“Mona, come on, you are so much smarter than this. You are a literal genius. You are no one’s groupie.”
“No, listen to me, we love—”
She let me go with a derisive snort. “Please. Love? He’s known you for what? Two weeks total over two years? Bullshit. That’s not love, that’s sex and infatuation.”
“Lisa, you’re wrong. We haven’t even had sex.”
That had her straightening her spine, blinking her surprise. “What?”
“We’ve kissed, but that’s it. You don’t know what it was like when we were together that week here in Chicago. You don’t know what it was like in Aspen. He—we—it’s like, I don’t even know how to describe it. I’ve never felt so . . .”
“Alive?” The question held a note of mockery.
“No. Comfortable. Effortlessly comfortable, being myself. He knows me, somehow, in a way I don’t even know myself.” I grunted, and then growled at the insufficiency of my words. “I’m not describing this correctly. The thing is, it’s not about sex. Most of the time we were together, we just talked.”
My sister’s eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. “Seriously, Mona, this whole week, you don’t even sound like yourself when you talk about him.”
“Who do I sound like?”
“I don’t know. Someone else. Someone not you.” Her gaze moved over my face, like she was looking for the sister she knew within a stranger. “I guess, let me ask this, do you want to change? Do you like this person he’s made you into? This weepy woman who can’t leave the apartment without crying over a guy? Because—in my mind—this weak, sad, emotional person is not who you are.”
Nibbling on my bottom lip, I dropped my eyes to my hands in my lap, absorbing her words. “I don’t feel like I’ve changed. Much.”
“But you have.” Her hand closed over mine again, and this time I flinched, reflexively moving out of her grip. “Look. You’re my sister. Obviously, I love you and want what’s best for you. If you want my opinion—and you can take it or leave it—then it’s this: Abram is not good for you. I’m not just saying this because I’m worried about how twisted up and emotional you’ve been this week, I’m saying this because I have experience with guys like him.”
“You mean musicians.”
“Yes. Exactly. They’re a different breed. They’re leeches. He might say he loves you, but he really just loves himself and his music.”
“He’s not Tyler.”
“Oh, really? Has he called you? Has he texted you since Aspen? It’s been almost a week, right?”
I winced against the chilling stab of pain slicing through me. She already knew the answer to her questions. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t contacted me.
After several beats of meaningful silence, during which I worked to breathe around the ache, I glanced at her. “You know he doesn’t have my phone number.”
“Right. And he can’t get it from Leo, like, anytime he wants.” Lisa lifted an eyebrow, her tone heavily laced with sarcasm, her lips a thin line. “No, honey. You forget, I chased after the human trash bag Tyler for years. I’ve been you. I’ve made these mistakes. I know what you’re thinking and feeling, and I promise you—if you’d just cut him out now and stop hoping for more—everything will be so much better. You’ll go back to being the Mona we all know and love.”