Time (Laws of Physics #3)(55)

The first, when we were in Chicago during that original week and I’d found her in the dark, in the kitchen. I’d startled her, but her reaction at the time, even after she knew she was safe—sad, angry, confused, terrified.

The second, in Aspen, when I’d backed her into my room and stood between her and the door. The look in her eyes then—sad, angry, confused, terrified—reminded me of how she’d looked just after we’d made love.

The third, the last time we were in Chicago, in her sister’s apartment, when she’d rested on the bed after I’d touched her, curling herself into a ball, her eyes vacant. Sad, angry, confused, terrified.

In the past, I’d wondered whether something had happened. What made her shrink from touch? But when she didn’t recoil from me, when she’d seemed to welcome it, allow me to touch her freely, I’d—selfishly, stupidly—let the curiosity go.

But now.

Shifting in the seat, loathe to move her, I reached for the button to lower the privacy screen, cracking it an inch.

“Thanks, but you can take us to the address now.”

“Okay, Mr. Fletcher,” the driver said.

I lifted the window again, frowning at the direction of my thoughts and at the way Mona’s body was now tense in my arms. I felt her swallow. She sniffed. She swallowed again.

“Are . . .” Mona started, stopped, cleared her throat. “Do you still want to stay with me?”

“Of course.” But doubt had me asking, “Do you want me to stay with you?”

She exhaled a loudly, lifting her head to look me in the eyes, miserable, remorseful, overwhelmed. “I’m so sorry. I love you, so much, and I’m so sorry.”

“Please.” I cupped her cheek with my palm, stole a quick kiss. “Please stop apologizing.”

She nodded, pressing her lips together to firm her chin, but then blurted, “I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

My heart heavy with worry, I frowned at her misery, trying to make sense of what had happened earlier and what was happening now. But I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t be able to unless she told me.

Gathering a deep breath, I slid my palm down her arm and lifted her fingers to my lips, kissing the back of her knuckles. “There is one thing you can do.”

“Anything.”

“You have to promise, before I ask, that you’ll do it. That you’ll give it to me, whatever I want.” It was a dirty trick, but I was at my wit’s end here. I needed her to talk to me, and the ends in this case justified the means.

“I promise. I swear, anything. I’ll do anything.” Her eyes were so wide, she looked so earnest and scared.

I thought back to Marie’s statements about adults who grow up with neglectful parents and subsequently felt even worse about this manipulation. Just like Marie said, Mona was eager to prove herself, and now I was leveraging that vulnerability.

I kinda hated myself in that moment. But I also kinda didn’t care. I needed her to tell me the truth, so we could figure this out, together. As long as I lived, I never wanted to see that look in her eyes again.

So, I gathered a deep breath, bracing myself, and asked, “Mona, why don’t you like to be touched?”

She stared at me. And then she blinked rapidly, her eyes dropping. She pushed against my chest. I let her go. Climbing off my lap, she moved to the bench where she’d sat before, crossing her arms at her middle, not looking at me.

“I just don’t like unexpected—”

“No,” I said firmly, shaking my head, disappointed she wasn’t telling me the truth. “No. That’s not it. You’re scared.”

Her mouth dropped open and she gaped at me. “I’m not.”

“Tell me the truth. Please.”

She flinched. “I am, I am telling you—” She sucked in a hitching breath, the beginning of another sob, and then she closed her eyes. Her head fell back to the leather of the seat and she whispered, “Damn it.”

“Why don’t you want to tell me?” I asked softly, aching for an answer.

She shook her head, a humorless smile on her lips. “Because it’s so stupid.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not stupid. If it makes you check out after every time I touch you, it’s not stupid.”

Her eyes opened and they cut to mine, held, devastating. Deep, bottomless wells of anguish. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop. Apologizing. Please. Just tell me what happened.”

Mona’s chest rose and fell, breathing faster. I recognized this. She was working herself up to admit something difficult.

“I don’t want you to look at me differently. I don’t want you to treat me differently. I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.”

“I won’t.”

“But you might. Because what happened—God, Abram. It’s nothing. It’s so minor, especially compared to what other people go through. Nothing happened, and yet—and yet, I carry it around with me, empty luggage, and I have no idea why.” Her voice cracked on the last word. I wasn’t used to her sounding so helpless, so lost. I hated it.

Impulsively, I moved to where she was, knelt in front of her, and held her shoulders as well as her eyes. “Forget about other people, okay? If you stub your toe, you’re allowed to acknowledge that it hurts like a motherfucker.”