I zoned out as she moved around the kitchen and out of view. A short time later, a tea kettle screeched. Sometime after that, she set a mug on the coffee table. At some point, she sat next to me on the couch and placed her hand on my back. I didn’t remember her touching me, only that one moment her hand wasn’t there and the next moment it was. Straightening from where I half-reclined on the arm of the couch, I twisted to look at her.
Her lips were curved into a tight, small smile and she inclined her head to the right. “Your tea is ready.”
“Thank you.” I glanced at the mug, but I lacked the energy to reach for it. Therefore, I stared at it, willing it to move into my hands.
“What are you doing?” she asked after another vague span of time.
“You don’t want to know.”
More moments passed. Lisa’s eyes were on my profile while I stared at the tea.
Eventually, she huffed, reached for the mug, and placed it into my hands. “You seriously need to snap out of this. What did he do to you? You’ve been here for three days and it’s like hanging out with a ghost.”
“WooOOOoooOOOooo.” I made my voice shake, the pitch go up and down.
That made her chuckle. But then, for the hundredth time, she asked, “When are you going to tell me what happened in Aspen?”
I brought the mug to my lips because a sting of tears rushed to my eyes. I knew the contents within the mug were too hot to drink. I took a sip anyway. I burned my tongue. I blinked back the tears.
“Mona, come on.” Her hand came to my shoulder. She squeezed it. She sounded concerned. “This isn’t you. You’re a mess.”
“I’m not a mess.” I was a mess. The logical path forward had abandoned me. Every road led to disaster. The wolves are definitely on their way.
“You are a mess. One minute you’re giving me monosyllabic answers, and the next you’re crying at the airport! I’m worried. I’ve never known you to be like this, ever.”
I released a watery sigh, my eyes losing focus, the white mug and its dark brown contents swirling together to become a nebulous blur. “My display of emotion within the airport is self-explanatory.”
“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!