I could almost hear my friend Charlie and his jaded view on everything, “Don’t be a dumbass. People don’t fall in love in a week.”

To which I would say, “Fuck people.”

Over the last six days, Lisa and I had clicked seamlessly into place. I’d considered fighting, resisting the enormity of giving into wanting her so completely. But even when she’d pushed me away with talk of ‘appropriateness’ and ‘power dynamics,’ giving into the potentially impossible daydream of her felt better—so much better—than the idea of anyone else.