Imperfect Chemistry (18 page)

Should you shield the canyons from the windstorms you would never see the true beauty of their carvings.

–Elisabeth
Kubler-Ross

When I wake up the next morning, Jensen is gone, and the sunlight is streaming through the windows.

Last night was amazing. I would have thought that experiencing so much pleasure in one night would result in a sudden withdrawal of serotonin or spontaneous combustion or something, but nope. I’m still intact and I still feel…happy. I have a vague memory of Jensen leaving earlier this morning, the brush of his lips on my forehead, a deep chuckle when I groaned and rolled away.

I smile. When he’s happy, I’m happy. It’s weird. It’s like the closer we get, the more emotions we share.

I sit up in bed so suddenly I feel lightheaded.

“That’s it,” I say to my empty room.

I spring out of bed and rush to the closet to get dressed. I know exactly how I’m going to study emotions.

Two hours later, I’m sitting in front of Duncan in his office with pages of hastily scribbled notes.

“The hypothesis is that people who already share an emotional connection are more likely to feel the other person’s impressions, even if the other person doesn’t articulate the information to them. We can get two groups and split them into pairs; one group of couples who have been together for at least a few months. We could even break them into separate groups based on length of relationship to measure if the length of the relationship is a factor, and then have a control group of strangers. We incite emotions in one member of the couple, and ask how their partner feels. I’m willing to bet that the couples
with established emotional connections are more likely to have the feelings transferred to them.”

Duncan watches me with serious and appraising
eyes. “That’s a solid proposal.”

I’m smiling like the Cheshire
Cat, but I can’t help it. I finally came up with something viable.

“How are you going to stimulate emotions in people?” he asks.

I bite my bottom lip. “I’m not sure yet. But I know I can do it.”

He stands. “I know you can, too.” He smiles at me. “Come back next Monday with some ideas, and we’ll get to work.”

I walk home in a daze. Everything is finally coming together. All I have to do is find a way to provoke people into an emotional state.

I’m definitely ready for a nap. Between the lack of sleep the night before and the excitement of the morning, I’m exhausted and drained. Jensen and I spent most of the night alternately sleeping, cuddling, talking, and doing lots of other things in positions that I never knew were possible.

Jensen is in class until the afternoon so I go straight home and fall into sheets that still smell like him.

A loud consistent banging wakes me up a few hours later. I glance at the clock on my way to the door, not quite awake, stumbling down the hall. It’s not yet noon, and I wonder who it could be. I open the door without checking the peephole and Jensen is standing there, one arm leaned against my door frame, and he looks horrible. Not just tired from the night before, but upset and angry and I’m not sure what.

“Jensen,” I say. I’m startled by his appearance and I immediately take a step towards him but he removes his hand from my door frame, and steps back and away from me.

“Are you okay?” I ask. I can’t stop myself from reaching a hand out towards him, wanting to comfort him and erase the sadness from his eyes, but he avoids my hand, flinching away from me. My arm falls uselessly to my side.

“Who did you tell?” His voice is anguished, angry.

I blink at the sound of it and consider his question. I’m not sure what he’s referring to, but the first thing that pops in my mind. “That we had intercourse last night? No one. I haven’t talked to anyone since
I—”

“No, Lucy.” He shakes his head. “Who did you tell about my art?”

My stomach plummets. I can’t quite believe we’re having this conversation. I told Freya, but she would never break my trust. Would she?

I can’t look at him. I stare down at my bare feet. They’re getting cold on the linoleum next to the open door. I can’t lie to him. I can’t even make excuses. I did tell someone after I promised I wouldn’t and the why makes no difference at this point.

“Freya,” I say, hating the sound of my own voice.

He bangs his fist into the door frame, making me jump, and my heart rate accelerates even more, my breathing coming out faster beyond my control.

“Why?” His voice breaks on the word and I force myself to look up into his face. He’s hurting and it’s because of me. I did that to him.

I shake my head. “I have no acceptable excuses. I understand if you never wish to speak with me again.”

“That’s the understatement of the year. How could you?” It’s almost as if he didn’t hear me. I could shut the door, I suppose, and leave him at this point, but if it makes him feel just a little bit better to hurt me as I’ve hurt him, I will gladly take the verbal lashing.

“I understand that I’m nothing more than an experiment for you. A study to further your career, but this is my life,” he says. He swallows and I watch his Adam’s apple jerk with the movement.

He’s wrong. I want to tell him he’s wrong. He’s so much more than an experiment, but then he’s speaking again.

“My father called. They know the real reason I’m falling behind in my classes and they’re
cutting me off until I give it up. He actually drew up a contract that I have to sign, agreeing to his demands. Do you understand what this means? I can’t go to school here anymore. I can’t live here anymore. My life is over. Everything I want is finished. Everything I’ve worked so hard for is gone. Dust!”

I force myself to look at him. It’s like I can see his heart breaking in his eyes, a reflection of the pain flashing in my chest.

“I trusted you,” he says quietly. “I trusted you when I thought that I could never trust anyone ever again.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. The words are soft and inadequate.

“Not as sorry as I am.” He shakes his head and then he turns abruptly and leaves, down the porch steps and to his car. I wait until he drives down the alley and I can no longer hear the sound of his motor before I shut the door, lean back against the cold wood and slide to the floor.

I can’t believe that just happened.

I can’t believe I messed up so badly. Why did I tell Freya? Who did she tell? The questions scatter in my brain when I realize one glaringly important truth. It doesn’t matter. It’s over. There’s no going back now. The words can’t be retrieved no matter how many times I think about. No matter how much I wish it could take it back. Why didn’t I tell him when I had the opportunity? I meant to, but I was distracted by lust and Jensen and…it’s no excuse.

A knock on the door wakes me up from my trance. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting on the cold, hard floor, but a significant amount of time mu
st have passed because my butt is numb and my legs are tingling when I stand to open the door. I hope it’s Jensen, but I’m sure it’s not.

When I open the door, Freya is standing there.

“Are you okay?” she asks, pushing past me and into the living room. “I’ve been calling you all day! I saw Jensen in between classes this morning and he looked like a train wreck, what the hell happened?”

“He knows that I told you.”

“Told me what?”

“The thing I told you not to tell anyone,” I say quietly.

She wrinkles her nose. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know.” I’m sad and frustrated and angry. The emotions are unfamiliar and confusing, which upsets me even more. It’s like an itchy sweater that I can’t remove because it’s under my skin.  “You tell me.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” she says.

“Then how did his parents find out?” I ask. “His dad…he’s really angry.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe someone else spilled. I’m sure people other than you and me know.”

I shake my head. “Only a few people. One is out of the country and the others have known for a while and no one ever found out.” I’m thinking of Candice and Anita, the art gallery owner. “I told you yesterday and today
it’s out. What am I supposed to believe?”

She puts her hands on her hips. “You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t know what to think.” My voice is flat and emotionless. I cross my arms over my chest. “You should leave.” I can’t handle being around anyone right now. I step to the side.

She makes an annoyed sound and stalks past me.

“Fine,” she says after she crosses the threshold.

And then she’s gone and I’m alone.

A drop falls down my face and lands on the top of my foot. I bring a hand to my face.

I’m crying.

***

A few days pass in a blur of nothing. My mom calls a few times and so does Sam, but I don’t have the energy to call them back. I don’t eat much. I sleep a lot and by the end of the week, I’m sick of myself and my own overwhelming sadness. It’s like nothing I’ve felt before. Everything that was so bright a few days ago now seems dull and lifeless and covered in a
gray film.

Finally, I go to see Duncan at the clinic. I don’t know who else to talk to, but for the first time in my life, I have the overwhelming urge to solicit assistance from someone else. I give him an abbreviated version of what I’ve been going through. I leave out the names of the people involved and anything involving me naked.

“Are you sure this girl is at fault here?” He’s talking about Freya.

“Who else could it be?” I ask. “Logic dictates the simplest explanation is most often the correct one. I told her, his parents found out, it’s the shortest line from A to B.”

He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth and considers for a moment before saying, “Why don’t you talk to her again, and this time assume she’s being honest. Has she ever given you reason to believe she would lie?”

I think it over. “No, but I know she has withheld information from her friends before.”

“That’s not the same,” he says. “This guy, he also unfairly assumed you had revealed his secret.”

“But I did!”

“But you should never assume anything. Not if you want to maintain healthy relationships. We hear things about other people and we believe them, or we think we understand the motivation behind the behavior, but you will never really know unless you ask. If you don’t know the whole story, you will make a mistake that you will regret. Ask the question. Always ask the question, never assume.”

I nod slowly. “You’re right,” I say. “Thank you.”

I get up to leave and I’m halfway to the door when he stops me.

“You’ll be here and ready to work on Monday, right?”

I nod. “Yes. Thank you, Duncan.”

“Don’t thank me yet, we still have to get this thing going. But I’m sure you will.”

I leave the clinic and head towards Freya’s apartment, hoping she’s home. It’s ironic that this whole time, I’ve been trying to get my grant on track, and now that’s done, it doesn’t mean nearly as much to me as Jensen.

Freya answers the door in a dirty shirt and faded sweats, rumpled and frazzled.

“Are you okay?” I ask immediately. I’ve never seen her not put together and perfectly coiffed.

“Thank god you’re here!” she exclaims, pulling me inside and shutting the door.

“Listen, Freya,” I say. “I came over to apologize—”

“Shut up,” she interrupts me. “Don’t ever apologize to me for being emotional. I’m just glad you’re really human, and not a cyborg like I’ve always thought. Now listen, I know I didn’t tell anyone about Jensen. But someone did and I’ve been trying to find out who it was.”

I stare at her in shock. “You’ve been trying to find out who told Jensen’s parents about him?” I can’t believe it. While I’ve been moping and crying, Freya’s been proactively doing something. Why didn’t I think of this?

“Yes, I figured, you know, if we find out who really did it, we can bring proof to Jensen and then he’ll see and he’ll forgive you and you’ll be all hearts and roses and shit again. I haven’t had a ton of success, but I have found—”

I throw my arms around her in a tight hug, and she stands there as still as a wooden post for a second before gently patting me on the back.

“Okay, Lucy.” She pats me again. “Okay, you can let go now. It’s starting to get weird.”

I pull back. “Thank you,” I say.

“No problem. So anyway, I found Chloe.”

“Chloe? Jensen’s ex-girlfriend Chloe?”

“Yes.
The
Chloe,” she tells me with a wide grin. “And she’s going to help us.”

“Help us with what?”

She smacks me gently on the shoulder. “Help you get Jensen back, dummy.”