Elements of Chemistry: Capture Page 5

  “You mean for basketball?”

  His smirk became a grin. “No. Not for basketball. For getting over that stockbroker douchebag.”

  I scrunched my face at Abram and sipped my Coke. “What are you talking about?”

  He shifted a half step forward, lowering his voice. “A warm body, someone who’s good at kissing and fucking. You need a rebound lay.”

  “Oooohhhh…” His meaning finally sank in, which only made me nervously gulp my Coke. My eyes grew wide as I tried to look everywhere but at him and my brain attempted to figure out how to extract myself from this conversation. His comment sounded a lot like, Hey, I’d like to have sex with you to help you get over your boyfriend. Use me.

  “I’m not offering,” he clarified, correctly guessing that my abrupt bout of anxiety had everything to do with my assumption he wanted to be my rebound guy. I relaxed a bit, but then he added, “Though I wouldn’t mind being the guy after the rebound guy.”

  I choked on my Coke.

  He laughed, a deep, baritone laugh that sounded more sinister than merry, and he patted my back. “Hey, are you okay?”

  I nodded, sucking in air through my nose, then coughing again.

  “Did I surprise you?” His dark eyes were warm and still held his earlier laughter.

  I continued nodding as his hand stopped patting my back and switched to stroking it instead. I shivered, because his hot palm and capable fingers against the thin material of my tuxedo shirt felt good and was sending little tingles along my spine; as well he was standing in my personal space, his magnetic maleness making me a bit dizzy.

  I stepped away and caught his arm, halting his movements.

  “So, I’m…that is to say, I’m—”

  “You’re not over the douchebag,” he supplied, which wasn’t what I was going to say; nevertheless it was the truth.

  “No. I guess I’m not.” My voice was raspy from my coughing fit.

  “Then take my advice and get laid. Let someone else make you feel good. Hell, I bet Fitzy would cream himself at the thought.”

  I winced. “I don’t like the idea of using people.” Plus I didn’t like the idea of having sex with someone when I wasn’t in love, but if I’d said that to Abram, I assumed he would make fun of me.

  “You need to. Sure, be upfront about the arrangement. Let him—whoever him is—know that it’s a no-strings kind of thing. But do yourself a favor, and find a rebound guy. Otherwise it’ll be years before you get over your ex.”

  I studied Abram for a long moment, releasing his arm and leaning away, wanting to really see him. He wasn’t teasing; in fact, he appeared to be speaking from experience.

  “How many rebound girls have you been with, Abram?”

  His smirk was back, but it was somehow less sharp. “I’ve lost count.”

  “And have they helped?”

  “Yeah. I mean, they have helped. I’m not nearly as miserable and pathetic as I was before…” He trailed off, and his smirk waned, his eyes turning serious. “But I’m not going to rebound forever.”

  “When will you stop?”

  “When I see someone who’s worth hurting for again. Someone worth the risk.” He lifted his hand and tucked several strands of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my throat. “Or she finally sees me.”

  ***

  By the time my alarm went off on Sunday morning for my shift at the Bluesy Bean, I was cursing Sam for telling me that Martin’s interview was about me, or half about me.

  I was also cursing Abram for planting strange ideas in my head—about a rebound guy, about him as a potential post-rebound guy. I was all mixed up. I was attracted to Abram, but hadn’t allowed those feelings to deepen beyond passing interest. But what if I let myself actually get to know him? What if I liked him?

  I was relieved to find my co-worker Chelsea already on the register when I arrived.

  “You’re early,” she sang, giving me a bright smile.

  “I thought I was late.”

  “No. Ten minutes early. It’s been really quiet so far.” She pulled her long, thick, blue-tinted braid over her shoulder.

  I fastened my apron and took stock of our milk supply. “If today is anything like last Sunday, we can expect a mad rush with all the Christmas shoppers.”

  “That means Christmas carol requests. You’ll have to sing with me.” Chelsea gave me a wink and a smile.

  I gave her a smile that likely looked more like a grimace. “Oh…yay.”

  She laughed, then turned her attention to the front of the store where two early morning customers had just entered.

  I kind of loved Chelsea…from a distance. I think everyone loved Chelsea from a distance. She was charming, incredibly talented, clever, and crazy fun. As well, she had one of the most beautiful soprano voices I’d ever heard. She was also thrice divorced at the age of twenty-eight. Given the Marilyn Monroe resemblance of both her face and body, men loved her. They loved her a whole lot.

  But I suspected Chelsea loved the stage and the thrill of admiration. When she wasn’t singing for wages at the local community theater, she was singing for tips at the Bluesy Bean, flirting with her legion of admirers. I was grateful that she craved the spotlight; her willingness to be the center of attention allowed me to settle into a comfortable zone.

  And speaking of zones, since starting at the coffee shop three weeks ago, I found it was easy to zone out while making lattes and cappuccinos. Cooking in general, and making coffee specifically, was a lot like chemistry lab. Thus, as I set to work, I was able to meditate on the carousel of pros and cons circling around my brain.

  Pro - if I read Martin’s interview, then I could stop obsessing about whether or not I should read the interview.

  Con - if I read Martin’s interview, I might start obsessing about the content of the interview.

  And so the day proceeded in this way and all was well. More precisely, all was relatively normal until just after the mid-afternoon rush died down. I was cleaning up the mess associated with coffee grounds and drippings accumulating over time on a tile floor when I heard Chelsea say under her breath, “We’ve got a Chris Pine at twelve o’clock.”

  Chelsea had a labeling system for men.

  She told me she was looking for a Brad Pitt (older version) or a Chris Pine (younger version). Someone charismatic, beautiful, smart, wealthy, and dedicated to a cause other than himself. I asked her if she’d ever considered looking for a Neil deGrasse Tyson or a Francis Collins. Someone who wasn’t necessarily physically stunning, but whose brain and goodness more than made up for any external lack of overt attractiveness.

  She’d snorted at me, rolled her eyes, and said, “If I have to have sex with the guy, I don’t want to have to do it in the dark all the time.”

  It was an interesting perspective…one which I found disturbing. On one hand I understood why attraction was an essential element of chemistry between two people. But her inability or unwillingness to appreciate attractiveness beyond the skin and see the person as a whole made me feel a little sorry for her.

  Presently, curious about her Chris Pine, I straightened from my task and tried to nonchalantly glance over the coffee makers. That’s when I spotted Martin walking into the café.

  My eyes widened in surprise and I ducked back behind the espresso machine, shock and a strange panic keeping me motionless for several seconds while I had a silent argument with myself:

  What in the name of the cosmos is he doing here?

  Perhaps it’s a coincidence.

  What am I supposed to do???

  …just act normal.

  What’s normal?

  I briefly considered staying hidden for as long as possible, but then I realized it would be weirder to suddenly appear once he ordered his drink than to gradually straighten now.

  Maybe I could pretend I was cleaning the floor…which is what I was doing just moments ago, before he walked in.

  Or maybe I could actually finish cleaning the f
loor.

  This idea seemed to make the most sense, so that’s what I did.

  Unfortunately, cleaning the floor only took me five more seconds. So when I straightened, I struggled to act normal. I didn’t know what to do or where to look and had abruptly forgotten how to breathe and stand with my arms at my sides. Yet even as a fierce blush lifted to my cheeks, I was determined to make the imminent encounter as benign as possible.

  “Welcome to the Bluesy Bean. What can I get you?” I heard Chelsea say using her husky voice.

  I decided I just needed to go through the motions of normalcy, do what I would normally do. So I picked up the towel I’d been using to mop the floor. I turned and deposited it in the bucket under the sink, then moved to wash my hands.

  “I’ll have a large Americano.” Martin’s voice caused a shiver of awareness to race down my spine. I endeavored to ignore it.

  “Room for cream?”

  “No.”

  I finished washing my hands and turned back to my machine, refilled the espresso grounds, and set the dial. In less than ten seconds I was going to have to reach over and grab his cup and I would be fine. I didn’t know why my heart and brain were freaking out so much.

  “Really? How about sugar?” In my peripheral vision I saw Chelsea leaning on the counter. She often did this to take full advantage of her low-cut top.

  “What? No. No sugar.”

  “Oh. I was just curious how you take your coffee. I like mine sweet and creamy.”

  There was a distinct pause, a thick silence difficult to ignore. It lengthened, grew, then suddenly felt untenable. So I glanced up and found Chelsea watching me, her eyes narrowed in confusion. Then I glanced at Martin. He was watching me, too.

  His stare was pointed, like he’d been watching me for longer than a few seconds and was waiting for me to look at him.

  All at once I felt caught.

  “Oh… Hi, Martin.” My acting skills were pathetic, but I tried my best at genuine surprise. It might have helped that I was feeling a little out of breath.

  “I was hoping you’d be working today.” Still looking at me, he passed Chelsea a twenty.

  Her eyes bounced between us, narrowing more.

  “That’s right, I forgot. I told you I worked here.”

  “Are you going to make my coffee?” He grinned, leaving his twenty on the counter for Chelsea to pick up, and floated closer to where I was mostly hidden by the machines. But I wasn’t really hidden from him because he was so tall. He could easily see over the row of contraptions. Realizing this, I stopped twisting my fingers and reached for a large cup.

  “Yes. I am your barista at this fine establishment. It is my pleasure to make you coffee.” I lamented the fact that, due to my uneasiness, I sounded like an android.

  He must’ve noticed my odd speech pattern too, because he asked, “Do you always talk like that?”

  “Like what? Like Mr. Roboto?”

  “No, like awesome.”

  My lips parted and I blinked at him, his comment catching me completely off guard. When his eyes began to dance and his grin widened, I realized he was using our past to tease me. This might have pissed me off two weeks ago, Martin thinking he had the right to tease me about anything, but the fact that he’d given me his gloves when I was cold and read The Lord of the Rings somehow made his teasing not…bad.

  “You’re weird,” I blabbered unthinkingly and shook my head at him and his bizarre teasing. But I had to twist my lips to the side to keep from returning his contagious smile. “Why are you here, weirdo?”

  He seemed pleased with my name-calling and drifted closer until he was directly in front of me, only the machines between us. “I want to talk to you. Do you have a break soon?”

  “Umm…” I stalled by commencing coffee creation; I flipped the brew switch and moved two doppio cups under the dual espresso dispenser.

  I was way overdue for a break. Chelsea had taken three, and I’d taken one. I glanced at Chelsea, found her watching us with a frown. It wasn’t an angry frown or a sinister frown; rather, it was a the world has ceased making sense frown. Her brain was obviously working overtime trying to figure out how I knew her Chris Pine, aka my Martin Sandeke.

  “S-s-s-sure. Let me finish your Americano and I’ll make myself some tea. Go grab a table.” I tilted my chin to the one by the window, in the center of the café.

  “Good. Will you please bring me a muffin? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  I could only nod and stare at him, again caught off guard by his conversational tone—like we were old friends—as well as the use of the word please. The smile he gave me before he departed was softer, smaller, but somehow more devastating than his others. As I watched him ignore the spot I’d indicated in favor of a very private table in the corner, I mulled over his strange behavior.

  The smiling.

  The teasing.

  The manners.

  The lack of bluntness and demands.

  It was all very disconcerting.

  Disconcerting, distressing, confusing, alarming, perplexing, odd…

  ***

  “You make good coffee.” Martin sipped his hot beverage, his eyes watching me over the rim.

  “Technically I just press the buttons.” I was having difficulty relaxing beneath his gaze, so I fidgeted with my tea cup and spoon.

  “Parker, just take the compliment and say thank you.”

  “I won’t. I won’t take it because I don’t deserve it. The machines make good coffee, as do the bean growers and bean roasters.”

  His face told me he thought I was being ridiculous. “Fine, then you’re an excellent button pusher.”

  “Thank you. I accept the compliment and acknowledge that I excel at pushing buttons.”

  “Especially my buttons.” He paired this with a smirk and an eyebrow lift.

  I huffed, irritated I’d walked right into that verbal trap, and yet reluctantly amused by the word play. “Very funny, Sandeke.”

  His smirk became a smile. Then he laughed and my heart gave a little leap.

  Suddenly, it was nine months ago and we were on a plane headed for the island. I was faced with the heady sight of a happy Martin. It was a reminder that happiness on Martin was a revelation of beauty and physical perfection married to excellent and infectious good-mood vibes.

  But this time I didn’t laugh. My heart felt tender and wary of this Martin, because he was so easy to like. So I crossed my arms over my chest, protecting myself from the onslaught of his magnetic charisma, and waited for his laughter to recede.

  When he saw I wasn’t charmed, his smile faded and he straightened in his seat, clearing his throat as though he were about to speak.

  I spoke first, wanting to get right to the point. “Why are you here? What do you want to talk about?”

  He must’ve read something in my expression, perhaps a hardness in my eyes that told him I was low on patience, because when he spoke next, everything about his demeanor changed.

  His eyes grew sharp, the set of his jaw rigid, and his shoulders leaned back in the chair, making him appear taller, more imposing, and yet relaxed at the same time. Based on this body language and what I knew about power dynamics from watching my mother, I surmised we were about to enter into a negotiation.

  I was quickly proven correct.

  “I want to discuss the terms of our friendship.”

  I stared at him, careful to keep my face devoid of expression, even though I wanted to yell, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

  Instead I said, “What friendship?”

  “The one you promised would always be mine if I ever wanted it, no matter what happened between us.”

  This made me blink several times, succeeded in cracking my calm exterior, but I managed to say in a steady voice, “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am. I’m completely serious. You promised I would always have a safe place with you, and now I want that safe place.”

  This was the Mart
in I remembered. This was the unyielding, demanding, blunt boy that had stolen then broken my heart.

  I gritted my teeth and willed the rising tide of so many different emotions to stay buried. Obviously anger was the first, the strongest to swell in my chest and try to choke me. Again, he must’ve seen something shift or build in my expression because, and to my astonishment, he leaned forward and his austere business façade yielded, his eyes turned beseeching.

  “Listen, I’m not here to take more than you’re willing to offer. Obviously you can tell me to go fuck myself. All I’m asking for is a chance to be your friend. Because, even though things between us didn’t end well, I still trust and respect you more than anyone I’ve ever met. You are,” he paused, gathered a deep breath, his gaze searching as it skated over my face, “Kaitlyn, you are incredibly honorable, and reasonable, and good. I could really use your advice. I could really use some honorable and good in my life.”

  “But not reason?” I questioned, stalling, not sure what to make of this impassioned speech.

  “No. I have plenty of reason. But without honor and goodness, reason isn’t worth much.”

  My lips parted in surprise and I felt my mask of indifference slip at his shockingly wise words. He looked earnest and focused and I knew I was already teetering on the edge of acceptance.

  But the acrid taste of past heartbreak and the bitterness of his previous betrayal held me back, keeping my altruistic instincts from taking over.

  And something else, something petty and entirely based on vanity.

  When we had this conversation in the past, at the cottage on the island, he’d told me at the time that he could never be indifferent enough to be my friend. That he would always want me too fiercely to settle for just friendship.

  If he wanted to be friends now, that could only mean he’d become indifferent to me. He didn’t want me anymore. And that made my vain, selfish heart hurt. This realization stung, because I couldn’t imagine being able to achieve the same indifference toward him.

  “You don’t have to answer me now.” His gaze and tone were steady, sensible.

  I wanted to tell him he’d hurt me too deeply, that this newfound indifference toward me that allowed him to ask for friendship was hurting me now. But I couldn’t. Because that would be giving him the knowledge he still had power over my feelings.