Imperfect Chemistry (10 page)

I don’t turn around. Instead I call back, “Good night,” and then I shut the door firmly behind me. I shut it on Jensen, but I can’t shut it on myself and on the strange and foreign feelings churning inside.

The best scientist is open to experience and begins with romance – the idea that anything is possible.

–Ray Bradbury

On Thursday, I stop at the clinic and check in with Duncan. I tell him about my new friends and some of the things I’ve done over the last few weeks.

I also open up to him about what’s happening with Jensen, and my own confusing reactions.

“Why do you think it is that when you start feeling something you’ve never felt before, you want to run away?”

“I don’t know.”

“How many times have you said, ‘I don’t know’ in your life?”

I rifle through my memory banks. “A handful of times, approximately.”

“And of those times, how many have been since I last saw you?”

“Most of them.”

“For someone who always knows everything, or knows how to find the answer, not having the answer might be scary.”

I consider his words in relation to the sensations I’ve been experiencing over the last two weeks. I blink at him. “I’m scared
of my own feelings.”

Every time I’ve felt something I don’t understand, I’ve either pushed or ran. And I’ve been doing that because I don’t like how someone can affect my emotions without my consent.

“It’s not logical to be afraid of myself.” I shake my head and try to think it through. “I’ve always been able to control how I feel. Most people allow external sources outside their control affect their emotions, and I’ve always prided myself on being more logical.”

“‘Harsh words or foul blows are not an outrage in themselves, but your judgment that they are so’,” Duncan quotes.

I nod. “Epictetus.”

He smiles. “If you care about someone,
it’s okay for them to affect you, as long as you are aware, and they aren’t willfully trying to hurt you. The more you open up to people, the more emotions you will experience because you’re going to care about them and about how they perceive you.”

“I do care
.”

There’s something about his words that resonates with me. Caring about someone means allowing them to affect your emotions. Handing over some control to them. It’s terrifying, and thrilling all at once. I wonder if there’s a way to test that. Are you more likely to experience the effects of someone else’s emotions if you care for the person being subjected to them?

“That’s really great, Lucy,” he says, cutting off my train of thoughts.

I mull over everything we’ve revealed, and Duncan sits in silence while I think. He always knows when to speak and when to let me absorb. 

“So I can come back and start working on my project again?” I ask.

He leans back in his chair. “Do you have a viable hypothesis?”

“Not yet. But I will, soon." I feel frustrated. I have goals. I have things I want to learn and this is getting in the way.

“Lucy, you have another
month. The board agreed to wait and give you the extension because they trust you will figure it out. Use this time. Stop stressing. You’re young. Just live. Have fun. Forget about school for a bit. You’ve spent your whole life working and studying. It’s time to focus on you. Everything else will fall into place.”

I leave the clinic and head home, thinking about what Duncan said.

Every time I’ve seen Jensen since last weekend, my heart rate picks up, adrenaline surges into my system. It’s as if my body is experiencing a fight-or-flight response, but there is no threat. Except for the threat of another kiss. Not that I didn’t enjoy the kiss; it was more that I enjoyed it too much. When I’m with Jensen, it’s as if everything disappears. Except him. And me.

Maybe it’s too much. Maybe I can’t handle it. Maybe I should find someone else to interview. No, the thought makes me panic even more. There is no one else. What I should be doing, what any good scientist would do, is take Duncan’s advice and figure out how to get the most out of the time I have left.

I hear voices as I approach the duplex along with the now familiar rumbling sound of Jensen’s laugh.

Freya is outside my door and Jensen is sitting on the railing, his back to me, talking to her. He says something and she laughs, flicking her brown hair over one shoulder and putting her hand on Jensen’s arm.

I stop at the bottom of the steps and something dark flows through my mind. I have the sudden and disturbing image of forcibly removing her hand from him and tossing her over the side of the railing.

“Hey,” I say, walking up the steps.

What is wrong with me? Am I sick? I would never do that to Freya. Why would my brain offer such an image for consideration?

“Hey girl! I was waiting for you. Did you forget we have a date?” she calls out.

“We do?” I ask when I reach the porch. I’m relieved to see that Jensen is now upright and has moved at least two feet away from Freya. I shudder to think what distressing thoughts might run through my head if they were any closer or, heaven forbid, touching again.

She grins at me and throws an enthusiastic arm around my shoulder, and I feel horribly guilty all over again. “I’m taking you to one of the best places to observe human behavior at its most basic level.”

“Okay.”

“Are you ready to go now or do you need anything?” She gestures to my door.

“No, I’m good.”

We say goodbye to Jensen and then head to Freya’s car, parked down at the end of the alley.

She drives an old, beat-up VW bug and I have to crawl through the driver’s side to get to the passenger seat.

“Sorry,” she says, grinding the stick shift into place and lurching down the street. “I haven’t had money to get the door fixed. And my mom’s all like, ‘you’ve got to learn to be responsible and the value of the dollar and blah, blah, blah,’”
she mimics using her fingers for air quotes, which makes me nervous since she removes her hands from the wheel.

Just in time, she puts her hands back on the steering wheel to make a left-hand turn, without looking either way, and nearly collides with another vehicle. I grip the handhold on the door as the other driver honks and yells something colorful out the window
. Freya waves and smiles in his direction.

I’m scared to ask why the passenger side door is broken.

“Where are we going?” I ask, hoping it’s somewhere close.

“You’ll see. You are
gonna love this,” she says.

I have a feeling I’m going to regret this, actually, but I manage to remain calm as she careens around a few more turns before stopping and parking in a giant parking lot next to a sprawling building.

“The mall,” I say, glancing out the window at the behemoth structure.

“This is where youth go to test out their relationship-building skills,” she says, giving me an excited smile. “You’ll see.”

She leads me into the building, and we go straight to the food court. Since I’m with Freya, I’m not really surprised this has to do with food. But she’s right, there’s a ton of pre-teens and older teens, all milling about. Flirting, messing with each other. I could probably sit here and watch for hours.

“Told
ya.” She smacks me gently on the arm. “This is where a lot of them come after school gets out. Now let’s eat. I’m starving!”

We order some Chinese and find an empty table. As we consume questionable cuisine she tells me about her latest drama with Cameron. It seems he’s been ignoring her texts and not returning her calls and she heard through a mutual friend that he was seeing someone else. I find that I’m relieved.

“Are you really surprised?” I ask her.

“I guess not, I just thought, you know,
that he changed. That I could change him. Isn’t that stupid?”

“It’s not stupid,” I tell her. “He should be able to stay monogamous for you. You’re worth it.”

“It’s because I wouldn’t sleep with him again,” she says taking a bite of sweet and sour chicken and chewing it up before continuing. “When we got back together, I told him I wanted to wait, that I had to be able to trust him again before we took that step.” She sighs and shoves an egg roll in her mouth and chews it slowly.

“You should never compromise your morals for someone else,” I tell her. “You did the right thing. Except for the part where you had someone beat him up. That’s probably not the right thing.”

“I know,” she says with a laugh. “Thank god he never found out. Thanks, Luce. You’re a good friend.” She pats my hand and we dig into our food.

Freya is halfway through her general’s chicken, and I’ve only taken three bites, when I can’t keep it in any longer.

“I have to talk to you about something,” I say.

She chews and swallows. “Yeah?”

“It’s about Jensen.”

She smiles and takes another large bite. “I’m n
ot surprised, are you guys lovers yet?”

“What? No, it’s not that. Not even close.” I take a fortifying drink of water and look straight at her. “When I came home today and saw you talking with him, I felt…angry.”

She stares at me for a few long seconds. “Is that it?”

“Is that it?” I repeat. “No, that’s not it. I imagined something awful.”

She leans forward, eyes gleaming, smile widening. “Do tell.”

I sigh in frustration. She’s smiling now, but she’s going to hate me. “I imagined ripping your arm from him, and tossing you over the balcony!” I cover my mouth as soon as the words leave it, ashamed and yes, embarrassed. I recognize these emotions immediately as well as the heat creeping up my neck.

I watch her expression, expecting her to be upset with me, but she bursts into laughter.

“Why is this funny?” I ask, alarmed at her response.

“You like him.”

“Well, yes he’s nice.”

“No, you like him. Like, really like him. Would you quit denying it? It’s totally obvious to everyone but you.”

I sigh. “You sound like my brother. Yes, he’s a kind person and I enjoy being in his presence. I also happen to find him attractive. That’s it.”

She laughs. “What do you think that means? Oh, it explains everything. You want to be his girlfriend. You want to marry him and have a million of his babies.”

“No.” I shake my head in denial and stare down at my plate like it holds the answers.

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Well, Ms. Scientist, what do you think of the fact that you’re jealous when other females talk to him?”

“Jealousy in its most basic form is the fear of losing something to someone else,” I say.

“You think I’m going to steal Jensen from you,” she teases.

I’m confused. “He’s not mine to lose,” I insist. “These emotions aren’t logical.”

“That doesn’t matter when you like someone. You found him attractive and then you talked to him and he’s not a total creepazoid. You like him. It’s okay, you can admit it. Nothing to be ashamed of. I won’t judge you. Honestly, I would judge you if you didn’t feel anything for him. And it’s okay if you want to throw me off your porch, as long as you don’t actually do it. Not that you could. I could totally take you down even though you’ve got like seven inches on me. I’m tenacious.” She laughs and shakes her head. “I can’t believe you told me that, though.” She chuckles softly and then stuffs the last few bites from her plate into her mouth.

I examine for the millionth time the emotions that have been coursing through my system whenever Jensen is around. Anxiety, lust, happiness…the fact that he has an effect on my emotions that I can’t stop or control. Oh god.

“I do like him,” I say. “I think I like him a lot.” How horrifying. “What do I do?”

“What do you want to do? Do you want to pursue somet
hing with him? A relationship?”

“I have no idea. How do I find out? And is it even possible? I don’t think he feels the same for me. And even if he did, I’m not sure I could handle a relationship. I’m not good with all the talking and being around people all the time.”

She makes a derisive noise. “I think it’s more than possible, and I think you’re better with people than you realize.”

“I don’t know, I mean, look at him and look at me. We’re so different. And he’s…” I don’t know how to describe it.
“He’s handsome and charming and socially stable. I’m…”

“Honey, you’re a
hottie in horrible clothing.”

“No.”

“Yes. Those lips, those eyelashes that have never seen mascara, that skin, that body.”

“No.”

“Dude, get rid of the orthopedic shoes and corduroys and you are a knockout.”

“I’ve never understood the compulsion to restrain one’s feet in an apparatus designed to invoke pain and potentially damage the nervous system.”

“Plus you’re funny!”

I frown.

“Maybe not intentionally funny.” She pushes her plate aside, and leans towards me. “Let me fix you up. Please? It’s all I want for Christmas,” she begs.