Imperfect Chemistry (12 page)

I turn towards her on the bed, lying on my side. I can’t see her face very well in the dark; she’s just a lump in the darkness on the pillow next to me.

“The truth is,” she continues, “well, I
did
tell him I didn’t want to sleep with him, but then it happened anyway.”

What does she mean? “It happened anyway?” I ask, my voice escalating. “Freya, did he rape you?”

“No,” she says quickly. “I mean, not really.”

I take a deep breath. “Not really?” Something is building in my chest, another
new emotion, foreign and burning. “Freya, if you said no at any point, and he didn’t listen…” I don’t finish my sentence. I can hear her next to me, sniffing and wiping her face with the sleeve of the flannel long sleeve shirt.

She’s crying, but instead of making me panic like it normally does, it makes me want to—

“If I ever see that arrogant, asinine, piece of…shit,” I finally say the word. It’s awkward on my tongue, but it’s the only one that seems to fit in this situation. “I’m going to cut his penis off with a plastic spoon.”

A surprised choke of laughter erupts from Freya, shocking her out of her tears.

“O
h, please do.” Her laughter and tears subside and then she says, “I don’t want to give you any of the gory details. But I did say no, and it didn’t stop.” She’s silent for a moment while I process this, and I try to suppress my own growing anger. The nerve of that man.

“And then he wouldn’t return my calls and he did move on to someone else, but instead of being upset I was more…relieved,” she says. “Then I saw him, yesterday at the coffee stand over by the library and he acted like nothing had changed.” Her voice is quiet in the darkness, a whisper of pain and confusion.  “He came up and put his arm around me and called me ‘girlie’.”

From her tone, I can tell she’s rolling her eyes, even though I can’t see the motion in the darkness.

“I told him to go fuck himself.” She laughs and I find myself chuckling along with her even though I still feel angry and confused on her behalf.

“He was so mad at me. That
I
rejected
him
. Like, oh no, no one could ever not want the great and powerful Cameron.” She snorts and I can hear the smile in her voice. “It was very gratifying.”

“You did the right thing,” I tell her. “You deserve so much better.”

“Duh.”

“We should contact the authorities,” I say after a moment.

“I thought about it. But there’s no physical evidence. He didn’t hurt me. We had been fooling around before so there wouldn’t be any…tearing or anything.” She sighs. “It would be a lot of time and work, and in the end it would be my word against his.”

I think over what she’s saying. It sounds logical but it feels absolutely wrong.

“You know the weirdest part? I feel like,” she stops for a moment before continuing, “Like I need to erase his memory. No, not erase. Replace. I want to find someone else. Someone who is the exact opposite of everything that Cameron is and everything he represents. And once I find this paragon, I want to sleep with him a million times until the other memories have faded and are no more than a distant and vague recollection. Is that weird?”

“No. I think whatever you’re feeling is completely normal,” I say, and I cringe at myself when my voice comes out sounding flat and unemotional. “I’m sorry,” I add. “I don’t think I can be much help for you right now. I’m still thinking about the different ways I can hurt him without arousing the suspicion of the local authorities.”

She laughs. “You are helping, Lucy.”

“Forget everything I said about how hiring someone to hurt him was wrong. If anything, it was the best idea you ever had.”

We’re both silent in the dark room, lost in our own thoughts. I flip over on my back and stare at the glow of moonlight on the ceiling. I’ve gone from exhausted to wide awake in the last few minutes. I wasn’t kidding. I really do want to maim Cameron or beat him within an inch of his life. I’ve never felt such a violent inclination. I take a deep breath to calm myself and shut my eyes. Why am I so angry? The answer strikes me suddenly, forceful in its own obviousness: I care about Freya. She’s my friend and I like her. I don’t want her to be hurt in any way, shape or form.

It’s very strange.

“Good night Freya,” I say.

“Good night Lucy.”

Bad times have a scientific value. These are occasions a good learner would not miss.

–Ralph Waldo Emerson

Tuesday the week of Thanksgiving is freezing cold. It’s windy and awful and by the time I’m walking up the steps of the duplex, my ears hurt and I can’t feel my nose, despite the large jacket, scarf and hat I threw on when I was leaving.

Jensen steps out of his door just as I’m opening mine. It feels like forever since I’ve seen him, and he hasn’t said one word to me since he saw me with Tony, so instead of entering my much warmer house, I can’t help but stop.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey.” He locks
his door before turning around.

“How are you?”  I ask.

“Great.” He doesn’t sound great. He sounds anxious to get away from me.

“Are you going anywhere for Thanksgiving?” I should just shut up and go inside
—I am probably entering the second stage of hypothermia after all—but Jensen has become a sick addiction, and I just need one more fix.

“Yeah, I’m taking the red-eye to my grandparents’ place in L.A. tonight.”

“I bet it’s warmer there.” Probably the most unintelligent statement I’ve ever uttered in my life. “That’ll be nice,” I add. Nope, that one clinched it.

“Well. I’ll see you later,” he says before bolting down the stairs.

I’m sure he’s in a hurry to get out of the cold. At least, that’s what I would like to believe if I wasn’t logical enough to consider the truth. The truth is, he doesn’t hate me. He probably just feels neutral towards me. Indifference. After a small consideration I realize that’s probably worse than hate. Hate at least implies some sort of passion.

This is not rational. I’m going to tell him the truth. He’s the one who said he appreciates honesty above all else, especially after what he’s been through. I can at least give him that. The entire truth, about Tony and Freya and everything.  Maybe then we can go back to how it was before. At the very least we can be friends again.

The wind picks up and blows harder, rattling my windows.

After the holidays. Then I’ll come clean.

***

Dull
gray light filters through the thin white curtains and rouses me from sleep. I had set my alarm to go off at six thirty in order to catch the bus from campus to my parents’ house, but it never went off. It should be dark outside still. I sit up, my eyes flying to the alarm clock, but the normally green digital face is pitch-black. It’s unnaturally silent in my room. The power is out.

I get out of bed and head to the kitchen to grab my cell phone and immediately regret leaving the warmth of my comforter. I don’t know how long the power’s been off, but it’s freezing in here. I peek out the window in the kitchen and gasp in shock. There’s at least five feet of snow on the ground.

It snows here every winter, but not like this. The town is in a valley surrounded by mountains and when it does snow, it normally dumps at the higher elevations and it will max out at about an inch or two on the valley floor. It very rarely hits us this hard. No wonder the power went out.

My cell phone still has battery life, but just barely. It’s eight o’clock in the morning. I quickly dial my mom’s number.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” she answers her phone.

“Mom? Thanksgiving is tomorrow.”

“Lucy! I know Thanksgiving is tomorrow, but it’s the holidays!” she trills in a sing-song voice. A statement that only makes sense in her mind. “Are you okay honey?”

“I’m fine. My power is out and I missed the bus.”

“They said on the news there are blackouts all over the city, but don’t worry, you just sit tight. Ken and Tom are going to come get you as soon as Doug gets done plowing, but that might not be until tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll be fine, you’re such a smart girl.”

Doug McDougall is our neighbor and he also works for the city. One of his jobs in the winter is running a giant plow truck when it snows.

“Okay. I thought the McDougalls hated us.”

“Oh, they do not! You know how the boys are, always playing pranks on each other. It will be fine. Sheila is here with her boyfriend, and the kids have been asking about you since they got here yesterday.”

My mom rambles on a bit more about the family that’s already there and what’s been going on before my phone starts beeping at me.

“Mom?” I have to interrupt her. “My phone’s dying. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Love you Lucy!” she says and then the phone cuts off. I pull it from my ear and look at the now black screen. Then I look around my cold, silent apartment.

I eat a slice of pumpkin pie for breakfast because it’s the only thing I have that doesn’t need to be cooked, and then I get back in bed with a book. The wind is blowing again, rattling the windows and gusting against the thin walls, and it’s still snowing.

I can’t take a hot shower because there’s no power to heat the water. Going to the bathroom is torture, not only because of leaving the sanctuary of my somewhat warm bed, but also the porcelain toilet seat feels like an ice cube against my rear end.

By three o’clock in the afternoon, the power is still off and I fear I’m losing my mind. I have to do something because even my bed is getting cold, despite all the covers and jackets I’ve thrown on myself. I’m uncomfortable and freezing and bored. And it’s just so…quiet. There are no normal sounds. No heater kicking on, no hum of the refrigerator, just the cold wind beating against the walls outside.

If only I had a fireplace like Jensen’s, I could at least huddle up in the living room, listening to the crackle of wood, feeling the heat from the flames.

I wonder if Jensen made it to the airport last night.

Maybe he’s not here and I could use his fireplace. Surely, he wouldn’t deny me such a small luxury. I wouldn’t touch anything and I would replenish any firewood used.

And that settles it in my mind. It’s better than just sitting here, after all.

I grab a bobby pin from the bathroom to get past the lock if needed, and then I bundle up and head out the door. Ten steps later and I knock first, just in case he’s still home, and I’m surprised when it swings open and Jensen hustles me inside shutting us in quickly to block out he cold wind.

“You’re home,” I say stupidly, shivering, standing in his entryway in my large jacket and PJ pants and slippers. He’s wearing black cotton pants and a flannel button-up top.

“Flights were cancelled last night,” he says. “Not that I could have driven to the airport in this.” His eyes narrow on my face. “You’re freezing. Your lips are literally blue.”

I nod. No need to waste breath with pointless speaking.

“Come on,” he grabs my arm and leads me into the living room. He’s pushed back all of his furniture. There’s a mattress on the floor in front of the fireplace all covered in blankets.

He helps me take off my jacket and then he lifts the covers up on the bed and shoves me under them, getting in behind me.

“What are you doing?” I ask through chattering teeth.

He wraps his arms around me, and pulls me against him, my back to his front. “What do you think I’m doing? You’re the scientist. I have to get you warm and this is the most efficient way to do it.”

I don’t have a response. Of course he’s right. After a few minutes, our combined body heat starts warming both of us up and my shaking stops.

“I didn’t realize how cold I was,” I say finally. I also didn’t realize just how alone I was on my side of the duplex. But lying here, listening to the crack of the wood in the fire and to Jensen’s breathing against my neck, just the sounds of normalcy have relaxed something inside me.

“Are you hungry?” he asks after a minute more of lying together.

“Starving.” I haven’t eaten since the slice of pumpkin pie this morning.

He pulls away from me and gets out of the bed, heading for the kitchen and I immediately miss his warmth.

“Do you like hot dogs?” he calls.

“I like anything edible at this point.”

He returns a few minutes later with his hands full. He has a package of hot dogs, a bag of buns, a handful of small ketchup packets, two wire coat hangers wrapped in paper from a drycleaner and a pair of pliers.

He sits on the end of the mattress, only a few feet away from the black metal fire grate, and rips the paper off the hangers, throwing it into the fire. Then he straightens the coat hangers out into long metal sticks using the pliers to unwrap the twisted metal. Once that’s done, he opens the hot dog package and slides the dogs lengthwise onto the sticks.

I slide out from under the warmth of the blanket to sit next to him. It’s much warmer in his house than it was in mine, but it’s still a bit chilly, even with the fire. After I situate myself next to him, he hands me one of the dogs on a stick, and moves the grate from the fire. I immediately thrust the food into the flames. 

Jensen leans his own stick against the wall and kneels on the bed next to me, pulling the covers towards us.  He covers me with the blanket first, then grabs his stick and sits next to me so we are sharing the warmth and roasting our dogs at the same time.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

We have to sit pretty close to share the blankets and the fire. His leg is resting against mine. Granted, there are at least two layers of clothes between my skin and his, but it doesn’t change the fact that my stomach drops every time one of us moves and his legs rub against mine.

“For what?” he asks.

“This.” I lift the stick slightly. “I’ve never been so excited about processed, nitrate-full meat in my entire life. Also thank you for letting me in.”

“No thanks required. What else would I have done? Let you freeze? And this isn’t exactly a gourmet meal, here.”

I shrug. “It’s better than nothing.”

It doesn’t take long for the dogs to heat through. We help each other with the buns and condiments and sticks until finally we are both eating. I think this cheap hot dog is the most delicious thing I’ve ever had.

We both have another one and then he puts more wood on the fire before replacing the grate. We get back under the covers, facing each other but not touching.

“You should stay here tonight,” he says. The firelight flickers over his face and there’s no way I can say no. I’m not sure a ravaging pack of starving warthogs could convince me to return to my cold and desolate side of the duplex. Even though, normally, I’m a fan of isolation.

“Okay,” I say.

His phone starts making music and he turns and picks it up from the floor next to the mattress.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice filters through the line.

“Hey, mom. No, everything is fine.”

He’s quiet and I can hear his mom’s voice on the phone, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

“Okay, yeah.” Pause. “Uh, huh. Right.” A longer pause, and finally, “Give everyone my love.”

He hangs up and turns back towards me, leaving the phone on the floor.

“Is your mom worried about you?” I ask.

“More likely she’s worried about being alone with my dad and his parents,” he says.

“Oh. They’re in L.A., where you were going?”

“Yeah, they’ve been there since Monday.”

“Do you always spend the holidays there with your family?”

“Mostly. They do it up really nice and my grandparents have this giant house. Except…” He pauses and frowns.

“Except?”

He shrugs, shifting the covers a little. “It’s
always nice. I mean too nice, too formal. I’ve always kind of wanted to have Thanksgiving like in the movies. Weird relatives, eating in the living room watching football, kids running around making a mess and driving everyone crazy.”

“That sounds like every dinner with my family.”

“Yeah?”

“Except my mom follows the kids around with her dust buster and is constantly cleaning. She’s a little anal. And my grandma usually gets drunk and starts calling everyone Scooby.”

He laughs. “Why does she do that?”

“The world may never know.”

We’re quiet for a minute, but it’s not awkward. We lay there and listen to the crackle and pop of the fireplace. I trace patterns on the soft sheets with my finger.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

I shift my eyes from my finger to his face. “Of course.”

“You haven’t, uh, I mean, we haven’t talked much lately, and I saw you with that guy Tony that one night, and I was just wondering if you, um, didn’t need me anymore? For your research?”

“I…” I can’t lie to him. I had planned on telling him the truth, and here’s my perfect opening. Especially after that completely awkward and totally sweet bumbling mess of a statement.

But I feel ashamed to reveal the truth. How can I tell him I wanted to make him jealous? That I willfully attempted to hurt him? When the real truth is that I don’t want to hurt him at all. Ever.