Imperfect Chemistry (20 page)

Life is not easy for any of us. But what of that? We must have perseverance and above all confidence in ourselves. We must believe that we are gifted for something and that this thing must be obtained.

–Marie Curie

A week passes and I still don’t see or hear from Jensen. Chloe tells me that Liam has done his due diligence, but he also hasn’t spoken directly to him. I start to wonder if Jensen has disappeared off the face of the earth. If it wasn’t for the fact that Chloe and Freya knew him too, I would wonder if he ever existed at all. It’s like the time we had together was a figment of my imagination, or the most lucid dream ever.

I start work back at the department and it’s going as well as can be expected. I definitely have more sympathy for the crying girls, and less panic attacks when people get emotional. We begin soliciting for interest in the study, and gathering a group of couples and singles for the different groups.

The rest of my life is strange. I’ve quickly made friends with Chloe. Freya seems to like her as well, despite Chloe’s frequent soliloquies about how amazing love is and Freya’s just as frequent gagging noises and suicide emulations. While I enjoy their company and humor, I can’t help but feel like something is missing.

It’s strange that I survived the first twenty years without Jensen in it, and he was only a part of my life for a few short months, but the lack of his presence is noticeable and startling. It’s like a phantom pain. The limb is gone and I know it’s gone, but the ache remains.

I’m walking home Friday night when I see a moving truck parked in front of the duplex. I stop and stare for a minute, heart pounding, breath coming out rapidly in the cold air, sending
puffs of white out and up to the heavens, a smoke signal that no one will ever see.

What do I do? What do I say? Do I do anything? I’m struck with a sudden fear that if I see him and he speaks cruelly or simply ignores me, that something inside me will die and I’ll never retrieve it.

When I get closer, I see people moving items around and into the truck, but none of them are Jensen. They’re all strangers in uniforms boasting the name “Sanford’s Movers.”

There’s a guy with a clipboard standing by the open end of the truck. He’s wearing a dark blue long sleeve shirt with a name tag sewn over one breast. It says “Charlie”. He’s got a bushy mustache that’s a bit longer down the sides and it reminds me of drinking
Jenga night.

“Hello,” I say as I approach.

“How ya doin’ ma’am.” He nods at me.

I stop next to him and watch a couple of guys carry Jensen’s mattress out of the door and down the steps.

The thoughts of what happened on that mattress make me take a deep breath and swallow before asking, “Do you know if the former occupant is returning?”

“No, ma’am, I can’t say I have th
at information.”

“Can you tell me where you’re taking these things?”

“No, ma’am.” He shakes his head.

“Can you tell me anything?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”

I’m not sure why I’m thanking him—he didn’t help me in any way—but Charlie nods in acknowledgement and I wait until his guys are out of the way before I walk up the steps and back into my place.

I pull out my phone to call Jensen but it goes straight to voicemail. I’m like one of those girls that I used to advise to let it go and move on with their lives. I’m pathetic.

I call Freya.

“Hey
poopies,” she answers the phone.

“He’s gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“The movers are here. They’re taking all his stuff out.”

“I’ll be right there.” She hangs up before I can say anything else.

An hour later, Freya and Chloe are at the door, armed with bags of food and movies.

“I brought reinforcements,” Freya says, motioning to Chloe.

“And I have some news,” Chloe says.

They come in and put their bags in the kitchen before we return to the living room with bowls of food.

“Jensen’s gone,” Chloe says as we’re sitting down. They put me in the middle of the small couch and they sit on either side.

“I know,” I say. “I called Freya and told her—”

“No,” she interrupts me. “He’s not at his parents, either. They don’t know where he is.”

There’s a pause while this information settles in. “What do you mean, they don’t know where he is?”

“He was there and then he took off sometime yesterday and they haven’t seen him since. They told my mom, and she told me when I called after I talked to Freya.”

“The movers wouldn’t tell me where they were taking his stuff,” I tell them.

Chloe shakes her head. “That’s not really his stuff. All of the furniture, all of his things, his dad bought for him. His dad’s also the one who paid the movers to take everything out and put it in storage until ‘Jensen comes to his senses.’” She finger quotes in the air. “At least that’s what my mom said he said. And you might as well give up on calling his cell, his dad cut the service when they realized he was gone. He is completely off the grid.”

Freya pats me on the knee. “Remember what you said to me, the first time we met?”

“I said a lot of th
ings. None of which were useful.”

“That’s not true,” she admonishes. “You said something about how letting someone else affect how you feel is handing over control of yourself to them.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“Shut up! It’s true. Only you control how you feel and how you react to things. I’ll admit, at the time I hated that you said that, but later when I thought about it, I realized you were right.”

She moves closer and throws an arm over my shoulder.

“I know you don’t want to hear this now,” she says. “But it will all be okay.”

“She’s right,” Chloe adds. “And we’re here to help you through it. And so is Channing Tatum, Matthew McConaughey, and Joe Manganiello.” She waves a DVD at me.

We watch the movie, and since it’s not very plot-driven, I find myself watching Freya and Chloe’s reactions to the movie more than the movie itself.

Once it’s over, I ask them, “Do you find that you experience emotions when you watch movies?”

Freya shrugs. “Depends on the movie. But yeah, I guess so.”

“
Steel Magnolias
,” Chloe says. “When Julia Roberts dies. Makes me cry every time.”

“
Braveheart
,” Freya says. “I cry through, like, the whole thing. When his wife dies, when he’s drawn and quartered at the end. Chills.”

“Oh yeah!” Chloe agrees. “
The Notebook
,” she says after a second.

“Yes!” Freya smacks her on the arm. “That one is so sad!”

“But Ryan Gosling is so hot,” Chloe says.

“Totally.”

My head moves back and forth between them as they talk. “That’s it.”

“That’s what?”

“That’s how I’m going to incite emotions in people. Make them watch movies that they find emotionally stimulating while they are in close proximity to their significant other. Or a stranger, for the control group. We’ll have to put them somewhere where they can’t see the other people, maybe with screened-in cubicles or small offices near each other. We can probably study proximity as well and how much of a factor that would be.”

“Huh,” Freya says. “Are you going to pay people to participate in this study?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to pay people to watch movies. How do I jump on that gravy train?”

“I always cry in the beginning of
The Lion King
when Simba’s dad dies,” Chloe says.

“Right? Disney is so messed up with that stuff.”

They continue discussing movies that make them cry, and I catalogue the information in my mind for future reference. I wish I could call Jensen and share the news with him. I never got a chance to tell him about my idea at all. The thought makes my chest hurt, but I can’t do anything but keep moving forward.

The ultimate lesson all of us have to learn is unconditional love, which includes not only others but ourselves as well.

–Elisabeth
Kubler-Ross

Another week passes and by the next Friday, I am feeling better about everything. The clinic work has gone better, and I’m developing relationships—therapist-client relationships—with some of the students.

The board approved our ideas and we’ve already begun purchasing supplies and finding an adequate location.

It’s the end of the day. I’m the only one left in the entire clinic, and I’ve just finished my last client. I’m still in the patient room looking out the window at the quad, my hands on the sill, my forehead resting against the cold glass. There aren’t many people outside, just a few walking from one building to the next, wrapping their coats around themselves and fighting against the wind.

I’ve gotten to the point where I’m sure I’ll never see Jensen again. And if I do, it won’t matter because he’ll never forgive me and I’ll never forgive myself. But I’m ready to move on. I’m happy with the person I’m becoming. I have friends. I have a job. I’m learning more and more about what I need to make me happy, and it doesn’t necessarily involve a relationship.

There’s a knock at the door behind me and I call, “Come in,” without turning around or changing position.

The door shuts gently and then, “I was wondering if you’re still seeing patients today?”

I immediately recognize the voice. My breath puffs out of my mouth, leaving a flat cloud against the glass. I spin around, leaning back against the window sill, needing something to hold on to.

“It depends,” I answer more calmly than I feel.

“On?”

“What the patient needs.”

Jensen moves into the room, his eyes never leaving mine, and sits on the couch. He looks good. Tired, but good. He’s wearing the same stained brown shirt he was wearing the first time I knocked on his door, and old faded jeans.

Who was I kidding? I was never going to give up and move on. I might have lasted another week before I searched public records or his credit report to find out where he was living. But now, no stalking necessary. I almost can’t believe he’s here.

He takes a deep breath and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees.

The only sound for a moment is the tick of the clock on the wall, and the thundering of my heart in my ears. Should I say something? Should I wait?

He bites his lip and runs his hands through his hair. A nervous gesture that’s familiar to me. “I need to apologize,” he says.

I’m surprised. He’s apologizing to me? “For what?”

“I was wrong. I shouldn’t have blamed you.”

I’m not sure how to respond. Apology accepted? Then what? Will he leave? I don’t want him to leave.
I’m silent long enough that my opportunity to respond passes.

He continues. “No, that’s not it. I mean, that’s part of it, but remember when you told me that I was letting my dad dictate my life?”

I don’t answer. Of course I remember. He knows I remember.

“You were right,” he says. He looks away, his eyes focused on the ground somewhere in front of his feet. “I was living my life based on my parent’s expectations, and hiding who I really was, but I’m not doing that anymore.” He looks up and our eyes meet. “Anita sold a couple of my pieces. I used the money to move into a new apartment. I’m not going to take money from my parents any longer. I’ve been doing it for so long, I’ve gotten so used to doing whatever they want and taking whatever they give, but not anymore. I’m ready to be my own person and do what I want and live on my own dime and on my own terms.

“My mother told me that you were using me for your experiment. When I asked how they found out, she said you told them about everything. Well, she didn’t use those exact terms, but she didn’t deny it either. She led me to believe you were just using me, and you wanted to hurt me to further your study. When I talked to Liam, I realized what had really happened.”

I’ve moved in his direction without realizing it. I’m almost to the chair I always sit in during the sessions, across from the couch where he is.

I sit down in the chair and watch him expectantly.

“I dropped out of school,” he says. “I’m going to go back, when I can afford it or when I can figure out how the whole student loan thing works. Until then, I’m going to live off of my art, and if that doesn’t work, I’m going to get a job. But I’m never going to give up doing what I love.”

“That’s good. I’m glad.” I really am. He deserves every bit of happiness, whether I’m part of that happiness or not.

He looks down at the couch, and his fingers fiddle with a bit of fabric that’s come loose on the old piece of furniture.

“The thing is,” he says quietly and then clears his throat. “The thing is,” he repeats it louder. “I don’t want to do any of that.” His eyes meet mine again. “Without you.”

My stomach drops and my heart accelerates. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

I can’t speak. For the first time in my life, I’m speechless. But then, I’m not surprised, I’ve experienced a lot of firsts with Jensen.

Eyes still on mine, he gets off the couch and moves around the coffee table towards me. He approaches me slowly, like I’m a feral animal that might bolt if he makes any sudden moves. When he reaches my chair, he bends to his knees in front of me and puts his arms on either side of my legs. His hands rest against the outside of my thighs, and he places his head on my lap.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he says. “At first I was so angry with you. And then I was angry at myself. And time kept passing, and the more time that passed the more ashamed I felt about my behavior and I realized what an idiot I was. I thought it was too late to get you back. Then I talked to Liam and the whole damn thing was even worse and—”

“Hey,” I say, putting my hand on his head, still in my lap, and interrupting his tirade. “Wait.”

He looks up at me and I can’t help it, I run my hand through his hair and cup the back of his head.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You aren’t the only one who screwed up. I may not have been the source of the information that leaked, but I did betray your trust.”

“Liam told me how Freya threatened to use her hit man on me,” Jensen says with a small smile.

“That doesn’t make it okay. I should have told you. I meant to tell you right away, and then I was distracted by all the sex and your body and…” I trail off, not really sure how to continue that sentence.

“What do you say we call it even?” He’s grinning up at me now.

I smile. “That sounds perfect.”

He shakes his head. “Nothing in life is ever perfect.”

“Well, it sounds perfectly imperfect.”

He laughs—a deep chuckle that hits me somewhere in my chest—and then he moves up until he’s sitting in my lap, making me laugh as his more considerable weight settles on top of me. My hands move from the back of his head to his shoulders.

He’s squishing my legs, but I don’t care. His hands cup my face, and he moves in until our lips are nearly touching, but not quite.

“Lucy,” he says, the word tickling against my lips.

“Yes,” my voice comes out rather breathlessly.

He pulls back slightly to look into my eyes. “I love you.”

My hands flex against his shoulders and
I nod. “I love you, too.”

He smiles, a beautiful and blindingly wide flash of teeth, and then he’s kissing me and I’m kissing him and I’m very glad everyone else has gone home for the night. Duncan said it was okay for me to lock up, and that’s great because now I’m pulling at Jensen’s shirt and tugging it over his head and his eyes meet mine, full of passion and desire and love.

“Are we christening your work place?” he asks.

“Call it whatever you need to,” I say, making him laugh.

I push him off my lap to the floor and then I follow him down, sprawling on top of his now bare chest and kissing his neck.

“Lucy?” he says, sighing and pulling me up closer to his face. “Will you move in with me?”

I blink down at him. “Really?”

He grins and shrugs awkwardly. “I could use a roommate. I’m sort of a starving artist now.”

“Okay,” I say, and then he tugs me down towards him, kissing my mouth, then my cheek, then below my ear.

“Plus I kind of like having you around,” he says against my neck.

“That’s good,” I respond.

“And just think
about how often we can do this.” He nibbles at my collarbone, and for a second I can’t breathe.

“I’m not arguing,” I tell him. “You really don’t need to convince me.”

“Oh, there is every need,” he says.

And then he proceeds to show me just how wonderful our imperfect life will be.