Motion(Laws of Physics #1)(29)
I’d answered them as soon as I’d received them, which was months late. As an eleven-year-old, I’d begged my tutor to stop holding them, parsing them out as prizes for accomplishments. When that didn’t work, I’d asked my parents to intervene, but they agreed with my tutor (which really meant they didn’t want to rock the boat). I’d even asked Leo for help and discovered his teacher was doing the same thing to him!
When would Lisa and Gabby get it through their brains that there’d been nothing I could have done?
“You responded months after she sent them. Months and months, Mona. She was sent away—because of you—and you were too busy to respond. And she’s never been mean to you, not as far as I know.”
“That’s so untrue! You know she can’t stand me.”
“False.”
“Oh yeah? What about that prank? With the university newspaper? Plus, as I’ve explained a hundred times, I didn’t get the letters—”
“Whatever, that prank was a joke. You’re just too busy thinking the worst of her to realize it.” She flicked away this fact with a wave of her hand. “The point is now. You don’t even like it when your twin sister hugs you. What happened changed you.”
“That’s preposterous.” I was sputtering again, “I-it-what happened didn’t change me. I’ve never liked. . . I just don’t like not knowing when-when- nothing—”
I didn’t get a chance to complete my thought or reiterate my objection because Abram chose that moment to exit the house, the sound of the door drawing my attention. I watched him, some forty feet away, as he descended the stairs dressed only in board shorts.
I flinched.
“Good. Lord. That man is gorgeous.” Gabby’s breathless exclamation felt like sand in my bathing suit. My eyes still stinging, I frowned at the back of her head for a beat before glancing again at Abram.
Perhaps it was the recounting of my no-big-deal story just moments ago and the strange emotional toll that had taken, but as my attention moved over Abram, all I experienced was an aloof observing of a fact.
Objectively, I could admit that Abram was, his body was, breathtaking. Big, wide shoulders—linebacker shoulders, but still lean—on a tall frame, defined stomach, narrow hips. He wasn’t just strong, he was exceptionally formed. He was perfect proportions and elegant lines and exquisite angles.
He was gorgeous. However, my accompanying thought was, so what? Abram was gorgeous, so what? The sky was blue, so what? I have no idea why my damn eyes are still stinging, so what?
And then he looked up. Met my gaze. A whisper of a smile curved his lips and I experienced an odd sort of tunnel vision as he approached. His warm brown eyes didn’t stray from mine though his smile waned, and the focus, the concentrated intensity of interest obvious in his stare seemed to increase the closer he came.
Suddenly, he was there. Standing in front of me.
“Hey,” he said softly, those warm eyes of his moving over my face, a concerned-looking wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. “Are you okay?”
Am I okay?
“Of course,” I said automatically, feeling oddly flustered by the question.
The wrinkle between his eyebrows deepened and he shifted closer, confusion and urgency behind his gaze. “Are you-have you been crying?”
7
Motion Equations for Constant Acceleration
It was 2:47 AM. I couldn’t sleep. Maybe I didn’t get enough exercise . . .
I hadn’t gone swimming, and I had only myself to blame. More specifically, my wonky emotions were to blame. Or maybe it was Gabby’s fault and her potent power of suggestion. Whatever it was, I was paying the price now.
Instead of getting control of myself like a sane person, Abram’s intensely gentle concern for my well-being freaked me out and drove me away from the pool. I’d made some lame, hurried excuse about needing to wash the bathrobe, fished it out of the water, and sprint-walked to the house. Then, feeling like a fool, I brought the robe upstairs to the bathroom, tossed it in the tub—planning to wring it out and dry it later—and ran into Lisa’s room.
Any plans I’d had of going swimming or cooling off were forgotten, which was fine. After recounting my stupid, ridiculous story to Gabby, I’d no longer felt hot anyway. I’d felt nothing.
I’d wanted to go to my own room but didn’t. That wouldn’t have been prudent. Changing back into day clothes, I searched my sister’s room for something to do, something—anything—that might occupy my mind and time. After a short hunt, I discovered one of our old violins in the back of her closet along with a pile of early workbooks and advanced sheet music.
I took it all out, attempted to tune the instrument, reacquainted myself with how to hold the bow, where to place my fingers on the bridge, and began playing. I started with “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” I played it ten times and then flipped the page of the Suzuki Method, Book One to the second piece, “Old MacDonald.”
I’d just made it to page eighteen when I thought I detected someone approaching, reverberating footsteps on the stairs, on the landing, coming closer. Closing my eyes, I replayed the song from the previous page—which I had memorized at this point—and silently chanted in time to the music, Please go away, please go away, please go away.