Time (Laws of Physics #3)(2)

“Yes. The large poster of Abram Fletcher in his underwear was difficult to miss.” Once again, her voice gentled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see it on my way in, otherwise I would have walked a different way.”

“It’s okay.” It was okay.

Martin Sandeke, Kaitlyn Parker’s churlish fiancé, had mentioned the existence of the posters in passing last week. We’d been talking in the kitchen the day before Abram left Aspen, and Martin had said, He just did that underwear modeling thing, soon there will be posters of the guy in his underwear everywhere.

I hadn’t given the statement extensive attention, instead focusing on the second part of Martin’s claim, That’s not a guy who’s changed. That’s a guy who is just getting started.

There he was. Abram. At the airport. Gorgeous. Spectacular. Hand over his heart. His eyes on the ground. A bright white background. Lust in my heart. His hair was down (I’d never seen him with his hair down since he’d grown it out) and he wore no shirt, just black boxer briefs that left very little to the imagination. Even worse, the advertisement for underwear had been life-sized.

I’d been warned, I should have prepared myself!

I wasn’t prepared.

Martin had been right, the posters were everywhere, and everywhere included the baggage claim at O’Hare. I’d wanted to take it out of the plexiglass display, roll it up, and steal it, especially when I spotted two other women do a double take as they walked by. One of them elbowed the other and they shared a look.

They shared a look about my boyfriend . . .?

No.

Wait.

Is that what he was?

That would make you his girlfriend.

No.

Maybe?

I had no idea.

Anyway, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that people in the airport had seen Abram with his hair down, shirtless, in his underwear before I had. And that gave me the sad. Would I ever see him with his hair down? Would I ever see him in his underwear?

Only time would tell, and time was being evasive.

Presently, my hand moved to the folded piece of paper I’d been carrying every day, now in my PJ pocket, and I rubbed my finger over the outline of its folded corners. I’d replaced my beloved letter—the one that Abram had burned in Aspen—with the poem he’d left me on my side table. The original letter I’d carried was thick, three pages of hefty hopes and dreams. This one was much smaller, which felt appropriate because it contained just one hope, This is not goodbye.

Then why does it feel like goodbye?

“Hey,” Lisa said, pulling me out of my reflections. “You know, I almost cried when I saw the poster too.” I could tell by the shift in her tone that she was trying to be funny, trying to cheer me up. “O’Hare should take it down, otherwise the arrivals area will be full of swooning, weeping women.”

Ugh. “Not helping.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just trying to—” Lisa’s tone changed. “Listen, he’s famous. Okay? He’s famous, he’s a rock star, and he’s a model, and he’s hot, and that means he’s going to be a sex object, an object of lust for thousands of women. Those are the facts. You can’t burst into tears every time you see a billboard of Abram Fletcher in his underwear.”

My head whipped around to my sister and time slowed. “There are billboards?” My voice cracked, because of course it did.

She scrunched her face, and her response seemed to take forever. “Forget I said that.”

“You’ve seen billboards of Abram in his underwear?”

Now she winced, again taking forever to respond. “Just two.”

I set the mug away and covered my face, my elbows on my legs, and shook my head. “I can’t do this.”

“I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything.” Lisa’s fingers encircled my wrist. Just like when she’d placed her hand on my back earlier, I didn’t flinch. Flinching had been instinctual for so long. I had no idea why the reflex suddenly stopped in some situations, with some people, yet persisted in others. But I couldn’t think about that right now.

Removing my hand from my face, Lisa wavered for a moment, and then used her leverage on my arm to pull me forward into a hug. “Oh, Mona. I wish you would tell me what happened in Aspen. He hurt you? I’ll make him suffer.”

Heaving another watery sigh, I bit my bottom lip to stay my wobbly chin and clung to my sister. “He didn’t hurt me. He was wonderful. So wonderful.”

She made a sympathetic sound. “You miss him? Is that what this is about?”

I nodded.

“You two are together?”

I hesitated, because I wanted to be precise. “I think so.”

“You think so?” An edge entered her voice and I felt her stiffen.

I pressed my lips into a firm line and endeavored to work through the jumble of feelings and thoughts and second-guesses cluttering my brain. Were we together?

Abram’s words from that last night echoed between my ears, Stop trying to put us in a fucking box!

Sucking in a breath through my nose, I finally answered, “Definitely. Maybe.”

I felt her chest rise and fall. “Maybe. What the hell does that mean?”

Scrunching my eyes, I leaned away, but kept hold of her forearms. “It means we love each other, and I told him I’d be open to seeing him whenever he wants to see me, and he—”