Motion(Laws of Physics #1)(54)

FACT: You must avoid him for the REST of your LIFE.

FACT: Your interactions serve no purpose. They have to end.

FACT ACCORDING TO GABBY: He’s a goodtime guy.

And, most importantly, stop noticing the way he chews. It’s not okay.

But traitorous little objections searched for cracks, issuing rebuttals and trying to bargain—

Why can’t he know you’re Mona? Maybe Gabby was overexaggerating about his loathing of liars. Once you explain the situation, he’ll understand. What if he’ll keep it a secret too? What if he helps you?

If I have to avoid him for the rest of my life, why avoid him now? Shouldn’t I make the most out of the time we have left?

All interactions serve a purpose, even if they’re not immediately apparent. Right? What if Abram has something to teach you? What if not knowing him puts you on a path of inexorable ignorance?

And what’s the harm in watching him chew? It’s not hurting anyone. I can hide and watch him chew, right? He won’t even see me.

And, I’m sorry, but he just doesn’t seem like a goodtime guy. He just doesn’t. Being surrounded by women doesn’t mean he’s a goodtime guy, it just means women like him. And I don’t blame them!

—and this was concerning because: why?

Why was my heart doing this to me? Why was I arguing with myself? I’d never allowed a crush. I’d been tempted once or twice, but the most logical path forward had never included time for a relationship. Therefore, crushes were (are!) irrelevant.

So why him? Why now? Why? Why? Why? WHY?!

What a mess.

Going in circles, and growing increasingly frustrated, I decided there was no point in continuing this discussion with myself. Facts were facts. What I needed was a distraction. So I snuck down to the kitchen. All was quiet, and Abram was nowhere in sight. But because I was a loony bird, I also sniffed before taking another step, searching for smells. The aroma of donuts permeated the air, but I detected no trace of Abram-fragrance.

Heaving a large sigh, I meandered to the kitchen table, hoping against hope that the remainder of my chocolate donut was still there. It wasn’t. Instead, I found a plate in the center of the table with—one, two, three, four, five . . . –thirteen chocolate cake donuts.

!!!!!!

I stared at them, not understanding how it was possible to have so many emotions at once.

He went out and bought me donuts.

I was rubbing my chest, massaging the warm, tight ache there, before I realized what I was doing.

He bought me donuts. My favorite donuts. Thirteen. A prime number. A baker’s dozen.

As I stared at the pile, I was distressed to discover that my mouth was now dry, which ultimately necessitated a swallow. My mouth should have been watering at the sight of all that deliciousness, but it wasn’t. And, worse, I suddenly had no appetite. It’s hard to think about eating when you’re panicking.

However, the panic did help me close the door on my traitorous thoughts. I didn’t want messy, and the only way to avoid more messy was to put all dissenting opinions on lockdown. I would focus on the facts, as they were, and stay the course.

I made myself tea, crept to the mudroom, and found my old dog-eared copy of Moby Dick waiting for me. It felt familiar, and paired with the aroma of peppermint tea, it felt like an oasis.

But my brain was not quiet and would not allow me to absorb the story when I opened to the bookmarked paragraph where I’d left off a few days ago. Taking several calming deep breaths, I flipped open a random page and forced my eyes to read the words,

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.

A little huff of wonder slipped past my lips and I blinked at the black ink. What were the chances? This! This was what I needed to read. It was a sign. It was magic. It was the universe telling me—

But wait.

My eyes drifted to the top of the page and I was no longer surprised or convinced the universe was telling me anything at all. Opening to this very page was no accident. I’d triple folded the corner, because it was my favorite passage. Like all mysteries investigated thoroughly, there was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Mystery solved, I took Melville’s advice in any case.

Closing my eyes, I went to space. I visited the safety and calm of my brain-planetarium—my own version of Melville’s sea—and distracted my mind from small cares with the complexity of creation. From the Sloan Great Wall to a single quark, the whole and the individual pieces, working within the constraints of laws, of beautiful order.

No wonder I was frazzled and confused. Since starting undergrad, I’d never taken such a long break from academic pursuits or my research interests. I’d traded order for chaos, knowns for unknowns, equations for unsolvable conundrums.

This wasn’t my world. I didn’t belong here. Here was Lisa’s reality, not mine. Here were decisions based on desires, not facts and risk/benefit ratios.

Also here, footsteps approaching.

My eyes flew open just as Abram rounded the corner. Acting on some crazed instinct, I shoved Moby Dick between my legs (ha! . . . that’s what she said) and picked up my mug, holding it over my lap to obscure the book from view.