Space (Laws of Physics #2)(71)

Abram spread out a picnic of hot broccoli and cheese soup, warm, crusty sourdough bread, and hot tea laced with the barest hint of whiskey. He warned me before drinking it, pointing out that he’d brought un-spiked tea as well. I was freezing, so I’d had the winter tea.

We spent several hours in the snow, having the best time while I struggled to find just the right moment to bring up my proposal. My fling proposal, to be precise. But whenever a break in conversation occurred, I swallowed the words, bargaining with myself, reasoning that I could do it later.

Ten more minutes.

But then the perfect moment presented itself. We’d just finished the picnic and were packing up, quietly working side by side. Our previous conversation had just wrapped up—about his sister and how she was engaged and getting married soon—and I had my chance.

And so, sucking in a breath for bravery, I asked, “Do you think you’ll ever want to get married?”

Ah. Comet balls!

That wasn’t asking him about a fling. That was literally the opposite of asking him about a fling.

He smiled a small smile, his attention on his hands as they packed the bag. “To be honest, I’ve never really thought about it.”

I nodded, my blood rushing between my ears. I couldn’t think. How could I save this conversation and redirect it toward fling territory?

Abram added, “I read an article about you once where the interviewer asked that same question.” He lifted his eyes, they ensnared mine. “You said, ‘Irrelevant. Next question.’”

“Oh. Ha!” I tried to laugh lightly, but it sounded forced. “They always ask me that, and it irritates me, because no one asks any of my male colleagues. It’s always, ‘What will you do when you have kids?’ and I’m like, ‘The same thing I do every night, Pinky. Try to take over the world.’”

He grinned at me, shaking his head like I was too much of something wonderful. “I loved that cartoon.”

“I would judge you if you didn’t.” Returning his smile, I gave into the urge to grab his coat and pull him forward for a quick kiss. Because I could.

But when I went to lean away, I discovered he’d caught my jacket again and I couldn’t move.

Staring at me, his gorgeous brown eyes serious and searching, he said, “Mona, I want to see you again.”

A spike of blissful happiness was followed quickly by a spike of dread. I blinked, bracing myself, it was now or never.

Here we go.

“Of course.” I nodded, my throat full of fire. “Actually, yes. I want to talk to you about that. I’m—” I uncurled his fingers from my coat “—I’m glad you brought it up.”

“Good.” His tone was firm. “I wanted to bring it up yesterday, but I didn’t want to ruin our time together. Mona . . .” Abram opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, his gaze felt both eager and restrained. “Mona, I leave tomorrow morning. We have to be at the airport by 4:30 AM.”

. . . Oh.

Abram’s face, less than two decimeters away, blurred, my vision becoming gray, cloudy. I wasn’t crying or close to it. I’d cried my quota for the last ten years over the past week. If I cried today, I would no longer be able to label myself “not a crier,” and that felt like an essential part of my identity.

But, given this news of his imminent departure, I probably would cry at some point. And then I’ll have to call myself a crier. I won’t be “not a crier” anymore.

. . .

Okay. That’s fine. I’ll just be a crier.

I made a mental note to invest in Kleenex.

“Mona?”

My name coming from Abram’s lips brought him back into focus. Apparently, I was nodding for some reason.

“Of course.” I continued nodding. Then I stood, studied the ground where we’d had our picnic for any left items, and then turned toward the house.

“Mona, talk to me.” He was right there, walking at my side while I swallowed reflexively and worked to paste a convincing smile on my face.

“Yes. We should definitely meet up again,” I said, trying to force a little cheerfulness into my tone.

He must’ve suspected something was off because I felt intensity behind his eyes as he continued to watch my profile. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Mona. Honesty.”

“Nothing. Not really.” Now I shook my head. “It’s just, I don’t know why I thought I would have more time with you before you had to leave.”

His hand on my arm brought me to a stop and he tugged, encouraging me to face him. “I wish we had more time too. But we’ll see each other. I’ll have breaks during the tour. I can come visit you.”

“In Geneva?”

Abram frowned, his fingers flexing on my arm. “What?”

“I’ll be in Geneva until at least June. Maybe longer.”

He stared at me, blinking several times. “Geneva, as in Switzerland?”

“Specifically, at CERN, at the European Laboratory for Particle Physics.”

I studied him while he absorbed this news, noted how his eyes lost focus and they darted around at nothing.

“I didn’t realize that,” he said quietly, like he was talking to himself.

“I didn’t tell you. Or, I mean, it didn’t occur to me to tell you, meaning we’ve only really been on speaking terms for about thirty-six hours and I honestly thought for some inexplicable reason that you would be here through Sunday. So . . .”