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  And then he opened his mouth, and he sang,

  “She falls, I catch her.

  She fights, I let her go.

  It starts, she stops it.

  She has to know. She has to know.

  * * *

  I stand, I kneel, I sit, I chase,

  But it’s like we haven’t moved.

  We’re still here, with the past between us,

  This place

  I hate

  I’m left to wonder what I haven’t proved.

  * * *

  This is new, for me and for you.

  Nothing you say, nothing you do

  Can make me hold a grudge.

  * * *

  Whispers in the dark, stealing touches, holding my breath.

  Replaying moments between us, wanting more, taking less

  But when she asked for forgiveness so sweetly,

  She has to know, she must know,

  I became hers completely.

  * * *

  This is new, for me and for you.

  Nothing you say, nothing you do

  Can make me hold a grudge.

  * * *

  You tell me to go,

  But you have to know, you must know,

  If this is a mistake, I’m making it

  And if this is my chance, I’m taking it.

  I can't regret

  Never giving up on you

  * * *

  Nothing you can do

  Nothing you can do

  Will make me hold a grudge

  I’ll never give up on you.

  11

  Heat and Heat Transfer Methods

  *Abram*

  It wasn’t how I wanted her to hear the song, in a room full of people, anger between us.

  When I wrote “Hold A Grudge,” when we were in Chicago, that night she told me to hold a grudge and I stayed up all night writing poetry about her, I’d imagined myself playing it just for Lisa. I had this fantasy scenario where she’d be the first one to hear it set to music.

  But now, staring into Mona’s captivated and captivating eyes, sharing the finishing note, the last reverberations of Ruthie and Nicole’s guitars softly fading, I decided this scenario wasn’t so bad either.

  We weren’t alone. She hadn’t been the first to hear the words she’d inspired. But at least, for Mona’s first time hearing our song—and I could no longer deny that it was our song—I’d been able to sing it directly to her. The words were the same as the version on the radio, but I’d arranged the music in a new way.

  She’d inspired that too.

  I was still angry. And yet, earlier in the evening, when she’d walked into the dining room and our eyes met, the moment confirmed a nagging suspicion: it wasn’t revenge I wanted from Mona DaVinci, it was honesty.

  Maybe she wasn’t the woman I’d fallen for so foolishly and completely. Maybe she was. I had no idea. She gave me nothing. Her wall built of lies remained a barrier between us, yes. But it was Mona’s continued restraint and detachment that formed the true impassible chasm.

  The applause caught me off guard, stirring me from my reflections. Taking one more look at Mona, as she was now—her lovely eyes misty, unguarded, vulnerable, lips parted, expression open and guileless—and knowing I’d held her attention rapt, I’d had the entirety of her whole being and focus for the span of our song, it felt like enough.

  The group assembled, pressed forward, and their rousing appreciation for the new version demanded my attention. Nearly everyone was on their feet, making noise, and I accepted their praise with gratitude. I was grateful the song, and subsequent singles, had done well. I was grateful for the chance to tour with musicians I respected. But that’s not why I wrote music.

  As soon as the snow cleared enough for me to leave, I decided I would leave. Whatever I’d hoped to find here, whatever I’d hoped to take from Mona DaVinci, or receive from her, it was never going to happen more or truer than this moment. I felt certain that now, right now, was the most honest she’d been in a while, maybe ever. Perhaps she wasn’t capable of more, and—if so—that was heartbreaking.

  But it’s enough.

  Decision made, I gathered a true deep breath, my first one in days, and I turned toward Kaitlyn. She’d stood as soon as the clapping started and gave me a smile that was more smirk than grin as she approached.

  “You changed the key. D minor.”

  “I did.” I nodded, my gaze flickering to Mona. She was also standing, her hand fiddling with the waistband of her pants. She pulled out an envelope, her eyes were on it, and she unfolded it with what looked like great care.

  “Interesting. Very interesting,” Kaitlyn said, and I shifted my attention back to my friend, she was stroking her chin, looking in Mona’s direction. “I have theories.”

  More people moved around us, telling me how much they enjoyed the new variation, asking Ruthie if she could convince me to play another song, delaying me from responding to Kaitlyn. I turned more fully away from Mona and answered Jenny Vee’s questions about our tour dates, Charlie’s concerns about the new arrangement, and Bruce’s insistent suggestion that he make me a mixed drink, to which I answered no thank you.

  Deflecting requests to play additional songs from the album, I mumbled to Kaitlyn when I got a chance, “You always have theories.”

  “But these theories are provable, and being snowed in is as close to actions occurring in a vacuum as possible outside of a laboratory setting, which is exciting,” she whispered on a rush. “I miss doing ‘the science.’ Ah! Mona! Hello.”

  My muscles tensed with the knowledge that she was close, but I kept my back firmly to her.

  I’d assumed she’d already left. Asking me to play the song hadn’t been her idea, she’d been pressured, that was perfectly clear. But we’d had a moment. A meaningful moment. Our beginning and our end had been hers to define, this had been mine. Poetic justice, a way to force closure, whatever it was, that’s what I wanted. Now we were done, now I needed it to be over.

  “Hi, Kaitlyn.” Mona’s voice moved over me like a crashing wave, and I closed my eyes for a beat, frustrated because the sound made me hungry.

  “Did you like the song?” Kaitlyn asked, tugging on my bicep to turn me around. “If so, which part did you like best? I like the part where he becomes hers completely.”

  Shooting my writing partner a look I hoped conveyed the full force of my murderous thoughts, I readied myself for the next several minutes and gave Mona my eyes, but just my eyes.

  Or, that was the idea. But then, I saw she was still misty, her expression still open, vulnerable with raw hope. I had to swallow. The impact of this image, the sight of this woman as she was now, it struck out, overwhelmed.

  “Can I talk to you?” She tilted her head toward the uninhabited part of the large room, her typically staid voice laced with optimism.

  I nodded, mesmerized by this version of her and mutely followed where Mona led, walking where she walked, stopping when she stopped. She faced me, lifting her chin, her gaze conducting a cherishing sweep of my features. I held my breath.

  “Here,” she said, giving me a smile that looked brave and nervous. “This is for you.”

  I blinked at her, confused. And then I glanced down. There, extended between us, was the envelope she’d been unfolding with care.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a letter.”

  A letter.

  And just like that, all hope, all anticipation, all madness ended. The spell was broken.

  “Another letter?” I sounded bitter. I was bitter. The last thing I needed from Mona was another of her letters. The last one might not have been a memo, but it read like one. I didn’t want any more fucking correspondence with a salutation of Regards or Best wishes.

  “Uh, yes. But this one is much—much—wait. What are you doing? Wait.”

  Crumpling the envelope in a fist, I walked to the fireplace.

  “Abram.” She was right behind me, at my
shoulder, her voice edged with panic. “Wait, what—what—oh my God!”

  I tossed it in the fireplace, toward the very back where it was hottest, and turned back to her, prepared to tell her where she could shove her memos. The words expired on my tongue.

  Her eyes were big, so big, and her mouth gaped wide open with shock, hurt, and what looked like unfiltered rage. I allowed the sight of her obvious pain and fury to slip past my barrier of indifference, because it surprised me so damn much. Mona was looking at me like I’d tossed her into the fire instead of her letter.

  Jaw working, up and down, big movements, like she might yell at me. Like she might growl and scream at me instead of the snow this time. But she didn’t.

  At length, she expelled a short breath, I caught the scent of whiskey and peppermint. Using an extremely low voice that sounded barely controlled, she said, “You, Abram Harris—”

  “Fletcher,” I corrected, noting that she’d slurred Harris.

  “Harris, preside over a kingdom of lies! You call me a liar, but you are the liar.” The word lies was also slurred. Is she drunk?

  “I’m the liar?” My glare flickered over her, the bright red flush to her cheeks. She wasn’t drunk, she was angry and Mona DaVinci looked scorching hot like this. Eyes flashing, a bundle of restless, ferocious energy. I hated that my body took notice, coming to life, the beat of my pulse encouraging me to do unwise things.

  “Yes. Your song? ‘Hold a Grudge’? It’s a lie. You’re a siren selling lies to hapless hopeful sailors, where I am the seaman!”

  I stepped closer, shoving my face in hers, heedless of the crowd of people on the other side of the room whose voices I could no longer hear.

  “Mona,” I said, matching her volume, but lowering my voice an octave, “You can keep your fucking memos. I don’t want them.”

  “It wasn’t a memo!” she said between clenched teeth, her eyes moving from mine to my mouth.

  “Oh, it didn’t have a subject line?” I taunted, enjoying this, her reaction, far too much, because—damn— at least it was honest.

  “It. Was. A. Letter.”

  “I’m sure you can write another one. But you should know, I’ll just burn that one too.”

  Mona looked like she was choking for a moment, and she lifted both of her hands. I thought she might grab me. I thought maybe she might shake me.

  Instead, she pointed at the fire. “You, Abram of rotating last names, are a gamma-ray burst! But not in the strong, blinding and beautiful way. Yes, you’re that. But I’m talking about the destructive, horrible, chaotic side of a GRB. And you don’t deserve honesty, because when it’s given to you, you throw it in a fire. You destroy it. Here is my official I bid you good day, sir.” She turned, slurring sir, and released a low, wrathful low growl.

  Without thinking, completely on instinct, I reached for her.

  “Mona—”

  “I say, good day!” she whisper-yelled, yanking her arm out of my grip while doing an absurd little twirling thing with her hand, almost like a salute, and marched away.

  Watching her go, my hands on my hips, I slid my teeth to the side, fire in my lungs. Instead of leaving, which was what I’d expected her to do, she rejoined her friend on the couch, Allyn, who was shooting poison darts of dislike in my direction. What else is new?

  Mona forcefully sat, grabbed her cup of tea, and glared at me over the rim as she downed the rest of its contents. At her side, Allyn made a short sound of protest, her gaze moving between Mona and the cup, and then to me.

  Her friend’s eyes were wide, rimmed with worry, maybe a hint of panic. Studying the women, I wrestled with curiosity and the impulse to chase after Mona, and to drag her caveman-style into my room. To ignore the pain and the wrong and seize this rare moment of honesty. She was angry? Fine. Let’s take our aggression out on each other in ways that didn’t hurt, ways that felt good.

  Why couldn’t that be our last moment?

  What would it be like to have Mona DaVinci? I winced slightly at the thought, flashes of carnal imagery an assault. It wasn’t the first time I wondered. Would she be cold? Rationing her touches? Requiring that I ration mine? Would she tease me? Make me suffer for her? Would she let me tease her?

  These were dangerous thoughts to be having with her sitting there, within reach, still throwing knives with her eyes.

  Finished with her tea, she reached for Allyn’s. Plucking it from her friend’s hand, she spilled a little on the couch. Either she didn’t notice or she didn’t care, because in the next second she was downing that cup too.

  The action felt spiteful, like she hoped to punish me by drinking tea, and I couldn’t stop the grim smile at her absurdity. I didn’t care if she drank tea. I didn’t want to care about her. I’d chased her before, I wasn’t chasing her again. She was finished with me? Fine.

  “Fine,” I said quietly, to no one, but knew at once she’d read my lips. Her gaze narrowed, darker, angrier.

  So. Fucking. Hot.

  Shaking my head at myself, I exhaled a breath that felt like an inferno leaving my lungs and ripped my eyes from hers. Turning aimlessly in the other direction, I commanded my feet to carry me to the far side of the room.

  That’s when I finally looked up and remembered we had an audience. Kaitlyn—and presumably everyone else—was looking at me like I was someone different, openly gaping, her eyebrows high on her forehead.

  We hadn’t been yelling. In fact, Mona had whispered every one of her angry words, but our body language must’ve been unmistakable. Kaitlyn’s attention drifted past me to where Mona and Allyn sat, and a small, mischievous hint of a smile tugged her mouth to one side. She started forward, her eyes cutting to mine, her smile growing.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said gleefully.

  “Kaitlyn.” I made sure my voice sounded like a warning.

  She walked faster. “Or I won’t be right back.”

  Gritting my teeth, suppressing a string of curses, I shook my head and sighed. Great. Just great. I couldn’t wait for Leo to hear about this.

  A hand on my shoulder had me glancing over, following the line of the arm to Bruce’s sober expression. “Hey, man. Want that drink now?” He held out a glass. “You look like you need it.”

  I nodded. I took it. I drank it. “Thanks.”

  “You bet.” He gave me a commiserating non-smile. “Let me make you another.”

  I didn’t have another drink.

  I left.

  I needed to cool off, and I knew myself. There wouldn’t be any cooling off with Mona around. Grabbing the snow shovel in the mudroom and not bothering with my coat, I cleared the slate path between the house and the ski lift house. There wasn’t much snow, just a few inches, but it was enough.

  Calmer, I returned to the house and removed my boots in the mudroom. I was cold, my teeth were chattering, but my skin still felt hot, too tight. Pulling off my wet sweater, I hung it in the closet and took the stairs up to the main floor, intent on my room and the lyric notebook waiting on my desk.

  I had no lines, no clear direction, yet something had to give. Even recording the bursts of nonsense running through my mind would be a relief. I’d just climbed the top stair when I heard a loud groan, like a sound of defeat, coming from the living room, followed by sloppy laughter.

  “Oh no! Bruce! You’re out.” Mona’s voice stopped me.

  It and the words spoken were very un-Mona like.

  Swerving from my original destination, I walked slowly toward the sounds, straining my ears for clues as to what I might see when I arrived. More groaning, glasses clinking, laughter, nothing that would have prepared me for what I found.

  I absorbed several things at once: only five people remained in the room, playing cards were scattered all over the coffee table and floor, an empty bottle of vodka and a half-finished bottle of whiskey also sat on the coffee table along with too many shot glasses to count, Charlie and Bruce were in nothing but boxers, Jenny Vee and Allyn in their bras and
underwear, and Mona.

  Mona.

  Mona wore the most—wool socks, yoga pants, plain black bra—but her shirt and sweater were gone.

  “Hey ya Abram, old buddy, old pal.” Allyn lifted her arm and waved, noticing me first, but promptly lowered it, like it was too heavy. She wasn’t giving me the stare down. This was probably because she was intoxicated.

  “What the hell is going on?” My eyes moved up and down Mona’s body, and everything was right and wrong. Right because I missed seeing her skin. I missed her body. I ached for it. But wrong because no part of her body was mine to miss.

  “She wanted to play strip poker,” Charlie said, pointing to Mona like they were kids and he didn’t want to take the blame for getting caught. But the arm he raised offset his balance and he fell over. Laughing. Drunk.

  Glaring at my drummer—promising, I’ll take care of you later—I moved my eyes around the gathered circle.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “They went to bed after the shots.” Bruce held his chin propped up with his palm. His chin kept falling off of it. “Armatures.” Drunk.

  “You mean amateurs?” I asked, incredulous, taking several more steps into the room. I’d only known Bruce for a short while, but I’d never seen him drink past his limit.

  “That’s what I said. Armchairs.” He nodded at himself.

  Exhaling a short, disbelieving breath, I studied Mona. She was looking at me, swallowing, a glimmer of nerves in the reflexive movement.

  But she’d also lifted her chin to squint at me. “You want to play? Bruce is about to lose his shorts, and then he’s out.”

  I flinched, because every word with an s sound had been slurred. Gaping, I looked at her, really looked at her and not the skin she’d exposed. She was drunk. Maybe not as gone as the others, but she was close. Sitting upright, she swayed. And the eye squint? She wasn’t giving me back my glare, she was trying to keep her eyes focused and open.