Elements of Chemistry: Capture Page 4

  “Parker, let me drive you.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” he asked quietly, sounding less pushy than curious.

  I was about to respond with the truth, that being around him made me feel like I’d made no progress over the last nine months; that I was at a minimum infatuated with him if not still completely in love with him; that I had no desire to cry in his car. I had no desire to cry anywhere ever again.

  But we were interrupted by the sound of a door closing, sauntering footsteps, and Abram tossing his arm over my shoulder.

  I glanced up at my bandmate, confused by his sudden closeness. “Because she already has a ride,” he drawled.

  CHAPTER 2

  Acid-Base Equilibria

  It took my brain five stunned seconds to engage and realize the ramifications of Abram’s appearance and announcement. In the sixth second I pushed Abram off and away.

  First of all, the implication was clearly that we were together.

  In order to clarify, I announced loudly, “He’s not my boyfriend. We’re not dating.”

  Secondly, Martin was no longer looking at my face; he was looking at the spot where Abram’s hand had rested on my shoulder.

  And thirdly, my life was officially a cliché. I wondered if there were some unseen director just around the corner saying things like, Okay, cue the new love interest. That’s right, we want him to walk onto the scene at the worst possible moment.

  “But you still want me to give you a ride?” Abram asked, his tone chock full of zealously good-natured solicitousness.

  “No. I don’t want a ride. I don’t want any rides. No rides for this girl.” I pointed to myself with my thumbs, burning a brighter shade of red.

  Martin’s eyes flickered to mine and narrowed. I was being scrutinized.

  Abram chuckled and nudged me flirtatiously with his elbow. He turned his smile to Martin. Martin was not smiling.

  “Hi. I’m Abram. Katy’s bassist.”

  I shook myself and realized I’d made no introductions. “Right. Martin, this is Abram. He plays bass in the band. Abram, this is…Martin.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Martin,” Abram said, like it truly was a pleasure and offered his hand.

  Martin’s glare focused on the offered hand—the same hand that had seconds ago rested on my shoulder—then he lifted his gaze to Abram’s. He reached forward and accepted Abram’s hand for a shake. It was one of those weird, man handshakes that last too long, and where the hands turn a little white at the knuckles.

  After several seconds I couldn’t take it any longer. This was Martin Sandeke, grand Jedi Master of the short-tempered fist fight. Ye Martin of old never needed a reason to lose his temper. Granted, I hadn’t seen him in almost nine months. But the last thing I needed was Abram with a busted jaw or—worse—a hurt hand. Willis might never forgive me.

  So I reached forward, pulled them apart, and tugged Martin toward the street. “Aaaand we’re done. Martin, would you be so kind as to drive me to Grand Central station?”

  “You’ve got an impressive grip for such a pretty stockbroker,” Abram yelled after us.

  “I’m not a stockbroker, asshole.” Martin’s voice was low and belied the intensity of his irritation; I could feel hesitation in his steps, like he wanted to turn around and show Abram the meaning of an impressive grip, so I linked my arm through his and increased my pace.

  Abram’s laughter followed us as far as the street and I turned right even though I had no idea where his car was parked. Being so close to him was disconcerting and set my heart racing. We made it to the end of the block before Martin used my hold on his arm to stop us and pull us to the corner, out of the pedestrian traffic.

  “Where are you going?”

  I released him and took a step back, grateful for the space. “I don’t know. I just wanted to get you away from Abram.”

  Martin’s gaze swept over my face. “Why? Does he bother you often?”

  “No, not at all. He’s fine, and we get along fine. I think he was just trying to be helpful, in his own weird way.”

  He was still scrutinizing me as he shifted a step closer. “You two...ever…?”

  I released a pained sigh when I understood what he was asking, deciding the evening had taken a sharp turn in the direction of completely preposterous. I closed my eyes, fought the urge to cover my face.

  I won. I didn’t cover my face. But I did take a minute to collect myself before saying, “That’s none of your business. You said you didn’t mind giving me a ride to the station.” I opened my eyes but didn’t manage to lift my gaze above his chin. “Will you please take me to Grand Central station so I can catch the train home?”

  I could tell he wanted to say more, he wanted to yell, scream, and rage, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around the implications of his short fuse, why he might be angry. I reminded myself that this was Martin Sandeke, who always expected people to jump when he said so, who’d never had a problem yelling at females and males and turtles and grass and furniture. I braced for his tantrum.

  Instead he took a deep breath, silent but visible in the rising and falling of his chest, and nodded. “Yes. It would be my pleasure to give you a ride to the station.”

  I squinted at him, at his oddly polite words and tone. “Martin…?”

  “Parker.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like to say before we’re within the confines of your automobile? Anything loud perhaps?”

  He shook his head and pulled his leather gloves out of his coat pocket, his tone soft, gentle even. “You should wear these. It’s cold.”

  “You want to say something. What is it?”

  “Weren’t you the one who always told me…”

  Martin reached for one of my hands and I lost my breath when his skin came in contact with mine. I’m not going to lie, my pants went a little crazy, and my heart did a flip then thumped uncomfortably—all signs I was still intensely in lust with him. He hesitated, his thumb drawing a gentle line from my wrist to the center of my palm, then he slid the large glove over my fingers with more care than necessary. They were warm from his pocket.

  When he’d slipped both gloves in place he lifted his bewitching eyes and finished his thought. “I can’t always have what I want.”

  ***

  The car ride lasted less than fifteen minutes and was spent in wordless silence. Of note, it was also spent in a super fancy luxury automobile. I didn’t know the make or model, but the dials were in Italian, the seats were buttery-soft leather, and when he accelerated it made a really satisfying vroooom sound.

  I’m not ashamed to admit I took off one of the gloves just so I could caress his taut…leather seats.

  When we arrived at the station I turned to him, taking off the second glove, and said benignly, “Thank you for the ride.”

  He gave me his profile as he nodded, his tone casual and polite. “No problem, any time.”

  Confused by his weird politeness, and feeling remarkably empty though my heart had set up camp in my throat, I placed his gloves on the armrest between us and opened the door to leave.

  Then he said, “I read The Lord of the Rings.”

  I paused, my car door half open, and twisted to face him. “You did…?”

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat then met my stare; his was guarded, bracing. “I did.”

  “What did you think?”

  “It was good…” Martin’s eyes lost focus and moved to the headrest next to my face. “Slow at first. I thought they were never going to get out of that Hobbit village.”

  “Ah, yes. It only took them ten thousand pages and three thousand verses of elf songs.”

  He smirked. “Give or take a thousand.”

  I smiled, glanced down at my fingers where they twisted the strap of my bag.

  I was surprised he’d read it and wasn’t sure what it meant, if it meant anything. I was still pondering this revelation when his next words shocked the heck out of me.

>   “I don’t think Frodo was responsible for the destruction of the ring.”

  My gaze jumped to his and I found Martin watching me attentively, again as though he was scrutinizing me. I struggled with my bewilderment for several seconds at his referencing our conversation from so many months ago.

  Finally I managed to sputter, “You…you think Sam is ultimately responsible then?”

  “No,” he answered thoughtfully and then paused; he seemed to be memorizing my expression before continuing. “I think one couldn’t have done it without the other. I think Frodo needed Sam as much as Sam needed Frodo, maybe even more.”

  I don’t know why, but my eyes misted over even though I wasn’t in danger of crying.

  I gave him a soft smile, letting him see my pleased astonishment, and agreed quietly, “I think so, too.”

  We stared at each other and I felt something pass between us. I surmised it was closure because it felt peaceful and good. We’d shared a beautiful week. Because of him I was on a new path, a path I loved. He’d woken me up, even if I was kicking and screaming the whole time, and even if it broke my heart in the process.

  Maybe we weren’t meant for each other, but I finally realized that our time together wasn’t a waste. It changed me and I would always be grateful to him for that, even if we’d parted under painful circumstances.

  “Thank you,” I said suddenly, breaking the moment.

  “For what?”

  I realized I couldn’t say, Thank you for waking me up to my passion without sounding wacko, so instead I said, “For reading the book, I guess. And for the ride to the station.” I tossed my thumb over my shoulder, my hand landing on the door to push it farther open.

  “Right.” He swallowed, glancing behind me. “You’re welcome.”

  “I should go.”

  “Right.” He nodded, giving me a flat smile and his profile.

  “Goodbye, Martin.”

  I paused for a second, waiting for him to say goodbye, but he didn’t. His jaw was set and his eyes were studying his rearview mirror. So I opened the door all the way and climbed out of his fancy car, shut it, and turned to Grand Central station.

  I didn’t hear him pull into traffic, but I didn’t look back to check. I’d already spent too much time looking backward.

  CHAPTER 3

  Concentrations of Solutions

  Sam liked to go ’80s dancing on Thursday nights with several of her tennis pals. I’d never gone with her because I had no level of confidence in my non-ballroom dancing skills. But part of my theoretical state included opening myself up to new experiences¸ but not being so open-minded that my brain fell out.

  Therefore, on Thursday night when Sam asked me if I wanted to go ’80s dancing, I said yes.

  I discovered that club dancing was basically just moving around however the heck I wanted; furthermore, I discovered it was a lot of fun. Sure, weird guys would sometimes sidle up to our cluster and try to cop a feel or insinuate themselves in the circle, especially since girls outnumbered the guys in our group. I quickly learned how to avoid stranger danger behavior by latching on to one of the three male tennis players who tagged along until the uninvited dude moved on.

  This worked perfectly until the end of the night when Landon, one of the three tennis guys, asked for my number. I panicked and gave it to him as Sam watched on with an amused smirk.

  As soon as we were back in our apartment, Sam started sniggering.

  “What?”

  “You’re a good dancer,” she said, eyeballing me.

  “Thanks…?”

  “What did you think of Kara?”

  I had to really, really concentrate to remember which of the girls she was referencing. “Was Kara the one with pink hair?”

  “No, Kara was the one with the Dungeons and Dragons mini dress.”

  “Oh! Kara, yes. I liked her.”

  “Well, she’s looking for a place to stay next semester. How do you feel about another roommate?”

  “Would we move?”

  “Yeah, but I think there’s a three-bedroom becoming available in our building sometime in February.”

  I scrunched my face, wrinkling my nose. “Can I think about it? You know how particular I am. Can I meet her a few more times? Hang out? See what she thinks of the chore chart and angry acoustic guitar music?”

  “Sure. That makes sense. I’ll set something up after New Year’s.” Sam began eyeballing me again. “Speaking of you being particular—sooooo Landon, huh?”

  I gave her a pained look. “I didn’t know how to say no. He’s the first guy in my twenty years on this planet who has ever asked for my number.”

  “Technically he’s not the first.”

  I grumbled, but said nothing.

  “You didn’t have a problem saying no to Martin last year in chemistry lab when he asked.”

  “But I thought Martin was a jerk. It’s easy to say no to a jerk. Plus he never helped with tabulations so I felt no guilt. Landon seems like a nice guy. It’s hard to say no when a nice guy asks so nicely, and he spent most of the night helping me keep creepers at bay.”

  “So you gave Landon your number because he was helpful and nice?”

  “I don’t know…maybe? I feel like I should reward his nice behavior.” I hung my jacket up in the hall closet, noting I had two jackets on the rack and the rest were Sam’s.

  Sam shook her head, walking past me to the kitchen and calling over her shoulder, “When he calls don’t go out with him. He’s actually a douche canoe. And he’s a big baby on the court.”

  “Then why did you invite him?” I followed her, abruptly in the mood for Cheesy Poofs dipped in Nutella.

  “Because he’s tall and menacing looking. His face reminds me of the eagle news reporter from the Muppets.”

  “He does have thick eyebrows, I should give him the name of the lady who waxes mine.” I crossed to the cabinet and searched for the ingredients for my junk food fix. I was still down seventeen pounds from last year. I’d gained some back over the summer, but running around at the coffee shop and playing gigs at night kept me busy and cut into my cookie time.

  “They’re like caterpillars sitting on his face, I bet they’re fuzzy…but forget Landon for a minute. What I want to know is, does this mean you’re finally over Martin?”

  I lamented the contents of the cabinet pitifully, partially because there was no Nutella and partially because I hadn’t told Sam about my run-in with Martin over the previous weekend.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s no Nutella, and I’m in the mood for Cheesy Poofs dipped in Nutella—”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “—and I saw Martin last Saturday.”

  “Whoa! Wait, what?” She spun on me, her mouth open, her eyes wide.

  “There’s no Nutella—”

  “Don’t be clowning me. You know I want to hear about Martin, not your Nutella woes. You saw him? Where? When? How come you didn’t tell me?”

  I grabbed the Cheesy Poofs from the cabinet and turned to face her, feeling weary and wary of the subject already. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I guess I needed to…no, that’s not right. I think I didn’t tell you because we kind of gave each other closure and I needed a few days to process it.”

  Her eyes abruptly narrowed. “He gave you ‘closure’?”

  “Yeah. At least I think he was trying to. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Seeing him was a total fluke. He was at a gig we were playing in New York. We talked a little, he drove me to the train station, then we said goodbye.”

  Actually, I said goodbye. He didn’t say anything. But I’d assumed his goodbye was implied. As such, I felt comfortable with my version of the story.

  Sam looked me up and down, her face twisted in a way that betrayed her disbelief and/or confusion with my story. At length she said, “Huh…that’s weird.”

  “Why is that weird? Honestly it was kind of nice. We were both adulting like adult adults who b
ehaved like adults.”

  “It’s weird because of that one interview he gave in the fitness magazine over the summer. I think it was in Men’s Health. Did you ever read that, by the way?”

  I shook my head, taking a bite of a poof and lamenting the obnoxiously crunchy sound it made; I spoke around my chewing, orange cheesy food dust puffing from my mouth like a cloud. “No. Never read it.”

  “Hmm…”

  I ate another poof as she studied me. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

  I was just about to stuff my face with another when she said, “It’s about you, you know.”

  “I… What?” I did not eat the poof. Instead I held it in front of my mouth as I frowned at my best friend.

  “The interview, it’s about you. Well, not the whole thing. Just…half of it.”

  I choked on nothing and could feel my eyes bug out of my head. “Wait, what? What? Why? What?”

  “If you’re feeling over him then it might not be a good idea to read it.”

  I stared at her, my mouth opening and closing as I struggled for words. Finally I settled on, “What did he say?”

  “Are you going to read it?”

  “Should I?”

  “Are you over him?”

  Was I?

  Not knowing how to answer, I ate the suspended cheese-rice-puffed-food. This time the crunch felt satisfying instead of obnoxious, like an exclamation mark.

  “Don’t read it,” she said suddenly.

  “Maybe I want to.”

  “Then read it.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

  She grinned. “Then don’t.”

  ***

  I didn’t read Martin’s interview. At least, I hadn’t read it as of Saturday night.

  Friday and Saturday were busy; we played four gigs. Two afternoon holiday parties in Boston, one evening wedding in Yonkers, and one crazy late night Bat Mitzvah on Saturday in New Haven.

  As well, I had a very odd conversation with Abram after the third set at the Yonkers wedding; it started with him saying, “What you need is a rebound guy.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, found him standing just to my right, facing me, his mouth curved in its perma-smirk.