MOTION: Laws of Physics 1 by Reid Penny

Author:Reid, Penny [Reid, Penny]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi
Publisher: Cipher-Naught
Published: 2019-02-10T16:00:00+00:00

* * *

I’d never been to a suburb before.

Driving through Abram’s parents’ neighborhood was like visiting a movie set. The houses all looked remarkably similar, the front lawns were perfectly maintained, US flags flew from flagpoles, wreaths hung on doors. I even spotted a few picket fences.

Honestly? I loved it.

“You grew up here?”

“Yes.”

“What do your parents do?” I asked, making a left onto another street that looked just like the last street. Everything was so delightfully tidy.

He didn’t answer immediately, so I glanced at him. He looked uncomfortable.

“What?” I split my attention between him and the street. “Do they run a grow house?”

Abram coughed a laugh, now staring at me. “No! My parents don’t run a grow house!”

“This neighborhood reminds me of that show, Breaking Bad. Of course, we’re in Michigan, not New Mexico, and the house styles are different, but the neighborhood has a similar feel. Have you ever watched it?”

“No.” His tone held amusement, but also maybe defensiveness. Or something like defensiveness.

“It’s a good show. The chemistry stuff is spot on,” I said distractedly. A house with a picket fence, a rooster weather vane, and a towering flagpole with a US flag snagged my attention. The outside was painted white, the shutters were trimmed forest green, the door was red. A summery-looking wreath with yellow flowers was affixed to the door. It probably had a welcome mat.

I want to live there.

“How would you know about the chemistry stuff?” he asked, also sounding distracted.

Instead of being flustered or worried that I’d made a mistake by mentioning chemistry, I saw his question for exactly what it was: a way to avoid answering my earlier query about his parents.

So I said, “Mona knows chemistry stuff,” which wasn’t a lie, but rather a true statement meant to deflect, and then asked again, “So, what do your parents do?”

Abram released an audible breath, shifted in his seat, and then finally said, “They’re retired.”

“Retired?”

He nodded.

“What did they do before they retired?” I lifted my eyebrows expectantly. When he didn’t answer, I suggested, “Run a grow house?”

“No.”

I peeked at him, found him grinning and trying to hide his grin by covering the bottom half of his mouth with his hand, his elbow propped on the window sill. He was giving me an amused side-eye.

Finally, he answered, “My dad was a general contractor and my mom ran the business part. They had my sister late, and me even later.”

“Oh.” I made a right. “How late?”

“Mom was forty when she had me and dad was forty-seven.”

“Oh.” I made another right, scanning the scrolling numbers on the side of the mailboxes. We were four houses away. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

That’s right. Gabby had said something about him being three or four years older than us.

“So she’s sixty-four today?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” I slowed as we approached the address, studying the two-story yellow house.

I found myself swallowing against a pang of longing as my gaze greedily noted the details of Abram’s childhood home. Navy shutters, white drapes, maroon door, and a wreath of pink and white flowers.

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