Space (Laws of Physics #2)(9)

“You mean, she always brings up that she’s mentoring the infamous genius, Mona DaVinci, and you find that irritating.” Poe said this as he studied his nails, still smiling.

Stinker. He knew me too well.

Lifting my eyes to the ceiling, I shrugged. “Irritating is such a strong word. But yes. It feels a little condescending.”

“Because your mentor doesn’t actually mentor you, or why?” Poe leaned his elbow on the arm of the leather chair, stretching his legs in front of him as though getting comfortable, his brown eyes still bright with amusement.

He already knew the answer to this question, so why was he asking? I folded my hands over my stomach and inspected him, deciding that he was just in a teasing mood.

Therefore, I made myself sound lofty. “You know I would never say my mentor doesn’t mentor me.”

That made him laugh, a good, deep, belly laugh, and he shook his head. “You would never say it, even though it’s the truth.”

We stared across the length of my desk, smiling at each other, good feelings and trust and respect between us, and I couldn’t help but wonder—

A moment flashed behind my mind’s eye, a dark room, my cheek pressed to a soft T-shirt, the sound of a heart beating beneath my ear. Arms—Abram’s arms—were around me. Reality and time felt fuzzy around the edges, as though I might be able to touch the past . . .

Sigh.

In the present, my hand reflexively moved to the folded envelope in my front pocket and I felt my smile fall, likely due to the ache in my chest. Despite my attempts to be rational about the short—extremely short—time I’d spent with Abram, memories of him used to cause a brutal, violent stabbing sensation in the vicinity of my heart, scatter my brain, and send a burst of heat up my neck and over my cheeks.

I’d written him a letter a month after returning from Chicago, hoping to dispel some of the near-constant torment; I’d placed it in an envelope; I’d addressed the envelope to his parents’ house in Michigan and I carried it with me every day, folded in my front pocket. Writing the letter hadn’t helped dispel anything, but it had given me something to hold, to touch when I felt like I couldn’t breathe in those early days.

The ache I experienced now—over two years later—was a huge improvement. I hoped soon it would be a mere small twinge. Yet, I still carried the letter in my pocket, every day, though I was unsure why. Habit maybe?

Despite the nonsensical and lingering physical symptoms and resultant mental quirks, I didn’t regret my decision to help my sister. How could I? She’d kept her word, I’d kept mine, we were so much closer than before, and she was flourishing. Even Gabby and I were friendly more often than at odds. Her latest birthday card to me sat on a bookshelf at my right, proudly inscribed, Donuts before bronuts. Love you forever, Gabster.

Work, my research was good. Great even.

Things with my sister were good. Great even.

I had good friends. Great even.

However . . . however.

Taking a deep breath, working to disperse the ache and the image of Abram, I brought Poe back into focus. His smile had turned wry and he shook his head, a faint movement. We never spoke about it, about how I wasn’t over a guy who I’d known for a blink of an eye, but I was almost certain my friend knew what—or who—I’d been remembering just now.

Poe, his smile slowly giving way to a thoughtful frown, reached forward and picked up the snow globe on my desk, shaking it. “Don’t worry, I covered for you at the reception. I told everyone you had a flight and couldn’t stay.”

I knew he’d cover for me. We always covered for each other, which was why I’d left the reception. When I returned from my memorable one-week trip to Chicago, Poe Payton had been the shoulder I’d cried on the one night I’d allowed myself to cry.

It happened two weeks before the fall semester. I’d been nineteen and drunk at a grad school mixer. He’d told everyone I was on flu meds. I’d bawled in his car, telling him the entire story on the drive back to my condo between self-recriminating sobs and rants. He stayed over, spending the night on the couch. He also made me breakfast in the morning, told me a story about his oldest sister’s disastrous love life that made me feel better about mine, and then we went for a silent, oddly cathartic walk on the beach.

I shoved the ghost of Abram from my brain and allowed myself to be distracted by the floating bits of white swirling around the snow globe Poe had just given another shake.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go with us? To the cabin?” I asked, hoping he would change his mind. “It’s not too late to get you a ticket.”

“Nah,” he said, bringing my attention back to his face. “Who wants to spend a week surrounded by snow, skiing in Aspen when one could be here, surrounded by ocean and sunshine, surfing in Southern California?”

I made a face. He’d tried to give me a surfing lesson once and it hadn’t gone well.

“You know I don’t ski. Or surf,” I added quickly, just in case he offered to teach me again. “And the allure of being surrounded by snow has more to do with the beverages and hermit life than the activities.”

“The beverages?”

I began ticking off my fingers. “Hot cider. Hot chocolate. Hot, mulled wine. Hot—”

“I get it. You like it hot.”