Elements of Chemistry: Capture Page 7

  I began shaking my head halfway through her second question. “No. Never.”

  “Hmm…” she sat back in her chair and inspected me, then pressed, “And you’re sure you like guys?”

  My mouth fell open in startled outrage and I leaned forward to loudly whisper, “Sam, just because I’m not a girly-girl doesn’t mean that I…that I’m—”

  “That you prefer mares to stallions, I get it. I just don’t understand it. I always thought you wanted to dress that way because you didn’t like attention.”

  “What way?”

  “You know, frumpy.”

  “I dress frumpy?”

  “Kind of, actually, yes. Yes, you dress frumpy… frumpily… whatever.”

  “Because I don’t wear form-fitting clothing or clothes that bare my skin and highlight my body?”

  “Kaitlyn,” she gave me an oh, come on look, then continued, “baggy, shapeless clothes that cover your body is the definition of dressing frumpish. Hell, your tuxedo for work makes you look hot in comparison, as at least it shows off your ass.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but then realized she was right. Baggy T-shirts, oversized jeans with the cuff cut off…on most days I dressed frumpily.

  Do I want to dress frumpily? Should I even care? What is wrong with me that I never realized I dress like a frump?

  As if seeing my internal struggle, Sam quickly added, “If you want to dress in baggy clothes then dress in baggy clothes. If you like it, then to hell with what everyone else thinks, including me.”

  “But, I don’t… I mean…I—”

  “Ladies? Are you ready to order?” Our waitress chose that moment to return to the table, giving me a brief reprieve from trying to verbally untangle my thoughts.

  “I’ll have the lasagna and she’ll have the lobster ravioli.” Sam picked up both of our menus and handed them to the server. I usually didn’t mind that she ordered for me, because I always ordered the same thing.

  But for some reason, this time I was incredibly irritated by her assumption I would order the ravioli. What if I wanted the steak? Or a salad?

  “Actually,” I interjected, giving the waitress an apologetic smile, “I’ll have the duck ziti.”

  Our server nodded, like it was no big deal, then left us to our discussion.

  Sam lifted an eyebrow at me as she raised her water glass to her lips, saying before sipping, “The duck ziti, eh?”

  I nodded firmly. “That’s right. The duck ziti.”

  “Not the lobster ravioli?”

  “No. I’m tired of lobster ravioli.”

  She studied me for a long moment, replacing her glass, crossing her arms, and narrowing her eyes. I mimicked her stance and her glare.

  “That’s fine. Don’t get the lobster ravioli if you don’t want it. Try duck ziti, try the steak.”

  “I will.”

  “But just know, no matter what you order and no matter what you eat, it’s your decision. If you want the lobster ravioli every day for the rest of your life, there is nothing wrong with that. Don’t change your order just because you think you’re supposed to, because society tells you it’s weird to order the same thing every time. You have to live with your entrée, not society, not me. You.”

  “But how will I know whether I like the duck ziti if I don’t try it?”

  She paused, considering me, her mouth a flat, thoughtful line. Then she sighed, saying, “I guess you won’t. I guess you do have to try the ziti. I just don’t want you feeling pressure to change, because you’re pretty awesome just how you are. It would make me sad if you started ordering steak when you really want ravioli.”

  “This analogy has officially gone too far. We both know we’re talking about my tendency to hide. It doesn’t matter if it’s a closet or it’s baggy clothes. I can’t keep hiding from new things.”

  “But, you’re not. Look at you, you’re all dressed up. You have your eyebrows professionally waxed and shaped. You’re in a band. You’re a singing barista. You try new things.”

  “Yes. At a snail’s pace I try new things. When I feel completely safe, I try new things. When I’m with you, I try new things.” I gave her a small smile, leaned forward, and put my hand on the table, palm up. She fit hers inside mine and returned my grin.

  “Sam, you’re a good friend. I want to try new things, even when those things don’t feel entirely safe. I want to try new things before I’m even certain I want to try those new things. It’s time for me to take some risks.”

  “You’re not talking about drugs, are you? Because, smack is whack.”

  I laughed and rolled my eyes. “No. I’m talking about buying a T-shirt that fits. Maybe a new dress, so I don’t have to keep borrowing yours.”

  What I didn’t add, because I hadn’t yet told her about seeing Martin at the coffee shop, was that trying new things also included agreeing to a friendship with Martin Sandeke.

  ***

  The next morning Sam was out of the apartment.

  Even so, I shut the door to my room in order to achieve maximum privacy. I was going to call Martin.

  I’d thought about making the call from the bathroom, just in case Sam came home unexpectedly, but I decided that was taking things a bit too far.

  I gathered several deep breaths as I psyched myself up. Then, feeling an odd surge of courage, I grabbed my phone, tapped in his number, and lifted the cell to my ear.

  It rang three times.

  I was trying to figure out whether or not I should leave a voicemail—should it come to that—when it was answered.

  “Hello?” asked a female voice on the other end.

  I frowned, glancing at the card he’d given me, wondering if I had the wrong number or if I’d been given his PA’s phone number instead.

  “Hi. Hello, um—I’m sorry. I think I might have the wrong number. I’m calling for Martin Sandeke.”

  “No. You have the right number.” Her accent was British.

  “Oh. Okay. Is this his PA?”

  “No. This is Emma Cromwell, his partner. Who is this?”

  Partner. Partner? Oh! …partner. Well, barnacles.

  I closed my eyes and released a silent sigh, felt my stomach fall painfully to my feet. I sat on my bed and cleared my throat before responding, “I’m…Parker.”

  “Kaitlyn Parker?” It might have been my imagination, but she sounded a little irritated by this news.

  Which meant she knew who I was. That was just lovely. Now I felt like an evil usurper. Here I was, the ex-girlfriend, calling her Martin. I was pretty sure that if I were in a committed relationship, I wouldn’t want my boyfriend’s ex calling him.

  How did I even get here?

  I nodded, then realized she couldn’t see me, so I said, “Yes. Kaitlyn Parker. If now is a bad time, you can just have him call me later. But no rush.”

  “He’s just getting out of the shower, so I’ll have him call you back when he’s not busy.”

  I nodded again, my heart joining my stomach, beyond my feet, falling down to the center of the earth. “Sure. Like I said, no rush.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Goodbye.”

  “Good—” I didn’t get to say ’bye, because she’d already ended the call.

  ***

  I was coming to recognize I was probably still very much in love with Martin. Maybe I always would be. This thought made me want to cry, but I didn’t.

  Instead I decided to go shopping because I had Christmas presents to buy. If there was one thing I’d learned over the last nine months it was the importance of going through the motions. Sam called this: Fake it ’til you make it.

  This last week leading up to the big holiday was going to be crazy busy. We had two or three gigs a day, starting tomorrow. Last minute office parties, hotel feature events, themed weddings, and holiday brunches. As they were in New York, I was planning to stay in the city for the week with Janet (my bandmate) and two of her friends.

  I was an efficient shopper, mostly because I’d al
ways been ambivalent to shopping. I quickly grabbed the items on my list and was finished, ready to head back to the apartment after two short hours. But for the first time in perhaps my entire life, I didn’t want to go back to the apartment and be alone. So I window-shopped for a bit.

  Strangely, window shopping turned into store buying, and after another two hours I was back at the apartment with three new pairs of women’s jeans, several fitted but delightfully nerdy tops, four matching bra and panty sets—because they were on super sale—and two new pairs of shoes. I also bought myself some cozy socks with Abraham Lincoln on the calves, because he was my second favorite president.

  Once home, I unpacked then repacked my bag, deciding to take some of my new stuff with me, then went to the kitchen in search of hot chocolate.

  That’s when my phone rang. I didn’t look at the number before answering because I was still thinking about how much I’d enjoyed my morning. I was floating in my new-clothes-euphoria.

  “Hello?”

  “Kaitlyn?”

  Aaaand…now I was crashing back down to earth.

  “Hi, Martin.” I endeavored to ignore the familiar ache in my chest.

  “I hoped this might be your number. You called earlier? You should have left a message.”

  This gave me pause, but then I started speaking and thinking at the same time. “I did leave a message.”

  “Really? I didn’t get a voicemail.”

  “No, I left a message with your…” I tripped over the word, but then forced myself to say it. I knew it was better to rip the bandage off than to try to peel it back slowly. “I left a message with your girlfriend.”

  He was silent for a beat, then asked, “My girlfriend?”

  “Emma.”

  “Emma? No. No, no, no. Emma is not my girlfriend. She’s my partner.”

  “Partner, girlfriend, significant other, sensei—whatever.”

  “No, Kaitlyn.” I heard him laugh lightly, like he was both relieved and anxious. “Emma is my business partner. We’ve never…we’re not like that.”

  This gave me pause. I was fairly certain Emma had sounded irritated on the phone earlier when she’d discovered my name. Perhaps I’d been imagining it.

  “Anyway, you called?”

  “Yes. I did. I called.” I glanced around the kitchen as though it might help me figure out what to say next. My mind hadn’t quite reconciled the fact that Emma wasn’t his girlfriend; my heart and stomach were looking to me for direction on whether to soar or switch places, and I had none to offer.

  Should I feel happy? Relieved? Ambivalent? Unsurprisingly, the kitchen offered no guidance.

  I must’ve been quiet for too long, because Martin asked, “Are you still there?”

  “Yes. Sorry, I’m here. Yes, I called. I wanted to talk to you about the terms of our friendship.”

  “Our friendship?” I heard the smile in his voice.

  “Yes. I was thinking, you and I…I mean, even though we only spent a week together, I feel like—on some level—we became friends. And I liked our friendship, I liked you.” I closed my eyes, winced, and covered my face with my hand, feeling mortified and glad he couldn’t see the monster blush creeping up my neck.

  “I liked you”…really? You are so bad at this.

  But then Martin surprised me by saying, “I liked you, too. If you remember, I liked you a lot.”

  This made me laugh my relief, pleased I wasn’t the only one risking part of myself and my pride.

  I answered quietly, “Yes. I remember.” Now I was blushing for an entirely different reason.

  “So, terms?” He prompted, “What days of the week do I get custody? And for how long?”

  “Custody?”

  “When do I get to see you?”

  “Martin, we don’t need a schedule. If you want to see me or talk to me, just call me.”

  “What about today?”

  Again I glanced around the kitchen; it had no advice to offer.

  I sputtered, “Uh…well…I guess…sure. If you have the time. I’m heading up to where you are in a little bit, as we have a show in the city tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll take you out to dinner tonight.”

  Going out to dinner felt too much like a date. I didn’t think I was ready for anything that my heart might misconstrue and pin hopes upon.

  “Or we could meet at the MET and grab a bite there.” The cafeteria at the Metropolitan Museum of Art had great food and was extremely public. Plus, it felt like a neutral spot, like something platonic friends would do together.

  He was quiet for a few seconds and I could almost hear him thinking. Finally he acquiesced, “Sure. That’s fine. Where are you staying tonight?”

  “In Brooklyn, with my bandmate, Janet, and a few of her friends. We’re actually staying there all week. I have, like, three shows every day this week.”

  “You’re not going home for Christmas?”

  “No. I went home for Thanksgiving. Plus the Christmas season is a very lucrative week for the band. I promised Willis I’d be available.”

  “Willis?”

  “My boss.”

  I heard the creak of leather, like he was shifting in his seat, and when he spoke his words sounded measured, carefully casual. “You could stay with me, if you wanted. I have plenty of room and I’m in Manhattan.”

  My heart sped up at the offer. Hmm, let me see. Spend a week with Martin on an island. Why did that sound so familiar and hazardous? It actually sounded amazing, at least my pants thought so…but also like a really, really terrible idea.

  “No, thank you. I wouldn’t want to soil your linens.” I was pleased to hear him laugh at this while I continued, “But that’s really nice of you to offer.”

  “I’ll pick you up from the station.”

  “No need. Janet and I are riding over together, then we’re dropping our stuff off in Brooklyn. I’ll take the subway to the MET and meet you there for food.”

  “The offer still stands.” I could tell he was grinning. “Feel free to stay with me anytime.”

  I realized I was grinning too, like a love-sick goof.

  And I also realized that this, a friendship with Martin, was either going to help me get over him and be my best idea of all time, or I was going to fall even harder and it was the worst mistake I would ever make.

  CHAPTER 5

  Phase Changes and Heating Curves

  Turns out my worst idea ever of all time was deciding to stay with Janet and her twin, aspiring actor friends.

  As soon as we walked in the door I knew something was amiss, mostly because of all the drug paraphernalia scattered around stinking up the studio—including, but not limited to bongs, bags of weed, bent and burnt spoons, lighters, syringes, and what I was fairly certain was the hydrochloride salt form of heroin.

  One of the twins was passed out on the couch. The other was on the floor, shooting up.

  I paused in the doorway just long enough to absorb the general splendor of these idiots ruining their lives before turning around and marching back down the last flight of stairs we’d just hiked up.

  “Katy, wait. Where are you going?” Janet called after me, but did not follow.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “But—wait, wait a minute.” Now she was following me. I’d made it to the second landing before I felt her hand on my arm making me stop. “What do you mean you’re leaving?”

  I faced her, my eyes darting back to the open door, her bags still in the entry. “Just that. I’m leaving. I’m not staying with druggies.”

  Her lip curled as her eyes moved up and down, as though she were seeing me for the first time. “Is this because your mother is a politician? Are you afraid of ruining her rep? Or are you just being stuck up?”

  “I guess I’m just being stuck up. This has nothing to do with my mother. Even if my mother were a singing barista, I wouldn’t spend one second more in that apartment. I don’t like drugs. I don’t want to have anything to do wi
th them.”

  “Come on, they’re not bad guys.” Her expression softened and she smiled warmly. “Come back—we’ll order a pizza and ignore them.”

  I shook my head before she finished speaking. “No. It’s one of my life rules. I have no tolerance for drugs or for people who do drugs.”

  “Does that mean you have no tolerance for me?” Janet stood straighter, her chin lifted in challenge.

  “Do you do drugs?”

  “Hell yes.”

  I shrugged. “Then I guess you have your answer.”

  Her mouth opened in shock and I took advantage of her momentary stunned surprise to walk down another two flights of stairs.

  I heard her call after me just before I exited the building, “Good luck finding a place to stay the week before Christmas, every place is booked. And don’t come back here with your judgmental bullshit!”

  The door slammed behind me, cutting off any additional tirade she might be flinging in my direction. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with icy air, and reminded myself, just because I don’t feel calm, doesn’t mean I can’t be calm.

  I walked toward the subway station, holding my sleeping bag to my chest and shifting the weight of my backpack. Even though I’d packed relatively light, the bag was still heavy. Janet was right. Finding a place to stay for the night was going to be nearly impossible, especially a place I could afford.

  I basically had two options.

  I could call my parents and ask them if I could borrow money for a hotel room. I really, really didn’t want to do that.

  I wasn’t going to live my life having my mother and father support my little hobby. It wasn’t a hobby to me. I wanted to be treated like an adult. I was making my own decisions about my future, I should be able to make my own way. I would accept their help with tuition, but then I promised myself I would be on my own in all other facets of my life.

  The second option was catching a train back home tonight, then catching another train back to the city early in the morning. This wasn’t a great option either since it was going to be incredibly expensive to take the train back and forth every day, not to mention exhausting.