Space (Laws of Physics #2)(72)



He stared at me. I stared at him. We were surrounded by a mountain of snow, but it felt like—instead of surrounding us—it stood between us.

But we can have tonight. We can—

“Mona.”

“Hmm?”

The muscle at his jaw flexed, his stare now determined. “We’ll make it work.”

I nodded, but the nod was a lie, so I stopped nodding and turned back to the house. His hand on my arm slid down to my gloved fingers, squeezing them.

We walked in silence, holding hands, for a while, reaching the house, removing our wet boots and outer layers in the mudroom. The silence continued as we walked up the stairs, each footstep sounding like the seconds ticking on a clock.

We made a detour to the kitchen where we dropped off the picnic stuff. Lila was putting the finishing touches on dinner and shooed us away when we tried to clean our dishes. She was so nice. I liked Lila.

Eventually, too soon, we reached my door. I placed my hand on the door handle, Abram at my shoulder, his hands in his pockets. I didn’t turn the handle.

I’d never experienced the sensation of time running out. Yes, I’d had projects with due dates—big ones—and deadlines. But it never felt like this. That whole “sands through the hourglass” thing made so much more sense to me now. Each grain of sand was a moment, a final moment.

The meal we’d shared was probably our last meal, together. Holding hands as we walked through the snow would be the last time we held hands. This would be the last time I opened my door with him standing next to me. Tonight he would come inside my room, we would be together, and the final—the very last—moment would follow.

And that would be the end.

Give me another minute. I just want one more minute.

Keeping my eyes forward, I said, “You should come inside.”

“Yes.” His answer was immediate. “Yes. I’ll come in.”

I opened the door. I walked inside. He followed. He closed the door. I turned on him. I grabbed him. I kissed him.

He kissed me back.

Smart Mona reminded me that we hadn’t yet discussed expectations and boundaries. He hadn’t consented. But, you know what? Neither had I. At no point had I consented to feeling like my heart was being ripped out of my body, that tomorrow didn’t matter because he would be gone. Thinking about the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that felt overwhelming, like attempting to comprehend the vastness of space.

It stretched on, forever. There was a hypothetical end, to the universe, to me, to all this pain and longing and damn yearning, but it remained just that. Hypothetical. Beyond my reach or understanding. I couldn’t fathom it.

But I could fathom now.

“Mona, what are you doing?” He caught my hands as I reached for the button of his pants, so I redirected them under his shirt, to the hard, glorious planes of his stomach and chest and back. He felt so good, hot, hard, necessary.

“I want you.” I kissed his neck, his jaw. “Don’t you want me?”

Time moving. Always away, always forward. Once lost, lost forever.

“There’s no rush,” he said, but his hands moved under my shirt too, lifting it, rushing to palm me through the fabric of my bra. “We can—” I felt his Adam’s apple move with a swallow, his fingers pulled down the cup, massaged me, he groaned, “—take our time. This isn’t goodbye.”

This isn’t goodbye.

My throat closed at the words. This was goodbye. In the morning, he’d be gone. His tour was twelve months. He’d be surrounded by women who desired him for his talent and body, and maybe even for his glorious heart. They would be gorgeous, and clever, and tempting, and probably lovely, good people.

Monogamy isn’t for musicians. They will feed his voracious creative soul.

“Wait.” Abram caught my hands again, lifting his mouth. “Wait. Mona. Stop.”

I did. I stopped. I dropped my chin to my chest and I took a deep, bracing breath.

“What is going on?”

“I told you, I want you.”

“No. You’re frantic.”

“I frantically want you.” I pulled my hands out of his grip and turned away, pacing to the window and opening it. “It’s stuffy in here,” I mumbled.

He watched me as I breathed in the cool air, saying nothing.

He watched me as I turned and walked to the bed, saying nothing.

He watched me as I sat on it, folding and refolding my hands, and he said, “You don’t believe me.”

“About what?”

“This isn’t goodbye.”

“It is goodbye.” My voice was robotic, because if any situation deserved a divorce of emotion from facts, it was this conversation.

“Oh? Really? You don’t want to see me after this?” He sounded so hurt.

I rubbed my chest, because the hurt in his voice echoed in the chambers of my heart. “I would love to see you after this. I would love to see you any time you want to see me.”

He seemed to pause here, as though trying to parse through what I’d just said, as though it were a riddle.

Eventually, he demanded, “Then why do you think this is goodbye?”

“Because—”

“Because you’ll be in Geneva? That’s not an issue. Distance won’t be an issue. We’ll make it work.”

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