Finding Me (3 page)

The atmosphere of the lab changed along with our relationship after that. Fitz began playing his music from the speakers of his computer and my shell slowly began to crack as he inquired and learned about my family and Abby. We talked about movies and music, food and philosophy, along with weird things like textures we didn’t like, laughs we found annoying, and theories on the extinction of dinosaurs. We discussed nearly everything, everything except for Max, my mother, and anything regarding my dad from the last year.

Sometimes we’d be talking and the conversation would veer dangerously close to one of the topics that had become my own personal Bermuda Triangle, and I’d completely shut down. Thankfully, Fitz never made a big deal of it and would carry the conversation back to safer waters and pretend like I hadn’t just made things incredibly awkward.

“So what’s your hypothesis?” I ask, shrugging off my coat.

“What are you going to do when it actually snows? You aren’t going to be able to fit more layers on. You need to start eating more.”

I brush off his comment and remove my sweatshirt. I can tell that I’ve lost some weight because my clothes are looser, but I haven’t had much of an appetite, and my budget’s a bit tight since I live alone on a meager income, refusing to accept help from my mom for anything besides school. I primarily eat cereal from one of my four bowls while sitting on my bed—an air mattress that serves not only as where I sleep but also as my couch and dining room.

“Come on, impress me,” I goad, walking toward the lab tables.

“We are more treacherous through weakness than through calculation.”

–François de la Rochefoucauld

I
go around to the back porch and ring the doorbell as I’ve been instructed. My heart is thundering in my chest with a combination of fear and resentment for having to be here. It takes a few moments before I see a small, slender woman approaching me through the window in the door. She smiles warmly at me, but I notice something hesitant on her face that she wipes clear as she opens the door.

“You must be Harper.” Her voice is soft, but assertive. The way her makeup is so perfectly applied instantly reminds me of my mother, though her hair is a rich dark brown instead of my mother’s bright blond. It’s difficult for me to guess her age, but I assume she’s in her forties, maybe early fifties. She takes a step closer to me and offers her hand, and with it the undeniable stench of pot rolls off her. She’s trying to mask it with the gum her jaw vigorously chews, and the perfume I can tell she recently applied, but it definitely doesn’t conceal the smell.

I stare at her for a moment, not certain what to do.
Am I really obligated to see someone that might be high? Then again, if I had to sit around all day and listen to other people’s problems, I may have the desire for something to help me tolerate it too
.

“I’m Kitty,” she says as I place my hand in hers. “Please come in.”

I immediately feel the need to remove my jacket when the heat blasts me like a hot Californian sidewalk in August. We travel down a short hallway to a door that is already open and waiting for us. Inside, the scent of pot becomes noticeably less in contrast to the odor of paint. Light blue walls surround us, emanating fresh fumes. A large overstuffed sofa sits across from a dark cherry wood desk. The wall behind the desk is lined with filing cabinets that match the desk in color, and I’m sure they’re filled with secrets and fears from others like myself. Several plants dot the room, sitting on the industrial, light gray carpets.

“How are you today, Harper?” she asks, waving a hand at the couch.

As I approach it, I notice a tissue box topping the small end table on the far side, causing my unease to grow.

“I’m good, thanks,” I reply quickly, but my movements are slow as I take a seat on the couch. I discreetly work to avoid eye contact as she pulls her chair to the front of her desk and sits so there’s nothing but a few feet of highly charged molecules of tension between us.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Harper?”

I raise my eyebrows and clutch my coat to my lap, running my fingers along the seam of my pocket. I’m here out of pure obligation. My Molecular Biology professor, Dr. Kahndri, had approached me for the third time, asking in a concerned tone if everything was alright with me. When I tried to brush her off, insisting I was perfectly fine, just not sleeping well, she stopped and blocked me from leaving the room and told me if I didn’t see someone to discuss things, she was going to go to my student advisor with her concerns and recommend that I use the counselors through the school. Neither option was appealing, but the second even less. So I agreed to meet her friend, Dr. Clarke … or Kitty, the name by which she apparently goes.

“You’re here because your professor is a concerned about your well-being, because she cares about you, Harper,” Kitty answers when I don’t respond.

I silently wonder if she keeps saying my name at the end of each sentence to remember it, or if it’s some sort of psych move. I remain silent and finally meet her gaze, noticing that her eyes are a brilliant shade of green.

“Harper, Dr. Khandri told me you’re not from here. Where did you move from?”

I swallow and try to keep my eyes on her as I reply, “California.”

“Really? What part?”

“Close to San Diego.”

“That’s a beautiful area,” she says, smiling at me again as I nod in agreement. “What brought you so far East?”

“Work.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“I work in a lab as an assistant.”

“Did you work in a lab in California?”

“No.” My eyes slide away from her, sensing her interest in the areas of my life that I’ve worked to avoid for the past several months.

“What do you like to do in your free time?”

I instantly look back at her to see if this is a ruse, but I don’t know her well enough to read if there’s anything beneath her relaxed and calm face.

We spend the next hour discussing topics that range from my interest in running to what I do at the lab and how I’m adjusting to the colder weather. It’s all relatively light and noninvasive and I feel relieved when I stand up to leave.

Fitz waves as I step through the door to the coffee shop we’ve begun frequenting due to its close proximity to the lab. I give him a brief smile and make my way over to him as he stands from the table he’s occupying. Fitz is only a few inches taller than I am, and thin, though not as thin as I’ve become. However, with all of my layers on, I feel huge beside his lean frame as he hugs me.

“You have to try these. You’re going to have a foodgasm,” he says, taking my scarf and unwrapping it from my neck.

“A foodgasm?”

“It’s not as good as the real deal, but there’s a lot less maintenance and time.”

I laugh as I hang my coat on the back of the chair and look to see a ramekin filled with dark chocolate cake topped with chocolate whipped cream and dusted with chocolate curls.

“Dig in!” he says excitedly, scooting his chair closer to the table. He plunges his spoon in the ramekin in front of him and then stops, looking back at me with anticipation lighting his brown eyes.

I take my first bite and he smiles in satisfaction as a quiet moan emits from my throat. The cake is warm and velvet soft. The chocolate is rich and satisfying as it melts against my tongue.

“See? Foodgasm!” he cries with a grin. “Here, drink this with it.” He slides a coffee cup topped with a decorative pattern of cream to me.

“What is it?”

“Just try it.”

I normally only ever get drip coffee; it’s a lot cheaper than the fancy drinks like this one. I swallow my protest as his eyes widen into a hopeful expression that I’ve become more resistant to disappoint and bring the cup to my lips. Fitz’s face lights with a smile again as I take a long sip of the mocha that is irrefutably a delicious change of pace.

“Are you doing this because I just went and saw a shrink?”

“You didn’t see a shrink. You went and spoke to a counselor.” My head falls back on my shoulders as I reach for my spoon again. “H, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. People talk to counselors all of the time. You had a rough year, babe. You need some help talking through the emotions. That’s all.”

I scoff at him and take another bite of cake to ease the discomfort rising in me.

“What was she like?”

“She goes by Kitty.”

Fitz raises an eyebrow. He knows, completing medical school himself, how serious most people take their title of doctor. “Well
meee-ow
. Does she look like a cougar?”

I laugh in response. “I don’t know. She seems very proper. She reminds me a lot of my mother.”

Fitz leans closer, his smile faltering, and his hand loosening around his spoon, making it dip. I never mention my mother. It sort of just slipped out, and for some reason I continue, “She’s from Texas and was raised to always look perfect.”

“Do you look like her?”

I shake my head and turn my attention to the small alcove that often serves as an impromptu stage.

Fitz doesn’t continue with his line of questioning, knowing with this small gesture I’m done sharing.

The following Wednesday I’m back at Kitty’s, telling her about the different classes I’ve taken through my brief college career.

“What made you decide on medicine?”

“I want to help people,” I reply with practiced grace.

“You can help people by doing all sorts of things. Becoming a translator, a teacher, road construction … Every job helps and assists in some fashion. Why medicine specifically?”

My eyes focus on her green ones that have been perfectly swept with mascara and eyeliner. I shrug.

“You don’t know why?”

I look at the clock on the wall that tells me I still have twenty-five minutes left and then without looking back, I leave.

The next morning at work Fitz beats me to the lab, something that’s only ever happened once.

“New hypothesis?” I ask, unbundling from my winter gear. The snow has yet to come, but it feels like it gets colder each day.

“What are you doing next week?”

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s rude to answer a question with a question? Especially when you aren’t responding to said question?”

“Thanksgiving is next Thursday.”

I’m acutely aware of this. I’m also aware that next Saturday is Max’s birthday. I’ve been struggling with a constant debate in my head about whether to send a card or a text—something to signify that I remember. But what would that say? What exactly am I remembering? Simply that it’s his birthday? Or that I am remembering how we spent his last one?

“You’re not spending Thanksgiving like you did your twenty-first birthday—alone in that craptastic apartment of yours.” Fitz’s voice has a slight edge to it that I’ve rarely been on the receiving end of. If this was about anything else, I would be rapidly working to mould into what he’s looking for, but I can’t. He’s not just discussing the possibility of me having to face my first Thanksgiving without my dad; his proposition is leading me to seeing
him
… on his birthday. Last year that day was a wonderful and tragic day that led to me realizing how much I truly cared about Max.

I shake my head with the resolution there’s no way in hell I’m going to send something to Max for his birthday. I’m not showing my weakness, especially when he hasn’t.

“I’m not flying to California.” My voice is defiant, and at some point my shoulders have squared.

“Then you’re coming home with me.”

My chin tilts and my muscles slowly begin to relax. “Fitz, Thanksgiving is a family holiday.”

His chin lowers as his eyes grow increasingly mocking. I wave my hand a few times, indicating for him to stop as I get my iPad ready for notes, trying to queue him to the fact that I’m done discussing this.

“We’re leaving Wednesday morning at ten.”

“Leaving? For where?”

“My mom’s.”

“Fitz…”

“H, you’re coming home with me. I’m not avoiding this.” I can tell by the rigidness of his body, and the intense look behind his brown eyes, that he’s serious. I’m so relieved that California hadn’t been his intention my entire body seems to be sighing as I slouch in my seat.