Motion(Laws of Physics #1)(39)

In love? Muse? Is he . . .?

He’s . . .

I shook my head in an effort to rouse my brain. Tearing my stare from his body, I chuckled and rolled my eyes.

He was joking, of course. Oh, Ahab.

I decided right then, that whenever Abram said or did anything nutso, I would think of and refer to him as Ahab.

“Ha ha ha,” I said to myself, adding for good measure, “And then the wolves came.”

I guess we were winging it. I didn’t like the idea of winging it, but I trusted Abram . . . insomuch as I was capable of trusting anyone I’d just met two days ago.

Finished stretching, Abram sauntered around to my side while I turned my attention back to the likelihood of having met Marie Harris in the past, talking myself into, and then out of, a freak-out.

Worst-case scenario: She’d interviewed both Lisa and me at some point, but so what? If she had, it had been only once. How much could a person remember from a ten-minute interview? And what could she do? Call me Mona and sew a scarlet M to my chest? Nah.

As Abram opened my door and extended his hand, which I accepted distractedly, and then allowed him to pull me from my seat, I reasoned that—even if his sister was a journalist of the dirt-digging variety—she couldn’t expose me as Mona in the span of an afternoon. I would just . . . not talk much. Speak only when spoken to.

Keep my answers polite, but vague.

Yes. Good plan. I can do this.





9





Introduction to Two-Dimensional Kinematics





“Ah!” Glancing between the bundle Marie had placed in my hands and the woman herself, I added the apt anytime-phrase “Is this why fate brought us together?” because it was perfect for the situation and needed to be said.

Marie tossed her head back and laughed. And then Abram’s mom was also laughing. And then I was laughing, because the Harris women’s laughter was contagious. For reals, it was an airborne illness of awesome.

Marie reminded me of my friend Allyn in some ways—how open she was, how friendly and engaging—but without the na?ve awkwardness I found so charming in my friend. Marie was . . . well, she was a woman. Or, how I thought a woman should aspire to be: Knowledgeable. Confident. Kind. Reasonable. Empathetic. Inclusive. An adult. There was so much I could learn from her. Basically, Marie was who I wanted to be when I grew up.

But Pamela reminded me of no one. I’d never met anyone like her, and therefore I felt like I could learn a lot from her as well.

Perhaps I should have been disappointed in myself for not sticking to the plan. But try as I might, I could not stop talking. I was having too good of a time to care about the logical path forward. It was official: I loved both Abram’s mom and his sister and I wanted them both to adopt me.

Here’s how it happened: Abram and I had walked in, and I’d been determined to be on my best rigid behavior. But then Pamela—Abram’s mom—pulled me into a hug, kissed my cheek like I was something precious, and slipped me a cookie under the premise of wiping lipstick from my face. She also winked. Stunned, I ate the cookie. It was shortbread and it was so good I wanted to cry.

I handed off the present I’d brought to Abram and, with her arm around my waist, Pamela walked me into the kitchen where Marie—who was Abram’s opposite in coloring and willingness to show her smile—also gave me a hug and gave me a cookie. Another shortbread.

Is this all it takes to earn my trust? Cookies and smiles?! Can I be bought for so little?

Apparently, yes. Which I felt was the right answer. Besides, who is to say cookies are cheap? Cookies are priceless! (Don’t @ me.)

Anyway, Marie promptly confided that both she and Pamela were Hufflepuffs, but that Abram was a Gryffindor with Slytherin tendencies, and then asked me which house I was in.

It all happened so quickly. One moment I was discussing how I preferred the blue and bronze scheme from the book to the blue and silver combo in the films (for the Ravenclaw house colors), and commiserating on the absence of Peeves in the movies, and in the next moment—really, six hours later of near constant enthralling conversation—Marie was showing me her hand-knit collection of fingerless gloves and asking me if I wanted a pair.

Which brings us to now.

“You are hilarious. ‘Is this why fate brought us together?’” Abram’s sister quoted me, wiping at her eyes. “They’re just fingerless gloves. Take them.”

“I will. I will take them.” With no shame, I clutched the gloves to my chest. “Thank you.” Not only were they warm, they were blue and bronze, my real house colors.

Since I worked and spent most of my day in cold offices sitting in front of a keyboard, my fingers were often cold. I’d tried full-fingered gloves to various degrees of failure. Explaining my cold finger lament to the ladies over peppermint tea—leaving out any particulars that might reveal me as Mona—Marie had immediately offered me a pair, volunteering that she was a knitter and had several spare sets in her old room, along with scarves, blankets, hats, and so forth.

“My apartment in Chicago is too small to hold everything I make, so I store a lot of stuff here. And you’re welcome,” Marie replied warmly, her face and her smile sunshine. “Thanks for giving my mom such generous gifts for her birthday, they were very thoughtful.” Her gaze flickered over to her mother.