Time (Laws of Physics #3)(32)

“I like the blueberry,” Mr. Harris said, standing a little bit behind his wife, giving me a matter-of-fact look. “She uses the fresh ones.”

“It’s because this one—” she pointed her thumb at Mr. Harris and chuckled merrily “—built me that greenhouse in the back. I can get blueberries in the winter. Isn’t that something? Oh, I also brought you a de-stress mix of jojoba oil, lavender, and rose.” Looping her arm through mine, she steered me toward the back of the plane and to a built-in couch. “They just added this couch last year, it’s much nicer than sitting in the other seats.”

She took a breath, so I took my chance.

“Mr. Harris, Mrs. Harris, I wanted to apologize for lying to your family when I attended your birthday party several years ago. I have no excuse, and I—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. You do have an excuse, a good one too, and Abram explained everything. It’s like roses. You’re still you. No matter what we call you, you’re still just as sweet. Now, I’ve been doing some steam distillation, and you know it takes thousands of roses to make just a bit of essential oil, but I got so many blooms the last two years, I managed a few drops.”

And so it went.

Slightly shell-shocked, I spoke of essential oil extraction techniques with Pamela—as well as various other topics of interest to us both—while Mr. Harris ate his blueberry muffin and read the newspaper. All the while I fretted.

Their forgiveness felt too easy. Who forgives this easily? No one I knew. Definitely not the world. People don’t just forgive anymore. Forgiveness, like everything else, needed to be earned, hard fought, won after proving oneself with huge, unwavering acts of self-punishment and atonement.

But for now, so as not to make the flight awkward, I decided to—as Gabby would say—just go with it.

Oh! Also, Pamela and I took a candid selfie and sent it to Abram just before takeoff. Sending Abram that photo yesterday had been a big deal for me, not because the picture was risqué, but that was definitely part of it. It was a big deal because I truly wanted to send my boyfriend a risqué photo. And so I did.

As I deplaned my Frankfurt to New York flight, I’d sent a text message of warning to Marie via Abram’s cellphone, informing her that she should expect several candid selfies over the next few hours. It was the only action of potential value my brain could conjure to reach beyond geography and maybe, possibly help Abram.

Perhaps it would cheer him up?

I hoped so.

Anyway. Back to the hospital and a sleeping Abram.

His room was in the VIP wing—a very real thing in LA—and Marie had come out to gather us from security. We’d arrived late evening, therefore the paparazzi were minimal, really just one guy with a big lens, taking shots of us while wearing a perplexed expression.

Marie had also greeted me warmly, with a big hug, a sweet smile, and no mention of my prior offenses. For the record, she was just as lovely as she’d been years prior. A very weird voice in my head mentioned that it would be pretty cool if Abram and I got married, partially because Marie would then be my sister-in-law and Pamela would be my mother-in-law.

Not that I’m advocating marriage based on the groom’s family. I’m just sayin’. You know. Throwing the facts out there, he had a stellar family.

IT WAS A VARIABLE! OKAY?

Moving on.

Upon entering his room, I held back with Marie, allowing Pamela and Mr. Harris the first approach, though my heart ached to see him in the hospital bed. It was too small for his big frame, and he looked pale. He never looked pale, so this was definitely distressing.

Neither of his parents woke him, they just took a peek and hovered for several minutes. Pamela made a sad sound. Mr. Harris put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and whispered something in her ear. She nodded. Then Mr. Harris sniffled, and she bent her head toward his, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

It was so damn sweet. My eyes were misty. They really love him.

“Of course they do,” Marie whispered, turning to look at me like I was strange.

“Yes. Right. Of course.” Yikes. I must’ve spoken my thoughts aloud.

She continued her survey of me for a few seconds, then said, “How are you doing with all this?”

“Me?” I frowned at the obvious worry for me in her voice. “Forget about me, how are you doing? You must be exhausted.”

Marie gave me a closed mouth smile, her eyebrows high on her forehead. “I’m not the one who spent the last twenty-four hours traveling. Mona, really, how are you? Are you hungry?”

I shook my head, her genuine concern disconcerting. “Marie, I—” I snapped my mouth shut, shaking my head harder, turning to face her fully, and whispering, “Why is your family being so wonderful to me? I lied to you, all of you. I want to earn your forgiveness, prove to you that I can be trusted, prove myself. I need to be the one—”

“Oh my goodness, stop.” Once again, Marie was looking at me like I was strange, a little bubble of quiet laughter escaping her lips. “Abram said you were like this. But, honey, we don’t want you to prove anything.”

I eyed her suspiciously. “Then what do you want?”

She shrugged, her gaze flickering over my face. “I don’t know. Kindness, I guess. Just be kind.”

Swallowing around some unidentified thickness, I nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”