Time (Laws of Physics #3)(69)

“What do you mean?” I kept my voice soft even though I ached for her and instantly despised them.

“I started to suspect, when I was in college, that my parents are more a product of the world than they are truly themselves. Every decision is made by a committee of experts—what they say, what they wear, who they’re photographed with and where—and their interest in me—or Leo, or Lisa—is heavily dependent on how their committee votes. Sometimes I’m the right person for a photo spread, depending on the message they want to convey to the world. But sometimes I’m not.”

Mona lifted her head, giving me her eyes back. They were tired, resigned, and I hated that Marie had been right about Mona’s parents.

“Do you think that they might change? If you asked them for more of their time, that they might try?”

“No,” she answered immediately, no hesitation. “They won’t change. But you know what? Nothing changes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing changes. Not really. I mean, everything changes. Change is the only constant in the universe. Except, nothing really changes. Case in point, in undergrad, in my philosophy class—which I hated—the professor handed out a list of issues that were supposed to be problems with the world today, and they were spot on. Except, they were written thousands of years ago by a Greek philosopher.”

“Huh. What do you think that means?”

“I guess . . .” Her eyes shifted up. “I guess, what’s wrong with the world never changes. Selfishness, greed, brutality. There will always be stupid, brutal people. There will always be intelligent, brutal people too. And that’s depressing.”

“But what about the flip side to that?”

“The flip side?” She picked at her donut.

“Don’t you think, if what’s wrong with the world stays constant, then what’s right with the world—love, compassion, honor, generosity—is constant as well?”

Staring at me intently, her breathing changed. She was doing that thing I was beginning to recognize as the precursor to discussing or saying something difficult.

I’d already braced myself for a big announcement by the time she said, “Abram.”

“Yes, Mona?”

“I want a house.”

I lifted my donut for another bite. “Okay.” Was that it? Why would she get herself worked up about that? She’d already mentioned it.

“And a picket fence.”

“A what?” I asked around my bite, frowning, certain I’d misheard her. It sounded like she’d said, And a picket fence.

“And a garden with roses. And a flagstone path leading through it. And a room—with a piano—that’s big enough to also house a Christmas tree between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. I want a dog and an alarm system. And a flag on a flagpole that’s lowered to half-mast during national tragedies. And dinners together every night at six. And enough bedrooms so that, as my kids get older and need more space, I won’t have to bunk them together anymore. But they should definitely share a room when they’re younger so they can learn how to compromise. And I want to help someone with their homework and help them win the state science fair.”

I blinked. Hard. “Wait. Slow down. Back up. You want—you want—”

“Kids. Not right now, but before my eggs begin to disintegrate. I could freeze them, true. But I’d prefer not to, for a variety of reasons.”

I lifted a hand, laughing lightly and studying her sweet, earnest face. “Hold on.”

“I’m not saying this dream of mine is a foregone conclusion. I’m not saying I expect you to want the same things I do. I’m just, you know, communicating what my dreams are, should you wish to have them as a data point.”

“Mona. Stop. Let me ask something, okay?”

She crossed her arms. She uncrossed her arms. She glanced at her donut and began tearing it into crumb sized pieces. And then she nodded. “Proceed.”

“Thank you. First of all, you want a picket fence?”

Her eyes narrowed, like it might be a trick question. “Yes.”

I shook my head, making a face of distaste. “Why?”

Statue-still, Mona continued to regard me with doubt. “Because, I guess, I like the way it looks?”

I made a soft sound of disagreement, wiping my hands with a napkin. “We don’t want a picket fence, believe me. They typically use pine, because you don’t paint cedar, and then you have to keep repainting, and the wood rots, or the sections fall over. It’s a real pain. We should get metal fence, aluminum, if you have your heart set one, and assuming it’s not for security reasons. I mean, a picket fence isn’t going to keep anyone out. Aluminum is low maintenance and it looks nice.”

Now she was looking at me like I was crazy.

I held up both hands. “If you don’t believe me, just ask my dad. He doesn’t talk much, but he’ll have a lot to say about fences. And I’m sorry, but I’ll never live it down if we get a pine picket fence. He’ll be out there painting it every time he comes over.”

She made a strangled sound. “Abram!”

I crossed my arms, giving my head another shake so she knew I was serious. “I’m not budging on this. You don’t know how my dad is about home construction and landscaping. Every conversation will start with, ‘Hey, so, can we talk about the fence?’”