Space (Laws of Physics #2)(60)

My eyes stung. So did my nose. So did my heart, and I asked the first question that popped into my mind. “Would you rather lose a sister?”

Again, he rocked back like I’d surprised him. Again, he looked confused. He struggled. I could see he struggled to respond, and it occurred to me that, had he been well, without a fever, he probably wouldn’t be saying or thinking any of this. The temptation to soothe him, to apologize, to promise to avoid Abram—if that’s what Leo wanted—surfaced once more.

But the words wouldn’t leave my mouth.

Don’t be too smart. Don’t admit you’re smart. Don’t think you’re smart. Be brilliant. Make some mistakes. Give your opinion. Don’t make any mistakes. Stop trying to be perfect. Don’t talk so much. Talk more. Don’t be too nice. Be nice. Smile. Don’t smile so much. Act like a man. Act like a woman. Be assertive. Don’t be emotional. Be sensitive. Not too assertive. Be nice to my friends. Don’t lead them on. Let them down gently.

I was so tired of walking a tightrope, at work, here, with my family, with everyone. Enough. I’d had enough.

Turning from my brother, I pulled on my hat and opened the door leading outside. I shut it. I didn’t look back.





Four hours in the snow, making snow angels, listening to silence, and staring at the sky was just the kind of numbness I’d needed. But now I was freezing my nipples off and needed to pee.

Trudging through the snow, debating what to do with the rest of my day, and deciding something hot was in order, I made it back to the house just after two in the afternoon. I left all my snow clothes in the mudroom closet, my gaze lingering on the sweater I recognized as the one Abram wore last night while he sang “Hold a Grudge.”

I hadn’t been prepared last night to face the music (pun intended), but I was ready now. Tired and resigned, I was prepared. In fact, I was at peek detachment (i.e. preparedness).

Finished stripping off my outer layer, I swung by the kitchen to grab a bite to eat, and then I climbed the stairs to my room. The basement had a saltwater pool and a hot tub, and both of those options sounded absolutely divine. The idea of a few laps followed by a warm soak sped my movements, and after changing and wrapping myself in a bathrobe, it was back down the stairs, to the basement, past the studio, and to the pool.

The pool was a simple rectangle, and the space in which it was located ran the entire length of the house. It was a long, narrow room that smelled like salt, chlorine, and water. With lounge chairs at one end, the pool and then the hot tub until about three-fourths of the way down, a little shed-type structure at the far end and that’s it, every sound echoed.

The shed was set away from the wall and housed a bathroom. Why the original owners had opted for a shed instead of a built-in closet and bathroom, I had no idea. Maybe they wanted to give the illusion of being outside? The walls were painted light blue, like the sky, so that was a distinct possibility.

Leaving my bathrobe on a lounge chair, and after grabbing some goggles from the shed, I walked to the water’s edge and dipped my toe in the water. The temperature wasn’t particularly hot, I estimated close to 302 degrees Kelvin (84 Fahrenheit/29 Celsius for all the non-physics nerds in the room). But it felt wonderfully warm given how cold my body was after the snow.

Using the pool steps, I submerged myself, my bikini shorts, and my swim shirt, pushing my hair out of the way as I surfaced and wiping my eyes. I’d just turned my attention to the googles when I heard the door to the pool room open. Glancing up from the water, I did a double take, and then my muscles spasmed. I dropped the goggles.

It was . . .

He was—

“Abram.”

His deep brown eyes were on me and his shirt was nowhere and those seemed like the two most relevant facts at the moment. Yes, he wore a bathing suit. But his chest—my God, his chest.

What looked like a single tattoo covered one side of his torso—the left side—disappearing into his shorts, swirling over his shoulder and down the entirety of his arm. A full sleeve, gorgeous ocean waves in black and gray and vivid blue.

A small, stunned, panting breath escaped me, and I backed up a step. Tangentially, I realized my mouth was hanging open, my eyes were approaching circular, and it was a good thing I was in the pool because I might have been drooling. And his shoulders? HIS SHOULDERS??! No one was prepared for the reality of his shoulders, least of all me.

His gorgeousness felt like an attack. I felt personally attacked. He wasn’t Hallmark handsome, he was Turkish TV show handsome.

WHAT IS EVEN HAPPENING?!

“Hey,” he said, and my eyes cut to his.

He wore a small smile on his lips and in his eyes, and I snapped my mouth shut, swallowing the thirst. But there was so much thirst. So much. So. Much. I was in very real danger of choking on my thirst.

As Abram made it to the pool, walking down the steps and toward me in fluid, unhurried movements, I realized I was not prepared. I mean, I’d been prepared for talking to him, or hearing him talk while I listened thoughtfully, contritely, and apologized for my drunken honesty-vomit. If we’d come across each other in the hall, as an example, or taken our discussion to the study again, I would’ve been more prepared than an Eagle Scout.

But now?

No.

No.

It was impossible to be prepared because it was impossible to be mindful when one’s brain is addled by metric tons of lust. My lust was so huge, so substantial and unwieldy, it probably had its own gravitational field.