Motion(Laws of Physics #1)(34)

“Abram.” I stood, shaking my head at the tangled strands of information he’d just dropped in my lap. “Wait. Stop. Let me get this straight. You want me to go to your mother’s birthday? What if I promised to stay put?”

“Where I go, you go.”

“I won’t leave the house.”

“I don’t have a choice, and neither do you. I promised your brother.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “So, we’re going to your parents’ because it’s your mother’s birthday? And you have to be there by two thirty, but you haven’t slept, so you need me to drive, and you’re expecting to sleep on the way?”

“Correct.” He was almost to the door, his steps shuffling, like he was too tired to pick up his feet.

Hastily discarding the blanket, I followed him. “Do you have a present?”

“I’ll pick something up on the way.” He yawned again. “Maybe a card. She likes flowers.”

Frowning at his blasé comment, I persisted. “No, no. Don’t get her flowers on the way. We have—I mean, my mom has—a stash of stuff. Designer bags, perfume, silk scarves for last minute gifts. Let me put something together.”

Abram stopped walking backward, but he also made a face. “Silk scarves?” he slurred, his eyes blinking like he was having trouble keeping them open.

“Trust me. Just, go get ready. I’ll get the gift and meet you downstairs in a half hour.” I walked around him, pressing the call button for the lift. “And take the elevator. You’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine. It’s just one floor down.” He waved away my comment, but promptly had to cover his mouth again for another yawn.

Thankfully, the doors opened immediately, and he didn’t protest as I pushed him onto the elevator. In fact, my pushing seemed to amuse him.

“Okay, see you soon.” I ignored the way my skin heated at his warm expression, focusing instead on what needed to be done. “And if you use the stairs, promise me you’ll hold onto the rail. I don’t want you falling down.”

“Yeah, gravity can be such a downer,” Abram mumbled, repeating my words from the prior evening, and that gave me pause.

I watched him closely as he leaned backward against the wall of the car, as though standing upright took too much energy. His sleepy, half-lidded gaze moved over me. His smile grew.

“You look . . . nice,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

Frowning in confusion, I glanced down at myself, at my braless chest in the skimpy pink tank top and boy-short PJs. Awareness caused a shock of pinpricks beneath my skin and I lifted startled eyes, catching the tail end of his transparently hot and appreciative look just as the doors slid shut.





8





Falling Objects





I assembled a birthday package for Abram’s mom, pulled on one of my—Mona’s—dresses as it felt more appropriate for the situation; unbraided and brushed my hair, ignoring the bottle of dry shampoo; applied the eye makeup; and grabbed two granola bars. The bars I washed down with a glass of milk just as Abram called Lisa’s name from the foyer.

“That’s a nice dress,” he said, leaning against the front door and watching me as I entered.

Glancing down at my somewhat fitted skirt, I shrugged. His gaze persisted, but I ignored it, instead turning to the mirror and pretending to fuss with my appearance.

“Very librarian chic.” His voice was deeper than usual, probably because he hadn’t slept at all. “All you need now is glasses, a ruler, and a very disapproving scowl.”

I fought against the sudden urge to scowl disapprovingly—just to see what he’d do—and said, “It’s Mona’s.”

Telling the truth here made the most sense. I’d never worn it before, so I didn’t have to worry about any pictures of me (Mona) in this dress somewhere in the house. Yet, it definitely wasn’t Lisa’s style: “boring” navy blue cotton, capped sleeves, a conservative neckline with a little collar, and an equally conservative hemline that fell just past my knees. However, it was form-fitting, which was why I’d never worn it, but was why I thought maybe it was a good compromise for today.

Abram pushed away from the door and strolled to my shoulder. “You’ll need this.”

Avoiding eye contact (and speaking and smelling), I turned to him and accepted the phone he held. Google Maps was already pulled up, and an address in Michigan was already mapped out.

Wordlessly, he guided me out the door, ten meters to the right beyond our gate, and to his car, a 1999 Honda Civic. Good thing I knew how to drive a stick shift. But, unfortunately, the stick shift also meant I had to hike my fitted skirt up a bit to use the clutch. Feeling acutely self-conscious—especially after the look he’d given me this morning before the elevator doors closed—I had difficulty swallowing until I glanced at my companion.

Abram had already fallen asleep, zonking out as soon as I’d pulled away from the curb. Seeing this, I laughed at my silly self-consciousness, hiked my skirt up a little more for ease of clutch-usage, and released a giant sigh.

I must be in an alternate dimension. My brain has officially gone off the rails.

I felt . . . lost. Not geographically lost, thanks to Abram’s GPS, but mentally and emotionally and physically muddled. Since talking everything over with Allyn was out of the question, I used the long, quiet drive to sort through the tangle of thoughts in my brain and the bundle of nerves in my stomach without her help.