Imperfect Chemistry (13 page)

“I haven’t replaced you,” I say, finally. “He was one of Freya’s friends.”

“Oh. Okay.” He looks confused.

I sigh and cover my face with a bit of blanket. I can’t look at him when I say this. “The truth is,” I say into the fabric. “Tony is gay. And Freya said that I should try to make you jealous, and I went along with it even though it’s stupid and wrong and I thought for sure when I met him that you would see he prefers men and it wouldn’t matter, but I didn’t know he was a drama major—”

“Lucy,” Jensen interrupts me and tugs the blanket away from my face. “You were trying to make me jealous?”

I watch his expression. There’s a glimmer of relief and something else. Amusement?

“I guess so,” I say.

“Why?”

My mouth opens and closes. Then opens again. Well. “Because I think I like you?” I don’t mean for it to sound like a question, but that’s how it pops out of my mouth.

“Are you not sure?” he asks, but one corner of his mouth is sliding upwards, like he knows I’m sure and he knows how hard it is to admit that to someone when you aren’t sure if they return your affection and he wants to see me suffer for his own amusement.

“I’m fairly sure,” I say.

“Fairly?”

I pretend to consider. “I’m about eighty-three percent sure.”

“And the remaining seventeen percent?”

“Fifteen percent undecided and two percent is pure, unadulterated loathing.”

He bursts out laughing, and I can’t help but smile at his response even though I still feel embarrassed and unsure. He hasn’t said he likes me back.

“I’m glad you told me the truth,” he says.

“I’m not sure I share that sentiment.”

“Well, you should. I have to tell you, after what I’ve been through, I appreciate the honesty.”

I have a feeling he’s referring to his ex-girlfriend Chloe, and her relationship with his best friend.

“My turn,” I say, after a minute of silence.

“Your turn for what?”

“A question.”

“Okay, shoot.”

I want to ask how he feels about me and if my emotions are reciprocated, but I’m not sure I can handle a negative reply. If he doesn’t feel the same way, I still have to stay here and face him. I can’t exactly leave, at least not without threat of frostbite. I also want to ask about what happened with Chloe and Liam, but I fear that might be too personal, so I settle for the next best question.

“Who’s the blonde?”

“What blonde?”

“The one that comes here and stays for approximately three hours every week before she leaves.”

“Oh, you mean Candice.”

“Candice?”

“She’s just a friend.” He shrugs.

He doesn’t elaborate and I don’t want to beleaguer the point. If he says she’s a friend, she’s a friend. I shut my eyes and lay there analyzing everything that just happened. I admitted something very embarrassing, and he didn’t say he likes me back but he also didn’t cringe away in horror and shock.  He didn’t explain about Candice and…

I’m not sure what to think at this point. And I almost don’t care. I’m warm now, I’m no longer starving, and the exhaustion is creeping in.

“Lucy?”

I open my eyes and find Jensen watching me through half-lidded eyes.

“Good night,” he says.

I smile. “Good night.”

I'm old-fashioned and a square. I believe people should not engage in sex too early. They will never forget that first sexual experience, and it would be a pity to just throw it away. So what's the rush? Hug and kiss and neck and pet, and don't rush into a sexual encounter.

–Dr. Ruth

I awake slowly, coming into awareness in bits and pieces. My leg is asleep. It takes me a few more seconds to come to the realization that my leg is asleep because something heavy is on it. There’s also a slight breeze wafting over my head in a rhythmic pattern.

I blink my eyes open and all I can see is Jensen’s
gray cotton shirt right in front of my face. That’s not a breeze, that’s Jensen breathing. I pull my head back a few inches to try and determine the situation. His face is inches above mine and his eyes are closed. His arm is lying over my midsection and our legs are entangled. How did this happen?

I attempt to extricate myself, but he mumbles something inarticulate and pulls me even closer. Now we’re pressed against each other and I can feel the proof against my stomach that men really do wake up in the morning aroused against their own volition. Even though part of me is alarmed, other, more unfamiliar sensations course through me. My stomach flips, my breathing comes out faster and I have the unmistakable urge to get even closer and kiss him, morning breath and all.

No. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I have control over my emotions and body. Nobody controls how I feel except me.

The thoughts fly away as soon as Jensen’s hands start moving up and down my back. And then even farther down, cupping my backside and pulling me up a little so his morning
stubble scrapes against my face, his lips brushing past mine and heading straight to my neck.

Oh, wow. This is different. His mouth moves down across my neck, to my collarbone and then back up to my ear and down again, nibbling, sucking, kissing, one of those actions is happening at any point, but I’m not really sure on the specifics since my body has suddenly become a haze of sensation.

Still kissing various parts of my body, he gently moves towards me, forcing me to my back in order to settle on top of me between my thighs. He’s kissing down my collarbone and lower and lower and even though we are both fully clothed, the position is intimate enough that bolts of pleasure course through my legs and I arch against him and squirm so that his erection hits me right
there
and holy moly nothing has ever felt so—

Music. Jensen’s phone is going off next to the bed and it’s enough to pull me from the physical spell he’s weaving over me. He removes his lips from my body and stares down at me with heavy lidded eyes and an expression that makes me want to throw his phone against the wall hard enough to stop the noise.

“Jensen.” Whose breathy voice is that? Surely not mine.

The music stops momentarily only to start up again immediately.

Jensen’s groans and his body collapses on top of mine with dead weight for a couple beats before he yanks himself away and leans over the side of the bed to grab his phone.

“Hello?”

I take the moment to gather my thoughts and straighten my clothes. My shirt has somehow ridden up on the bottom to the point where my bra is exposed. How did that happen?  I sit on the edge of the bed, my back to Jensen, running my fingers through my long hair, making sure it’s not sticking straight up since I slept without a hair tie. Not that I care what I look like. Because I don’t. I never do.

“Yeah, Mom. I know. There’s no way I can get to the airport today.” He sounds a bit aggravated. “Just don’t worry about me.”

Jensen sits up with the phone still pressed to his ear and turns in my direction, his eyes roving over me. I stop messing with my hair and slink out of the bed and down the hall to the bathroom. I really have to pee.

There’s no window. I hit the light switch, but the power is still out. I shut the door, pee in the dark, and when I’m done,
open the door to let light in while I wash my hands and attempt to tame my hair.

When I head back to the living room, Jensen is still on the phone, his back to me. I lean awkwardly against the wall at the end of the hallway. I’m not sure I should go anywhere near the bed. It’s turned into some kind of vortex of hormones. I might get sucked in and never get out.

“Uh-huh. I love you, too. Bye.” He hangs up, sighs, and then as if just remembering I’m around somewhere, his shoulders tense and he spins around. When he sees me lurking in the hallway, he relaxes.

“Do you want breakfast?” he asks.

“More hot dogs?”

He smiles. “I have a better idea.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re bundled up and ready to face the outside world. It stopped snowing and the sun is shining, but it’s not putting off enough warmth to melt much, if any, of the snow.

I went home to get my winter gear, and when I knock on Jensen’s door again, he opens it quickly and steps out, covered head to toe in a beanie, scarf, gloves, jacket and boots.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

He holds up a couple pairs of snowshoes. “We’re going for a walk.”

Snowshoeing is a lot harder than it looks. For one, you have to step sort of wide and slow and you still sink a little into the snow. There’s a bit more resistance than regular walking. So by the time we make it to the end of our alley, I’m panting and sweating inside all my layers of clothes.

“Are we there yet?” I manage between breaths.

Jensen is walking slightly in front of me and he turns and flashes me a brilliant smile. “Isn’t this great?”

“If you say so.”

He turns out of the alley and into the street. It’s obvious a snow plow has been through this area. While they successfully cleared the street, they also piled more snow onto the sidewalk, which means we are now muddling through lumpy, hilly snow. I’m watching my feet to make sure I don’t end up on my face or rear end when something hits me on the shoulder.

I gasp and look up. Jensen’s stopped in front of me, smiling.

“Did you just throw a snowball at me?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says, still smiling. “What are you
gonna do about it?”

I shrug. “Nothing.” I know this game. I have older brothers.

He seems a little disappointed but turns around and we keep moving. It’s nearly impossible to sneak up on someone in snowshoes, so after a minute I stop and say, “Hey, I think my shoe is loose, will you help me?”

He walks back to where I am, face serious, and bends over to tighten the shoe. And that’s when I shove a handful of snow down the back of his
jacket, under his shirt.

He yelps and too late to realize I’ve miscalculated our positions and his willingness to play in the snow. He’s kneeling in front of me at the perfect level to pick me up, and he uses it to his advantage.  He shoves his shoulder into my stomach
—not painfully, I am too bundled up to feel more than a slight push—and throws me into a cold pile of snow, landing halfway on top of me.

I scream and laugh as he tries and fails to get snow under my clothes.

“How many layers do you have on?” he asks, picking at the small gap at my throat with his thickly gloved fingers.

“Too many,” I manage to get out, still laughing as his fingers dig into my sides with enough force to penetrate the thick pad of clothing covering my body.

“Definitely too many,” he says, his voice lower than normal and I wish I could see his eyes, but he’s wearing sunglasses and so am I. I’m glad for them—the sun hitting the snow is brighter than a camera flash that never goes away—but I want to know what he’s thinking.

After a moment of lying on top of me, he stands up awkwardly since he has to position his snow shoes, then he pulls me up and we continue down the block to the corner convenience store.

The store is open, but the shelves are nearly bare. We take off the snow shoes before entering, leaving them against the wall outside. Once inside we grab a few packages of white-powdered and chocolate mini donuts, a bag of chips, some juice and two bags of jerky before heading back out into the snow. 

Jensen carries the goods as we shoe back to the duplex.

“Hey. Someone plowed here while we were gone,” I say when we turn onto our alley and the four feet of snow that was here less than an hour ago has been shoved to the side.

“Why is the plow still here? And parked in front of our duplex?” He gives me a perplexed look.

“Oh, no.” I recognize the dark head leaping from the truck and walking around to head up the stairs to bang on my door.

“What is it?”

I face him and offer a weak smile. “My brothers.”

I have frequently been questioned, especially by women, of how I could reconcile family life with a scientific career. Well, it has not been easy.

–Marie Curie

“Where’s Doug?” I ask accusingly when we get in earshot. Not all of my brothers are here. Just Sam and Jon.

Sam smiles at me from the driver’s seat of the truck, where the window is down. “Nice to see you, too, sis.”

“Doug’s at home. We, uh,
borrowed
the plow,” Jon says. He’s standing on the porch, ostensibly because he was knocking on my door when we approached.

There’s no changing them. Borrowed means stolen in their skewed vocabulary.

There’s a lot of strange staring and exchanging of looks between Sam, Jon, and Jensen and then nearly simultaneously, all their gazes swing my way.

I sigh. “This is Jensen.”

“Jensen, huh?” Sam says, throwing me a cheeky grin.

I shake my head at him in warning because I know exactly what he’s thinking.

Jon comes down the steps and shakes Jensen’s hand and I can tell he does it with excessive force. Jon keeps his dark hair cut high and tight. He’s nearing forty, but he stays in good shape. He’s wearing a sweater that reads, “Not as lean, not as mean, but still a Marine.”

“Where were you guys?” Jon crosses his arms over his chest and gives me a stern look and then gives the same look to Jensen and then back to me.

“We went to the store for food,” I say. His tough guy attitude doesn’t fool me, I know him too well.

Jensen dutifully holds up our bag of goods as evidence.

“Well, we’re here to get you and take you home,” Sam says.

“It was nice to meet you Jensen,” Jon says dismissively.

Jensen turns away. He smiles at my brothers, but when he turns away from us, his shoulders slump slightly.

“Wait,” I say. I shouldn’t do this. For all I know, Jensen is ecstatic to finally be away from me and will probably suffer numerous untold horrors at the hands of my family, but… “I have to get my stuff. And I’m not coming with you unless Jensen’s coming too.”

“It’s okay,” Jensen says quickly, glancing from me to Jon and then back again. “You have your family stuff to do and I don’t want to intrude.”

“It’s not okay,” I tell him. “The only problem will be if you don’t come with us.”

Jon puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “We don’t have much room in the truck. It’s only a bench seat cab.”

I stick out my chin. “Give me your phone,” I say to Jon.

“Really?”

I raise my eyebrows and he complies with a sigh.

I call the house and when mom answers I tell her about Jensen being all alone with no power and how I’ve invited him over and he’s refused. Then I hand the phone over to Jensen.

Five minutes later, we’re all in the plow
. He wasn’t kidding, there’s just one bench seat and I’m stuffed in between Sam and Jon. Poor Jensen is between Jon and the window and I wonder if he regrets being forced into this situation. I can’t apologize or say anything to check on him, though, because Sam is making me shift for him at times since the stick is between my legs and we’re all crammed into the small space.

“So. Jensen,” Sam says. He guns it while getting on the freeway, which has been mostly plowed already so he raises the scooper up front with the touch of a button on the dash. “What are you in school for?”

“Law.”

“A lawyer, huh?” Jon asks. “That’s what you want to do with your life?”

“I’m studying civil rights,” Jensen says.

“Oh.” There’s a moment of silence, punctuated by the rumble of the large truck.

“What are your intentions with Lucy?” Sam asks, finally.

“Sam!” I try to jab him in the side with my elbow, but he anticipates the move and blocks me with his arm.

“You don’t have to answer that, Jensen,” I say.

“I don’t mind,” he says. I can’t see him around Jon’s big head, but he sounds calm and fairly comfortable with the situation. As comfortable as one could, I suppose. “I don’t really have any intentions. Lucy is a smart, funny, kind person whom I enjoy spending time with. Anything else is up to her.”

I smile at his response.

It d
oesn’t stop. The entire drive—which takes nearly an hour—Sam and Jon relentlessly grill Jensen on various items of interest and torture. Past girlfriends, does he have a job, what’s his family like, why he’s letting his parents pay for his education and not being a real man and taking care of it himself, and on and on it goes. Jensen does a great job holding his own. When they get too personal or out of line, he tells them it’s none of their damn business. Which puts them off, for a minute. When we finally pull into the circular driveway, I can’t get out fast enough.

Someone’s shoveled the drive, and it’s still a little slippery, but I make it into the house unscathed, the boys lagging a bit behind me.

I brace myself before opening the door, ready for the chaos that awaits and I’m not disappointed. Immediately, a stream of at least six children somewhere between the ages of five and ten flash past me in the entry way, running from the dining room to the living room screaming and trailing a flood of apple juice, fruit snacks (and is that toilet paper?) behind them. 

“Wow,” Jensen says from behind me. “You weren’t kidding.”

“You asked for it,” I respond before Sam and Jon come in behind us.

Jon slams the door and Sam yells, “Honey, we’re home!”

No one responds to our entrance. Jon and Sam skirt around us and head into the living room where I can hear football and my Dad yelling at the TV combined with other male voices, probably my Uncle Roger and my other brothers.

I don’t wish to disturb the testosterone levels in there, so I head in the opposite direction. Jensen follows behind me as we head through the dining room and into the kitchen to meet my mom and find out where she wants us before I show him to his room.

The kitchen is yellow and warm and it smells delicious. The room is packed with people sitting in the breakfast nook, at the bar and standing around the island. There’s food everywhere: nuts, crackers, cheese spreads, dips, little quiches, and dinner hasn’t even started yet. My mom is a whirling dervish of activity, alternately cleaning up and throwing things in one oven or the other while drinking a glass of wine.

When she sees us she stops what she’s doing and comes over to give me a big hug.

“This must be Jensen,” she says, all smiles and then she hugs him too.

His eyes are a bit alarmed as they meet mine over her shoulder and I just shrug.

“I’m so glad we convinced you to come!” she says as she pulls back, still holding on to his shoulders.

“How could I refuse,” he says. I’m sure he means it. My mother is a force of nature when she wants something, and she always wants to take care of people.

I can’t hear what else she says to him because suddenly I’m surrounded by family and friends all hugging and asking about school, something I definitely don’t want to talk about, so I evade the questions and turn the subject around to what they have going on. That always works. Once the family talk filters away from me, I move to ask Mom where she wants Jensen to sleep tonight, but she’s introducing him to everyone and I have to wait until she’s done.

When things calm down, she tells me to put him in the den and I lead him up the stairs. 

I point out the bathroom and then his room down the hall.

“I get my own room?” he asks, tossing his backpack onto the bed. The question is probably on his mind because of the mob of people downstairs. My parents couldn’t possibly be accommodating everyone.

“Yes. My brothers all live nearby, with the exception of Ken. Most of the people here are staying with them. Only Grandma’s staying here tonight, besides us, and she has the guest room.”

“Where are you sleeping?”

I flush, the mention of sleeping reminds me of last night, and I’m suddenly inundated with images of waking up in his arms and what happened directly after.

“In my old room.”

His eyebrows lift. “Can I see it?”

“Okay.”

He follows me down the hall to my room. The house is fairly big, five bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms.

My room is the last one on the left. I feel a little anxious bringing him in here, but I’m not sure why. I flick on the light
and the lamp in the corner turns on and illuminates my old bedroom. Most of the stuff is as it was when I left, but now there’s an elliptical in the corner next to my telescope and some of my mom’s sewing stuff and books litter the dresser.

He walks in and I follow him, taking my bag off and putting it on the bed. There’s a poster of Albert Einstein with his tongue sticking out on one of the walls and he stops to look at it.

“A little more whimsical than I imagined you would like,” he says.

I shrug, feeling awkward.

I watch him as he rambles around a little bit more. He points at my bed and says, “That’s an interesting quilt.”

It’s a colorful mess of different shapes and sizes of squares.

“That’s my science quilt,” I say. “My mom made it based on this chart.” I lead him over by the window where the chart is hanging.

“
It’s part of a computation called ‘Capturing Phase Dynamics of Circadian Clocks.’ Mom thought it would make a perfect blanket since circadian rhythm is part of the sleep cycle.”

He leans next to me to get a good look at the chart. We’re only about a foot apart when he turns and faces me.

“Interesting.”

There’s a pause where we just stare at each other. The light is dim with just the corner lamp on, and his eyes are dark and heavy.

“I’m glad you mentioned the bed,” I say, finally.

“Are you?” h
e asks with a small smile. His eyes drop to my mouth.

I take a step away and yank the blankets and pillows off my bed, chucking them on the floor.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Checking for things left behind from my brothers.”

“Things?”

“They like to play practical jokes
. You should really check your room before you go to sleep because you never—here it is!” My thoughts halt as I pull out a rubber snake coiled under my pillow and throw it at Jensen.

He seems a bit surprised, but he catches it in one hand. “That’s…very interesting,” he says, holding the offensive item up for inspection.

I yank the sheet down and reach my hand in, pulling out a water balloon.

“A balloon?”

“Water balloon.” I shake it so he can hear the water sloshing inside. “With the hopes that I’ll lie on top of it and it’ll break and appear as if I’ve wet the bed.”

“Oh, okay.” He nods in understanding.

“We may be able to use this later,” I say, inspecting the balloon in my hand.

“For what?”

“Retribution,” I say. What other answer is there?

“The snow down my shirt is starting to make sense now.”

Just then, the door flies open and Sam lunges into the room. “A-HA!” he yells pointing towards me.

Jensen and I stare at him.

“Oh,” Sam says. His eyes roam from me, by the bed, to Jensen who is halfway across the room and he leans against the wall in a relaxed pose, as if he didn’t just jump into my room like he was expecting to interrupt something nefarious.

“I see you found your offerings,” Sam says, nodding to the balloon I’m still holding.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m trying to determine how I can use this to my advantage.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Sam says with an evil grin.

“What’s that?”

He stands up straight and rubs his hands together with undisguised glee. “You know how Ken always passes out after dinner?”

***

I manage to get out of an uncomfortable dinner situation by volunteering to sit at the kids’ table. My mom set up the food buffet style, so after I’ve filled my plate, I sit in the breakfast nook with the children while the rest of the adults, including Jensen, converge in the formal dining room.

“Is Jensen your boyfriend?” my six-year-old niece Katie asks.

So much for avoiding that question.

“No,” I answer quickly. “Well, technically, he’s a boy and he’s my friend so in that sense of the word yes. But otherwise, no.”

She looks at me blankly.

“Do you have kids?” This from Tom’s young son David. I think he’s four. He watches me, waiting for an answer while he licks the butter off of his bread roll.

“No,” I say.

“Why not?”

I think about it for a few seconds. It’s on the tip of my tongue to respond with a scientific answer about insemination and the reproductive cycle, but I’m not sure Tom would appreciate that. “Because I’m not married,” I say finally.