Elements of Chemistry: Capture Read online

  Debating my options, and knowing ultimately I really only had one option if I wanted to be truly self-sufficient, I took the subway back to Grand Central Station.

  Once I was no longer underground, I texted Martin.

  Kaitlyn: Sorry. I have to cancel our MET meet up. I’m not staying in the city and need to try to catch a train back home before they’re all sold out. Maybe next time.

  I was standing in front of the departures board when I felt my phone vibrate, alerting me to his response.

  Martin: Are you already in the city?

  Kaitlyn: Yes, but my arrangements fell through, so I’m going back home.

  Martin: Don’t go. Stay with me.

  I stared at this message for a full minute, my heart accelerating then dipping then twisting as I thought about this potential solution I hadn’t considered. Earlier, from the comfort of my living room in New Haven, this suggestion had seemed ludicrous. Now, faced with the reality of a train ride back home and another in the morning, this idea felt a lot more plausible. We were friends after all.

  Maybe I was staring for longer than a minute because Martin texted again.

  Martin: I’m hardly ever at my place. You’d basically have the apartment to yourself.

  I felt like this last message was an unbreakable code…

  If he was hardly ever there, did this mean he had a girlfriend? Emma the business partner wasn’t his girlfriend, but he didn’t deny having a girlfriend. What about the brunette at the gig last week? Maybe she was his girlfriend.

  Did he spend the night at this theoretical woman’s place all the time?

  Could I be any more psycho and weird about Martin Sandeke?

  Feeling like I needed to know for certain whether he had a girlfriend before I agreed to spend a night in his apartment, I debated how to respond to his latest text.

  If he had a girlfriend then I was leaving for home tonight and the answer was a firm no. I didn’t want to see him with anyone else…ever. As well, how fair would it be to this hypothetical girlfriend if I was lusting after her boyfriend for a week while in his apartment? It wouldn’t be fair at all, and it was against the cool-girl code.

  But I felt strange about texting him and asking him, so I tried to cleverly extract the information instead.

  Kaitlyn: Does this mean you’re a workaholic or is your social calendar just impressively full of hot dates?

  Martin: A workaholic. My social calendar is mostly work stuff.

  Kaitlyn: So, you’re out late only because of work?

  Martin: Usually.

  Kaitlyn: Any other reason?

  There was a significant pause in his text messages. I waited, watching the clock on my phone. I was about to do a google search for “Martin Sandeke girlfriend” just to put myself out of my misery when he finally responded.

  Martin: Are you more or less likely to stay the week if I have a girlfriend? Because I can get one if I need to.

  Once again I was staring at my phone, surprised by his text. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. Martin had nerves of steel and balls of titanium. Before I could text him back, he sent another message.

  Martin: There is no one. Stay with me. It’ll be the most exciting thing that’s happened since I bought a PS4.

  He didn’t have a girlfriend…!

  I couldn’t help myself, I did a jig, right there in front of the departures board at Grand Central Station. It was an instinctual, involuntary jig.

  After the fact, I recognized I did a jig for no reason because nothing was ever going to happen between us again. He’d had his revenge on his father. He existed in his universe of one. He’d moved on. And I wasn’t likely to trust him enough to let anything happen. Regardless, the fact he was single felt like a victory, so I did my jig.

  I read his message again and my attention caught on the very last part.

  Kaitlyn: Wait, you have a PS4?

  Martin: Yes.

  Kaitlyn: Do you have any Lord of the Rings games?

  Martin: Yes. Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor.

  Kaitlyn: What’s your address? I’m on my way.

  ***

  Martin lived in the Upper West Side. Finding his building was no big deal and was basically a relatively short subway ride with one transfer. When I arrived, the doorman seemed to be expecting me because he greeted me as Ms. Parker and ushered me into the lobby to the desk of a friendly concierge. Her name was Mae and she was extremely cheerful.

  “Aren’t you lovely, dear? Mr. Sandeke called ahead and said we should be expecting you. I’ll show you up to his apartment.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind waiting until he gets home.”

  “Nonsense, dear. He was particular about you going up right away. Besides, who knows when he’ll be home?” She leaned close to me as we boarded the elevator and whispered, “He keeps odd hours, so you might be waiting until midnight.”

  Martin lived on the sixth floor and his place was at the very, very end of a long hallway. Mae made chitchat the entire time and, to be honest, I had no idea what she was talking about. Staying with Martin when I was tired, hungry, and stranded seemed like a reasonable alternative to catching trains daily back and forth between New York and New Haven.

  Now, faced with the reality of Martin’s apartment, I was beginning to question my judgment. I wondered if I should add a new life rule: never stay at an ex-boyfriend’s place.

  Mae unfastened the lock and opened the door, practically pushing me inside when I loitered a little too long at the entrance. However, she did not enter the apartment. I took a few stumbling steps into the space and greedily absorbed the surroundings.

  The first thing I noticed was that Martin’s apartment was not ostentatious, at all. Other than its size, the impressive view of Central Park, and the fact he had an actual patio with chairs and a table—currently covered in snow—everything else was rather modest. And cozy. And homey.

  The visible walls were plain white, but mostly the room was lined with honey-colored wooden bookshelves, all of which were full of books. He had a worn-looking, dark brown leather sofa in the center of the living room, two matching club chairs in the same leather, a Shaker-style coffee table, and an antique looking drafting table in the corner; it was covered in papers with sketches tacked to a corkboard to one side.

  He also had a stone fireplace; the hearth was free of decoration, but a large painting of an eight-person crew boat done in a Norman Rockwell style hung above the mantel. It was the only art or picture I could see. The living room looked like a comfy library.

  “Okey dokey. You’re all set.” Peripherally I heard Mae call to me just before the apartment door clicked shut. I turned around and found that she’d gone, leaving me alone in Martin’s home.

  My back twinged and I was reminded of the heavy backpack I’d been carrying for the last few hours. Sighing, I placed my sleeping bag on the couch and relieved myself of my luggage, letting it fall to the sofa as well. Then I realized I needed to relieve myself of…other things.

  I decided I wasn’t going to feel weird about invading Martin’s space since I’d been invited, and set off to find the bathroom. The first door I opened was to a very tidy, very large bedroom. The walls were white and within was a bed with no headboard or footboard. The comforter was sky blue. The side table and dresser were a distressed, Shaker style. If I didn’t recognize the craftsmanship of the woodwork, I would’ve assumed they’d been purchased at a garage sale. Both were completely bare of stuff. This was obviously a guest bedroom.

  The next door was to a closet with sheets, blankets, pillows, and towels, or as I would call them later in order to tease Martin, linens. I checked to see if his towels were monogrammed. They were. I smirked.

  The next door was to a bathroom. I flipped on the light and sucked in a surprised and delighted breath. The bathroom was very vintage and very cool. The tilework was checked black and white, a pedestal sink stood to one side, and the nobs appeared to be antique porcelain.

  T
he shower was a stall with a glass door and the toilet looked old and new at the same time. Perhaps it was a reproduction of antique-style toilets. I had to pull a chain hanging from a ceramic box in order to flush it, which I honestly thought was exciting.

  I would have to make a special effort to keep from flushing the toilet for no reason.

  But like the bedroom, it was entirely free of clutter. The only items in the bathroom other than the fixtures were two white towels, toilet paper, a soap dispenser, and an empty trashcan.

  I walked back to the living room and decided to send him a text, let him know I made it.

  Kaitlyn: I am texting from inside your apartment.

  Martin: Are you going through my things?

  Kaitlyn: Yes. And I’ve soiled all your linens.

  Martin: Just stay away from my fancy watches.

  His last message made me laugh, and then I caught myself. Texting back and forth with Martin was fun. It made me remember conversations we’d had during spring break, the quick exchanges, the teasing. The messages reminded me of how easy and right it had felt between us.

  My phone vibrated again and I had to blink several times to bring the screen into focus.

  Martin: I’m almost home and I have pizza. Your room is the first left down the hall. Get comfortable.

  My heart sped at the thought of seeing him so soon and I told it to calm the frack down.

  We were friends now. If I was going to be seeing him I was going to have to learn to control my body’s reaction. I was going to have to learn how to become indifferent. That meant no more celebratory jigs and no more heart races.

  Lugging my backpack from the couch to the sparsely decorated room I’d spied earlier, I unpacked. While hanging my tuxedo in the empty closet—which was strange to see, who has empty closets?—I walked by a mirror and caught my reflection. My hair was in two thick, long braids on either side of my head. I was wearing an extra-large men’s concert T-shirt, a very baggy pair of cargo pants, and Converse. This outfit was great for travel because it was comfortable and I didn’t care if it became dirty.

  But it was undoubtedly frumpy. I did not like how I looked in it.

  I decided to change into one of the outfits I’d bought earlier: a dark pair of (women’s) jeans, a fitted long-sleeved, red and white rugby-style shirt with Avogadro's number on the back. I thought this was hilarious.

  The lady at the store didn’t know what Avogadro's number was, but she told me I wasn’t supposed to button the placket at the collar because it was meant to be a deep V-neck; she said that leaving it open would highlight my cleavage, that it was sexy.

  I glanced down at my chest, saw that just the edge of my black bra was visible. I decided leaving it unbuttoned was, indeed, sexy. However, I also decided that buttoning just one button would make me more comfortable, so I did. Glancing in the mirror I assessed myself. I was comfortable, but I was not frumpy; I also felt good about how I looked instead of merely ambivalent. I liked that I could incorporate my inherent nerdiness into my new style. I liked it all.

  I’d just started pulling my hair out of the braids when I heard the front door open.

  My heart wanted to race like a contestant at the Kentucky Derby, but I yanked it back, taking several deep breaths. All of the floors in the apartment were wood and creaked, so I could hear Martin’s steps as he moved through the apartment. Satisfied I wasn’t going to act like a spazz, I walked calmly into the living room while I pulled my fingers through my hair.

  “Hey,” I called, searching for him, “what kind of pizza did you get?”

  “Who are you?”

  I turned toward the sound of the voice—a British female voice—and found a beautiful woman dressed in an expensive black skirt suit, black high-heeled boots, and long wheat-colored hair, glowering at me.

  “Oh, hi. I’m Kaitlyn. You must be Emma. We spoke on the phone earlier.” I reached my hand out to shake hers.

  She glanced at my fingers like she was a vegan and they were greasy pork sausages. She didn’t shake my hand.

  “How did you get in here?” Her irritation was obvious, and not just because she wouldn’t shake my hand. It dripped off her…she was leaking ire.

  I let my hand drop and shrugged. “Through the front door.”

  She gnashed her teeth. “Who let you in? Why are you here?” She was practically snarling.

  “Whoa, just, calm down for a moment. There’s no reason to be upset.”

  “I’m not upset!” She yelled this.

  I widened my eyes and took a step back, holding my hands up between us. “Okay, my bad. You’re not upset. You always walk into other people’s apartments and yell at their guests. This must be a normal Tuesday for you.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her lip curled into something like a snarl. “You are a dimwitted—”

  And, thankfully, Martin chose that moment to walk in the door. “Emma? What the hell?”

  We both turned our faces to him as he swept into the living room and deposited a large pizza box and a plastic bag on a table behind the sofa, then quickly crossed to stand next to me.

  As usual, he was more than just a tall good-looking guy. He was a presence. A swirling, atmosphere changing force, a magnetized center of attention—or at least he was to me. I felt my heart do a few jumping jacks and I told it to sit still.

  Emma took a step back as he approached. She swallowed, looking just a tad worried, and crossed her arms over her chest. I noted she was good at masking her nerves as she lifted her chin in a stubborn tilt.

  “Really, Martin? Really? You think this is a good idea?”

  “Emma.” He shook his head, his jaw set, and his eyes flashed a warning. “It’s none of your business.”

  “Your business is my business, and she is bad for my business.” Emma indicated to me with a furious wave of her hand.

  Well, this was awkward. I thought about slowly backing away. To that end, I furtively glanced behind me to see how successful I might be sneaking out of the room without either of them noticing.

  “You’re going, now. And leave the key.” Martin’s tone was low, monotone. Yes, he appeared to be angry; more than that he appeared to be disappointed.

  “If I don’t have a key, how am I supposed to pick up your planning documents for the foundation? How about your sketches?”

  She said sketches like most people say poop. I surmised she was not a fan of his sketches.

  “We’re not talking about this now because you’re leaving.”

  Her brow pulled low and she hesitated for a bit, searching his face before asking, “Does she even know what you did for her? What you gave up? Did you tell her? Is that why she’s here?”

  I turned my attention back to the argument, and again my eyes widened. I stared at Emma, really looked at her, and I realized she wasn’t jealous, not in a love interest, girl longing for a guy kind of way. Rather, she was extremely frustrated—and definitely jealous—but for a different reason.

  Martin drew himself straighter, his face stone and his eyes unyielding icicles. “You need to leave before I sever our partnership, because we’ve already had this discussion, you’re too fucking stubborn to listen, and now you’re really pissing me off.” He was furious and his voice was beginning to lift. I remembered facing his temper and I could see he was close to losing it now.

  Emma coolly studied him for a long moment. “Fine. I’ll leave.” She reached into the satchel slung over her shoulder and pulled out a ring of two keys. “Here is your key.” She held it to him and he took it out of her hand.

  Her eyes slid to mine and her gaze narrowed as she spat, “You are selfish. But worse, you are naïve and ignorant and stupidly obstinate—just like your mother.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but it didn’t matter because she’d already turned on her heel and marched out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

  Martin and I stood perfectly still for several seconds. I was trying to wrap my mind around everyt
hing that had just happened and the odd verbal exchange I’d witnessed. I arranged my questions in order from most pressing to simple curiosities, and turned to Martin to gauge his mood.

  His mouth was curved into a decisive frown and he was staring at the spot where Emma had just been standing.

  I gathered a deep breath, preparing to pose the first of my questions, when he turned toward me. His eyes, how they moved over me, made my breath and words catch in my throat.

  “You look different,” Martin said, his attention on my hips, moving to my thighs then back up to my stomach, breasts, neck, lips, then hair. If I wasn’t mistaken, he looked appreciative of the changes in my wardrobe. “What’s different about you?” This question was softly spoken and teasing.

  I shrugged, pretending I didn’t know what he was talking about. “I don’t know. I’m using a different moisturizer for my face now.”

  His gaze met mine and narrowed. “That’s not it.”

  “I switched from Crest to Colgate.” I showed him my teeth.

  “No.” He smirked.

  “My hair is longer.”

  “Maybe…”

  I lifted an eyebrow at him and wondered if he were stalling, trying to distract me from the issues at hand—such as Emma’s mention of me being the reason Martin had given up…something big.

  “Why don’t you tell me what your business partner meant when she said—”

  Martin turned away, drawing his heavy coat from his shoulders. “Can we not talk about that tonight? Can we just…” I heard him sigh, “can we just hang out?”

  “I don’t think so. I won’t be able to focus on anything else until you tell me what’s going on.”

  My eyes moved over him as he walked to the entryway closet and hung up his coat. This left him in an exceptionally well-tailored, dark gray, three-piece suit. His tie was cobalt blue and matched his current eye color.

  “Kaitlyn,” Martin paused, facing me, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his crisp business shirt, “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day.”