Imperfect Chemistry (8 page)

I was taught that the way of progress was neither swift nor easy.

–Marie Curie

After my first session with Jensen, I require solitude to figure out how I could lose control of myself so quickly. Even though the sensations I experienced were pleasurable, I’m not sure how I feel about my own overwhelming and reckless behavior and even worse, I’m not sure what to do next.

I also realize after some introspection that when I began this journey, I honestly believed I would never become a slave to lust, like everyone else. I was convinced of my own superiority and that I would be able to control my feelings and observe them in a detached and clinical manner. Now I know that I’m no better and the thoughts shame me. Of course I’m not better. I’m human, and therefore as fallible as anyone.

After a day of analyzing, I haven’t come to any conclusions other than confirming my own egocentrism, so I contact my brother Sam for a turn at the shooting range. Out of all of my brothers, he’s most like me. He’s smart, but in a more artistic way. He’s an architect and he’s the only one of my brothers who isn’t married. In fact, I suspect that Sam is somewhat promiscuous, but that’s not a topic I’ve ever broached with him, and I never will.

“I really don’t want to hear about you making out with some dude,” Sam says, a counterpoint to my own thoughts about his love life.

I’m standing about ten feet in front of him, positioning my arrow and trying to focus on my stance and the target in front of me, so I can’t immediately respond. I accidentally left my own bow at home, something I’ve never done before. I don’t forget anything, ever. The bow I picked out at the range is a bit too tight, but I’m okay with that. It makes me work harder to pull it back before the release. Luckily, the indoor arena is fairly empty in the middle of the day in the middle of the week. There’s only one other archer and he’s on the opposite side of the large room.

Pointing the arrow at the ground, I place the shaft on the rest and then nock it into place, pulling the bow up and into position, bow arm pointed straight out and my other arm pulled back so my fingers are resting against my face. And again, for the one hundred and third time in the last twenty-four hours, I’m reminded of Jensen and his hands on my face. Right before he kissed me.

I ease the fingers of my drawing hand and the arrow releases, shooting forward and hitting the farthermost ring of the target.

I relax my stance. “I never intended to tell y
ou about making out with anyone.” I face him. “You’re the one who insisted I tell you what I was thinking. If you can’t handle the answer, don’t ask.”

His response is a laugh. “You’re really messed up, huh?” he asks.

I walk over to where he’s standing and waiting for his turn. “I am not messed up. I’m just not sure what to do. I don’t understand the things I’m feeling. I’m not used to expressing my emotions.”

“Yep,” he says. “You’re messed up. You’re not used to
having
emotions, period. But you always know what to do. And you never shoot this badly.”

“Okay. Fine.” I take a deep breath. “We’ve established that I’m ‘messed up’, so are you going to help me or not?”

He’s staring at me, not speaking.

“Sam?”

“You like this guy.”

“He’s nice.” I shrug.

“No, you really, really like him. I have to meet him.”

“No way.” I shake my head. “I barely know him. I like him as much as I like anything I feel a faint fondness for. Like peanut butter. And you can never meet him because you’ll do something to make him uncomfortable.”

Sam grins. “I know.”

Frustrated, I smack him on the shoulder, which is difficult to do with any amount of force because he’s over a foot taller than me.

“You’re not helping.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Luce. It’s not like I’m the expert on relationships. You should have asked Tom or Ken, they’re the married ones.”

“But they’re too old and they won’t understand. And I’m not in a relationship. I’m trying to experience emotions.”

“Well, you seem to be succeeding in that.”

“I guess so.” I release an exasperated huff. “I didn’t think having all these emotions would be so confusing and annoying.”

“Welcome to the human experience. What about mom?”

“She doesn’t understand me at all. She never has.”

“But she loves you.”

“I love her too, but we are very different people. She’s affectionate and open and I’m…” I trail off and shrug. I don’t have to finish my sentence. He knows.

He takes a deep breath and looks at me for a second.

“Okay, Luce. If you like this guy, you have to open up to him a little bit. Relationships aren’t easy and it’s going to be especially hard for you because you’ve avoided getting too close to anyone for so long. Or, like, ever.”

He walks passed me to the shooting line.

“I told you, it’s not a relationship. And I’m close to people.”

“I don’t count. And neither does mom.
Isn’t a relationship the whole point of your little experiment?” He quickly finds his stance and nocks his arrow.

I frown.

Sam moves his arrow from aiming position to pointing it at the ground in front of him and faces me again. “You know what? You’re not that great about staying close to us, either. When’s the last time you called mom?”

“You know I don’t like talking on the phone.”

“You don’t like talking, period.”

“Do you have a point?”

“Remember when you were a kid,” he begins.

I stifle the urge to groan. Whereas I was born with a lack of verbal expression, my brothers, on the other hand, have the ability to talk and tell stories for hours, like it’s nothing.

“Tom and Ken were off at college,” he’s saying, “and Jon was in high school and way too cool to hang out with either of us. I was nearly a teenager when you were four, so you never had anyone to play with. The other kids on our street always wanted to play sports and get dirty, but you would rather hang out with mom in the kitchen or with dad in the garage. I felt like you were missing out on the typical childhood experience. I would mess with you, do you remember this?”

“Of course. Even if I didn’t remember it, you guys talk about it enough at family gatherings that I have it more than ingrained in my memory. You would leave frogs and spiders and other creatures in my bed.”

“And what did you do?”

I raise an eyebrow at him, wondering what his point is. “I would analyze them. Involve them in various experiments and then put them back outside. Once, one of the rats died so I embalmed and dissected it.”

“You were four.”

“And?”

“And you created your own homemade embalming fluid from cleaning supplies and crap you found in the kitchen.”

“What does this have to do with emotions and relationships?”

“The point is, if you really want to understand your emotions, it’s not going to be easy. You aren’t used to being…normal.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say.

He shoots, finally, and we watch the arrow slam into the target only an inch from direct center.

“Okay. Fine,” I say. “What do you recommend that I do?”

He turns towards me. “‘Courage is not the absence of fear but rather the judgment that something is more important than fear. The brave may not live forever but the cautious do not live at all.’”

I’m a little surprised at this, it sounds much too poetic for my brother. “That’s beautiful, Sam. Who said it, Nelson Mandela?”

“No, Meg Cabot.”

I frown, racking my brain. “Who’s that? A poet? Philosopher?”

“She writes children’s books.”

“Oh.”

“Listen, Lucy.” He walks over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “For once, stop listening to your brain. Follow your gut, your instincts, just let go. What’s your gut telling you?”

I look up at him. “I don’t know.”

He smiles and gives a quick nod. “Good. You know everything. This’ll be good for you.” With that, he pats me on the shoulder a bit harder than necessary and hands me my bow. “You’re up. Try not to suck so much.”

***

A few hours later, Sam drops me off in front of the duplex. I give him a quick and clumsy hug before getting out of his large pickup and jumping to the ground.

Halfway up the steps, I notice Jensen standing on the porch just outside his door. He’s not alone. An older man is with him, dressed in perfectly fitted slacks and a leather jacket over what appears to be a three-piece suit. He’s got lighter hair than Jensen, but the same dark green eyes.

“Hello,” I say as I near the top of the steps. They’re both staring at me.

“You must be Jensen’s neighbor,” the man says. “I’m Professor Walker, Jensen’s father.”

He walks towards me and we meet at the top of the steps. He approaches with a practiced smile and his hand out.

I shake his hand
firmly. “Lucy London.”

“Ah, yes!” He looks back at Jensen. “You didn’t tell me you were living next to our resident genius.”

Jensen says nothing. His expression is very serious, and I notice he hasn’t shaved and his cheeks are covered in stubble.

“Well, it was nice to finally meet you Lucy.” He smiles at me but the smile fades when he turns back to his son. “Jensen, we’ll talk soon.” And then he’s past me and down the steps and gone.

“Are you okay?” I ask Jensen.

His eyes are on me with a sort of focused intensity that makes my insides flutter.

“Yeah.”

It doesn’t seem that he’s going to add anything, so I head towards my door.

“Where were you this morning?” he calls to my retreating back.

I face him. “I went shooting with my brother.”

“Was that your brother that just dropped you off?”

“Yes.”

Something in his stance relaxes.

“I was thinking.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and takes three steps in my direction. “Our interviewing sessions
might be more productive if we were more comfortable around each other. If we knew each other a little better. We should…be friends.”

I nod. “That makes sense.” We’ve really only been around each other a handful of times. “I need friends,” I admit.

“There’s an exhibition of new artists at this gallery downtown on Saturday night. I have two tickets.”

He doesn’t say anything else and I stare at him for a few seconds. “Are you inviting me to go with you?” I finally ask.

He half smiles. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Okay.”

The smile grows. “Okay. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Okay,” I return his smile and then turn and unlock my door. When I get inside, I’m still smiling.

Life doesn’t make any sense without interdependence. We need each other, and the sooner we learn that, the better for us all.

–Erik Erikson

When I update Freya regarding what occurred over the weekend, she lets out a high-pitched squeal so loud that my ears ring and everyone within a fifty-yard radius turns in our direction.

When she stops, I blink at her. “You sound like a rape whistle.” The student union hands them out the first week of every semester.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she says.

We’re walking through the quad. Freya wanted to go to lunch, but I promised Dr. Heinrich I would help him with his Advanced Molecular Genetics lab. He has a few graduate students who need assistance. Freya agreed to accompany me to the Davidson Science Center.

“He’s so into you,” she gushes.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have told her about my first training session with Jensen.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “He specifically stated he wants us to be friends.”

“Yeah, friends who make out!”

I frown. “Do friends do that?”

“No, idiot!” We walk around a group of guys playing Frisbee. “He’s probably going the friend route since you totally freaked out on him after you guys kissed.”

“I did not ‘freak out’.”

“Did you or did you not break contact, and then
thank him
,” she says the last two words with disdain, “and then basically force him to leave?”

“I did not coerce him into anything. He left of his own volition.”

“So you admit to the first two allegations?”

Despite Freya’s frivolous language and playful manner, she may actually be a good lawyer someday.

“Well, yes,” I admit.

She gives a satisfied smile. “See? He’s making you think you’re friends. Lulling you into a false sense of complacency. Before you know it, you’ll wake up one morning married with two-point-five kids and his and her BMWs.”

“That’s not likely.”

“Don’t like kids?” she asks.

“Don’t like BMWs,” I say.

“Lucy!” She gasps and stops walking, placing her hand on my arm. “Was that a joke?”

I give her a small smile. “Maybe. I think you’re rubbing off on me.”

We’ve reached my building. I stop at the intersection of the sidewalk and face Freya.

“We’ll make a normal person outta you yet!” she says. “So, I’ll be over on Saturday at five to help you get ready.” She’s nodding at me with raised eyebrows.

I shake my head. “That’s not necessary.”

“Yes. It is. It really is. No arguing!” She points at me like I’m a miscreant child and then after a big, goofy grin, she takes off, scurrying down the sidewalk and away before I can formulate a response.  I have the sneaking suspicion she’s getting to know me pretty well and I’m surprised to discover that I don’t hate it.

***

Freya appears in my doorway promptly at 5:00 p.m. on Saturday armed with a bag of goodies and frequent assurances that she’s there to make me look classy and not at all “slutted up”.

I give in, but only when she shows me the jeans and long sleeve top she’s intending on forcing me into.

In the end, I’m fairly satisfied in skinny jeans, boots, a flowing top and colorful scarf. She even has a matching purse. I draw the line at the jewelry.

“But it’s sparkly!” she tells me.

“I don’t like jewelry.”

She shakes her head solemnly. “It’s like you’re not even human.”

“I find it uncomfortable. No matter how long I wear it, I can always feel it. I never lose awareness of something against my skin.”

“
Freak.”

“Yes,” I agree.

I kick her out at five thirty. “You need to let me give you a makeover,” she says as I’m walking her out the door. “A real one, not this lame just-changing-your-clothes crap.”

“I look fine.”

She crosses the threshold onto the porch and turns to face me. “You do, you really do, but just imagine a few highlights, maybe a haircut other than straight across the bottom? Your hair is so long and pretty, there’s so much you could do with it!”

“Thanks, Freya.”

I move to shut the door and she calls out as it’s closing, “Don’t forget to call me tomorrow! I want details!”

The door clicks shuts.

I go back into the bathroom and wipe off half of the makeup. By the time that’s done and I’ve straightened up my room, it’s five forty-five. Fifteen minutes until Jensen said he would “pick me up”. But I really don’t have anything else to do. I grab the purse Freya loaned me and a jacket and head out the door.

Jensen opens the door in jeans and a button-up shirt, but no shoes.

“I’m ready. I didn’t see any point in waiting until six,” I say.

“Well, this is a first.” He opens the door and steps back to let me in.

“A first what?” I ask. I step past him and inside, glancing around. I’m very interested in his place. He’s been so hesitant to let me in during our previous encounters and I can’t help but wonder why.

“The first time a girl has had to wait for me to get ready. It’s normally the other way around,” he says with a smile. “Out in a second.” He disappears down the hall.

His side of the duplex is the mirror image of mine, except for a few key details. The fireplace, for one. I had noticed the chimney from the outside before, something that set his side off from mine. Also, my place is rather plain. I don’t have much on the walls and all my furniture is functional and mismatched, hand-me-downs from various relatives and garage sales.

Jensen’s place is like a model home. His walls are decorated in framed black and white prints. His furniture is all sleek wood and stylish form. He has hardwood floors in the living room and tile and granite in the kitchen.

Everything seems so shiny and new. Except for one thing. There’s a side table against a wall, a nice mirror hanging over it. But on top of the side table is an old, squat, white vase. It’s not completely white; it’s been weathered and slightly yellowed with age. There are a few spots that are nearly brown and there are more than a couple chips on the enamel. It seems such a stark contrast to the rest of the space, I can’t help but be drawn to it.

I pick it up and look at it in my hands, turning it around and examining the bottom. There are no distinct markings or signatures on it.

“Do you like it?”

I spin around.

Jensen is leaning his shoulder against the wall in the hallway, watching me.

“It doesn’t quite fit.” I hold it up and use it to gesture to the rest of the space before placing it down gently where it was.

“That’s the point.” He pushes away from the wall and steps next to me, running a finger around the imperfect edge of the rim. A breeze of his cologne wafts over me. “It’s wabi-sabi,” he says.

I tilt my head. “Explain.”

He smiles down at me. “Wabi-sabi is a Japanese principle that embodies the idea of transience and imperfection. Like the life cycle. We are born, we get old and we eventually die. Objects are the same, they get old and weathered, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s all a part of the cycle of nature. Wabi-sabi is about appreciating the beauty in our naturally imperfect world.”

I absorb the words for a minute and appreciate the sentiment.

“It’s interesting that this imperfect item is surrounded by perfection,” I say.

His smile widens and my gaze is drawn to his lips. Against my will I remember what he tastes like. I force my eyes back to his, but he’s no longer looking at me. He’s looking down at the vase. I watch him in the mirror.

“My father had this place designed and furbished before I moved in.” He picks up the vase. “This was my addition.”

“Your rebellion.” It makes sense to me now, him not locking his door before he leaves for coffee every Sunday morning. Why should he care about his possessions? They aren’t his.

He nods and then puts the vase back down, clearing his throat. “You ready to roll?”

Once outside, he opens the car door for me and I slide across a slightly torn leather seat. I reach over and unlock his side. Since it’s an older car, he can’t unlock all the doors with a click of a button.

He gets in and turns the ignition, the engine rumbling to life.

There are dents in the dashboard and the carpet at my feet is worn, but it’s clean and comfortable.

“Even your car is wabi-sabi.”

He smiles at that.

“It’s all the original upholstery and interior,” he tells me. He tells me more about the car and I watch the lights from the other cars and street play over his face as he talks and drives.

“My dad wanted to buy me something new and flashy, but I had my heart set on a sixty-five Mustang since I was ten. I had to drive to Kansas to pick it up, and I had to log in sixty hours a week of filing and data entry for an entire summer, but it was worth it.”

“You bought it yourself?”

“Yep. When I told my dad what I wanted, he refused to give me a single penny. Now I’m glad, though. It’s the only thing I’ve ever owned that’s solely mine.”

“I’ve never had a car.” I run my hand along the leather armrest on the door.

“Never?”

“I don’t need one. I can walk almost everywhere I need to go, and if I’m going to my parents or somewhere else, one of my brothers drives me or I take the bus.”

There’s silence in the car as he merges into traffic heading downtown.

“How many brothers do you have?” he asks.

“Four.”

“Four? That’s a pretty big family.”

“I suppose so. It feels normal to me. I don’t have a point of comparison.”

He pulls up outside the art gallery. There’s no parking out front and there’s a line of people at the door, waiting to get in.

“It’s busier than I thought it would be,” he says. There’s a nervous layer underlining his words.

“Is that a bad thing?” I ask.

“No. I guess not.” He shakes his head and then glances at me with a smile. “It’s a good thing.”

Maybe I imagined his nervousness. Why would he be anxious about an art exhibit?

We drive down the street about a block before we find a place to park.

I get out before he has a chance to open my door, but he holds his arm out for me to take and we walk down the street quickly to get out of the cold.

At the door, a dark-skinned woman with curly brown hair greets Jensen with a giant hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so glad you could be here,” she says, holding his hands in hers. “Who did you bring?” She looks at me curiously.

“This is Lucy London,” he says, and then to me, “This is Anita Johnson. She owns the gallery.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

There’s no time to exchange further pleasantries; she hands Jensen a pamphlet and we move into the building so that she can greet the people behind us in the line.

The wide open gallery is fairly bustling. Waiters in black and white circle the area with trays of food and drinks. Faint music tinkles through the open space. There aren’t many lights shining above us; most of the illumination is reserved for the items hanging on the walls and various standing structures.

Jensen grabs my hand and leads me through the crowd. Much like on campus, he seems to know quite a few people here. We stop a few times while he shakes hands, gets slapped on the back, and makes introductions. I nod and smile and attempt to appear more comfortable than I feel.

Eventually, we make it to the section with oil paintings and I breathe a sigh of relief that I don’t have to talk to anyone but Jensen for at least a few moments. I was beginning to feel claustrophobic with all those people pressing in.

“What do you think?” he asks.

I’m thinking that he’s still holding my hand, even though it isn’t necessary since we aren’t moving through people and there’s no chance that we will be separated in this less populated area of the gallery, but I realize that’s not what he’s asking. I look at the canvas in front of us.

“I’m not sure. I presume the artist intended to draw trees in autumn. However, these colors are unlike anything I’ve seen in nature.” Instead of red, orange and yellow foliage, the leaves are a neon yellow, magenta, and the brightest orange I’ve ever seen. It’s almost painful to look at.

“Why do you think that is?”

I consider the question, but there’s no logical reason I can ascertain as to why the artist chose this particular palette. “I don’t know,” I admit finally. “What do you think?”

“I think the artist is in love,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because everything seems brighter.”

I think about this and shake my head. “That doesn’t make sense. Love doesn’t affect your photoreceptors.” I look the painting over again and add, “I think the artist may have ingested hallucinogens. Scientists have discovered that use of such drugs unlocks the 5-HT2A receptors on the surface of the brain, which in turn affect your other senses, making the world appear and brighter and inaccurate in comparison to reality.”