The Science of Loving (6 page)

The mid-day sun beat against the top of my head in concordance with the coastal breeze. Unbuttoning my cuffs, I rolled up my sleeves as I strolled, observing the group dynamics. The Climbers stroked the Haves while the Prey huddled uneasily, and the Shakers circulated amongst them stirring the pot. Angie and Steve were definitely in the Prey category.

I filled a clear plastic cup with pink wine from a box sitting next to some crap sandwiches that they’d cut into odd shapes in a sad attempt at fancying them up. After grabbing a bottled water for myself, I noted Angie engaged in conversation with a stocky brunette, a smile lighting up her face. The chick said something to make Angie laugh. And going by the looks that were directed my way, my ears should probably be burning.

I was making my way back to them when Angie stiffened, her smile becoming strained. Lengthening my stride, I scanned the room, spying an attractive older woman stalking over to her. Everything about her screamed high maintenance, from her designer suit to an unnaturally smooth face that only an intimate relationship with Botox could achieve. She was definitely one of the Haves.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in this color before,” she said in a condescending tone—
what the fuck?

“Yeah, doesn’t she look fabulous? Here you go, sweetheart.” I took custody of my girl as I handed her the wine. “Thanks Steve, I appreciate it,” I acknowledge, then looked pointedly look at the barracuda.

From the her shocked expression, I could tell a shaved, tatted up, 6’4”, wall of aggression was not what she’d expected—
yeah, that’s right lady take a good look
—normally, I get one of two reactions when women first see me: Fear or lust. I waited to see which way she’d jump. She regarded Angie with disbelief then returned her gaze to me. I smirked as a mixture of greed, lust and jealousy flashed across her face.
Ding, ding, ding… We have a winner: Not a barracuda, a motherfucking cougar.

“Mat, I’d like to introduce you to my mother, Stephanie Martin. Mom, this is Mat James.”
Motherfucker!

“How do you do Mat,” she said in a tone that was meant to intimidate; extending a manicured hand as a polite mask of indifference settled on her face.
So Mommy Dearest wants to play it like that.

“I do very well Mrs. Martin and yourself?” I inquired with a subtle growl, gripping her hand, not painfully hard, but firmly maintaining control until she dropped her gaze.
She thinks she can intimidate me?

Angie jumped as the woman she’d been laughing with earlier, gave me a not so subtle look—
I guess my girl’s ticklish.
“Mat, this is another one of my lab mates, Dr. Leslie Jacobs.”

“Oh my gosh, can I rub your head, I want to make a wish?”
Okay, this is weird.

“Well
chica
, I normally don’t give head to strangers, but in your case I’ll make an exception. So it better be good.”

“You’ll have to forgive Les, she mislaid her verbal filter during lent and now she can’t find it.” Angie giggled against my chest. Pulling her closer, I bent down so Les could rub my noggin. It was worth it just to hear that giggle.

Polishing my melon with a mischievous grin, she intoned, “I wish I may, I wish I might, find my own giant tonight.”

“Darling, you might be too much for one giant to handle.” I chuckled.
This chick’s hilarious.
“You’d better order a brace.”

“You have no idea,” Angie muttered.

“I don’t suppose you have any brothers?” Les mused.

“Nope, no brothers. After my sister was born, the state pulled my parents’ right to breed—something about the spawn of Satan and hastening the Apocalypse.”

“So Mat, what is it that you do?”
Stephanie wants to dance
.

“I’m into architecture,” I said blandly.

I could see the wheels turning. Like most entitled types, she couldn’t see past the ink, or maybe the glare from my head was blinding her. When I said architecture, she assumed it was a euphemism for construction worker, not that I was above them. They were the ones who actually created something enduring. I just wrote down my ideas on fancy paper. They were the ones that made them real. My work couldn’t exist without them.

“Angelina I wish you’d told me you were bringing a friend,” Stephanie said, not bothering to hide her disdain, “I met a charming gentleman last week and told him all about you. I invited him today just to meet you.”

“Mom I really wish you’d listen to me. I’ve asked you to stop doing that. You know I don’t like it.”

“I’m just trying to help. You’re practically a shut in. What harm is there in just saying hi.”
What the fuck, am I not standing right here?

“Wait, Wait.” Steve was practically dancing with excitement. “Are you
Mathew Saint James
?”

“Yeah, last time I checked.”

“Oh, my God! Mathew Saint James. Your work is famous. You’re the youngest person ever to win the Pritzker. You’ve won the Erick Schelling, Wolf and Kemper awards too.” He was starting to attract an audience. “The Montague Library is amazing. Didn’t it win something too?”

“Yeah, that was my master’s project back in the day. Now I’m into this urban renewal thing.” People were starting to drift over, politely listening in while Steve looked at me like I was some sort of rock star.

“I know; I saw a documentary on it.” What a goof. I’ll bet he was the only one who saw that film. I did it to raise money and awareness about urban blight. I was trying to change the way we addressed low-income housing, building sustainable communities instead of slums.

If Steve’s grin got any wider, I feared his face might break in half. He was excitedly talking about architecture to anyone who’d listen, and he needed to tone it down. He’d attracted Bob, our department chair’s, attention; some of the alumni and pharma guys were coming over as well.

“Yeah.” Mat rumbled. “That was my master’s project back in the day. Now I’m into this urban renewal thing.”

“I know; I saw a documentary on it.” Mat was famous? He was so out of my league.

“Wasn’t there an article in the Architecture Digest on that project?” One of the alumnus asked. “Something about the psychological effects of community gardens and green spaces.”

“Oh, it’s more than just the psychological effects. It has a direct impact on physical health, especially for the children. If you look at low-income diets, you’ll find they’re mostly processed foods, lots of carbs and empty calories. Unfortunately, a lot of ignorant people assume the poor eat this way because they don’t care. That they have a choice, when in fact, they don’t.”

Several people were nodding with him. He obviously shared Danny’s gift for social domination. I could tell even Mom wasn’t as immune to his charm as her neutral expression indicated. He was scary big, covered in tattoos, and yet everyone was looking at him like he was the best thing since sliced bread—
well, better him, than me—
I tried to ease away when his hold on me loosened, only to have him wrap his other arm around me to casually shift me in front of him, so he could rest his chin on my head without missing a beat.

“Think about it. How many of you could feed yourselves on twenty-one dollars a week? That’s basically a dollar per meal with tap water and no snacks. You can make a lunch of Cup-of-Noodles for thirty or forty cents. Fresh produce costs more than canned. Scratch cooking is way more expensive than buying ready-made. It costs three times more to make lasagna from scratch with fresh ingredients than it does to buy a frozen one.”

“If they had community gardens, they could supplement their diets with healthy alternatives. We need to go beyond basic shelter and start building communities.” Mat paused, taking a breath. “Oh man, you got me going. Sorry you guys, today’s not supposed to be about me, it’s supposed to be about your research.”

Mat kissed my head, his muscular chest flexing against my back. Now everyone was looking at me, and from Bob’s the startled expression, I didn’t think he’d recognized me until just now. “Angie, don’t you look a vision. Red suits you.” My cheeks went as hot as my dress. I wanted to flee when I saw Mom smile narrowly. I could tell she hate this dress.

“Th…thank you. Mat, this is Bob Tate. He’s my department’s chair. Bob this is Mathew Saint James.”

“Mat.” He shook Bob’s hand while dropping the other possessively across my body, keeping me snugly pressed against him. “I must say, I’m a big fan of Angie’s research. It’s fascinating that genetically, we have so much in common with creatures so different from ourselves. That a simple fruit fly may hold the keys to finding cures for devastating diseases.”

Bob scrutinized him. He’s been my mentor since I was an adolescent undergrad. He might’ve even cried a little when I earned my doctorates. Of course, he’d never admit it. We were total opposites. He always held his cards close to his vest, while I went through life with every emotion showing in my eyes.

“Yes, we’re all very proud of Angie. She’s come a long way for someone so young, and I expect great things from her.”
Jeez Bob, you’re not that much older than Les.
He might not have been an idiot savant like me, but he was definitely ahead of the professional curve.

As usual, the mention of fruit flies had the crowd drifting away. Yep, even Mat’s charisma was no match for their buzz-kill
—fruit flies, buzz-kill… I slay myself sometimes
—Steve and Ben had fallen into a deep discussion about fermenters and hops. They’d started a brewers club, making beer in some re-purposed fermenters retired from the labs. They tried to get me to join, but I knew what’d been inside of those things. Gross.

I looked around, trying to spot the guy Mom had invited. If I was lucky, he’d taken one look at Mat and run for his life. I didn’t know how Mom found these guys, but they always turned out to be assholes. You’d think being a social dictator would her a better judge of character.

“Tell me, Mat,” Mom brushed her hand up Mat’s arm to get his attention. “How do you know my daughter?”

“She saved my sister’s life,” he said stiffly.

“You’re exaggerating. I just fixed her car.” I winced as soon as the words left my mouth, knowing I’d just poured fuel on the fire.

She chuckled disparagingly. “You and your cars, you’re just like your father.” She stepped closer, her delicate perfume wafting over us as she leaned in, touching Mat’s wrist, adding conspiratorially, “It was her father who turned her into little grease monkey.” I’ve always hated that term. It implied mechanics were somehow stupid or subhuman. She’d never understood our love for tinkering: The satisfaction of taking something broken and making it useful again, or figuring out how to make something work better. All she saw was work roughened skin and greasy fingernails.

“Yeah, I think it’s pretty awesome too,” Mat said dismissively, turning away to listen to the guys discuss mash recipes and fermentation temperatures.
Shit, no one dismissed my mother.

What the fuck!
Angie was totally amazing and she acted disappointed.
And why the fuck was she touching me!
Did Angie realize she was hitting on me? How many levels of fucked up was that?

“Yeah, I think she’s pretty awesome too,” I said, pretending she hadn’t just insulted her daughter then turned us around, tuning into Steve and this Indian guy’s conversation. Apparently, they were into micro brewing.

When I noticed Angie was holding her breath again, I whispered, “Breathe.” Then took my own advice, burying my nose in her freshly washed hair—
mmm… melon
—forcing myself to relax. When I ran my nose along the shell of her ear, she shivered. So I did it again, soothing my hand over the fresh goosebumps on her arm with a grin—okay, not so mad now.

“Do you brew Mat?” Steve interrupted my meditation looking at me expectantly.

“Drink brews, can’t say that I ever tried making them. Have you guys been to Suds? They have over fifty different beers and a pretty good happy hour too.”

“I’ve heard about that place; I’ve been wanting to try it.” Steve’s companion said, “I’m Ben by the way. My lab’s next door to Angie’s. I study cellular metabolism. The chemistry involved when cells use energy.”