Love According to Science

by Kingsley, Claire

  “I didn’t mean penguin.”

  “Well, you said it.”

  “I took it back.”

  I breathed out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, grizzly bear or lion, then. The point is, when a person asks for your favorite animal, they’re using that information to make inferences about your personality.”

  “So what does it say about you that you don’t have a favorite?”

  “We’re not talking about me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re talking about you. And penguins.”

  “Not penguins.” He held up a finger. “And I know exactly what it says about you that you don’t have a favorite.”

  I crossed my arms and he paused for a beat, his mouth still open.

  Wait, did he just look at my boobs?

  Keeping my arms crossed, I lifted them slightly so they pushed my breasts up.

  “What does it say?” I asked.

  “What does what say?”

  Oh my god, was it working? Was he distracted by my boobs? Maybe he was thinking about the way they’d feel in his hand, my nipples hardening at his touch.

  My cheeks flushed with warmth and a rush of arousal hit me between the legs. No, this was all wrong. I was distracting myself. That wasn’t how this was supposed to work.

  His tongue slid out along his lower lip and for a second, all I could think about was what it would feel like to have his tongue on me, gently lapping my sensitive nipples.

  Oh no, he was doing it again.

  Distracted by Corban sex fantasies? What was I thinking? I didn’t even like him.

  I needed to get my mind back on track. “What does my lack of a favorite animal say about my personality?”

  “That you don’t like being labeled.”

  I pressed my lips together. That was an insightful answer. But I didn’t like the idea that I’d given something away. Not to him.

  “Well, I know what it means that you said penguin, then quickly changed your mind. You’re concerned about how others perceive you and are afraid of appearing weak.”

  He crossed his arms. “That’s fascinating, but wrong. I’m not weak, so I’m not afraid of people thinking I am.”

  It was true, he didn’t appear weak in the slightest. Certainly not physically. His wide shoulders, broad chest, and muscular arms indicated strength. And I had to admit, he’d displayed strength of character as well. He’d risked—and received—criticism for his research, yet stuck to his principles.

  I didn’t want to be impressed with him, so I decided that meant he was just stubborn.

  It was possible I was still being irrational. But I wasn’t in the mood to admit it.

  “I have to go.” I started gathering my things.

  “So do I.”

  “Good.”

  He hesitated for a second. “Good.”

  Keeping my lips pressed firmly together, I watched him turn and walk away. He was so aggravating. How was I supposed to work like this?

  For a second, I thought about complaining to Elliott. But I was rational enough to realize that would not only make things worse, but risk my own reputation in the department. Tell Elliott what? He already knew how I felt about Corban’s theory. Harping on that topic would be petty. And what else could I say? That Corban annoyed me? That I hated the way his unkempt shirt and careless hair were so frustratingly cute?

  No. I had to be the bigger person. Yes, he’d put my lunch in the freezer as some sort of childish revenge prank. And yes, I’d succumbed to the temptation to retaliate using my friends’ provocative suggestions. But one of us had to deescalate the situation, otherwise this was going to become a hostile working environment for both of us.

  I’d simply have to ignore him. That was the only logical solution. I’d be polite when necessary, but otherwise, I wouldn’t engage. He would do his work, and I would do mine. Separately. It was the only way.

  7

  Hazel

  “Occam’s Razor is the scientific principle that, all things being equal, the simplest explanation is always the dog ate my homework.” ~ Greg Tamblyn

  “Excuse me?” I asked, tilting my head to one side.

  “I need you and Corban to work together,” Elliott said.

  The three of us sat at a small table in a corner of Elliott’s office. His desk was strewn with files and books, and a slideshow of his wife and three kids faded in and out on his computer screen. The table was bare except for a short stack of blue folders and my crisp white notepad and pen. Which I probably should have been using to take notes, but my boss had just rendered me unable to move. Or speak a coherent sentence.

  His words took their time crawling through my brain, like a line of garden snails climbing up the side of a wall, leaving a trail of slime in their wake. Had he just said work together? Together with Corban?

  Oh no. This would not do.

  “Is that a problem?” Elliott asked, his dark brow furrowing deeply.

  “No,” Corban said.

  A flash of irritation roused me from my stupor. I didn’t need him to answer for me. “Not a problem at all. I just wanted to be certain I’d heard you correctly.” I stuck a finger in my ear and wiggled it. “I’ve been experiencing a bit of fuzziness in this ear. If it persists, I’ll be sure to check with my physician.”

  “It could be allergies,” Corban said. “Do you have any pets at home? Oh wait, never mind, you already said you’re not a fan of animals.”

  “I said no such thing. And yes, I do. I have a cat.”

  “Maybe you’re allergic.”

  “I’m not allergic to my cat.”

  Elliott pushed a folder toward each of us. “Copies of the study abstract, introduction, and proposed methodology. There’s also a reference list of other labs doing motion capture studies.”

  The motion capture lab. My breath caught in my throat as I flipped through the brief. One of the reasons I’d taken this job was the potential for doing motion capture research. The technology had gone far beyond creating special effects in movies. Psychology labs were using it in studies that involved motion and use of space. Elliott’s proposed study would explore nonverbal behaviors such as mirroring and synchronizing and the effect on both communication patterns and perception.

  It was fascinating.

  I wanted to work on this study. But with Corban?

  “Are you sure we’re the best people to work on this?” Corban asked.

  My spine went stiff and I whipped my head toward him. “Why wouldn’t we be the best people to work on this?”

  “Of course you are,” Elliott said. “I know you’re both new to our department, but this will give you a chance to dive in headfirst. And as much as I’d love to devote more time to it, I have too many other things on my plate. My wife will kill me if I start working twelve-hour days again.”

  I felt a tingle of relief, realizing Elliott thought our trepidation was due to the fact that we were both new here. It was a logical reason, and I was happy to let Elliott keep thinking it. The rational grown-up inside me didn’t want to have to explain to my boss that the thought of working closely with Corban made me feel like the blood in my veins had been replaced with lava.

  Corban raked his fingers through his hair. “Okay.”

  Did he have to act so miserable about it? Was working with me the worst thing that had ever happened to him? Of course, I wasn’t showing any enthusiasm either.

  Still, it stung, even though I knew very well that it shouldn’t.

  “All right,” I said. “When do we get started?”

  “Immediately,” Elliott said with a satisfied smile and opened his folder. “Let’s go over the details.”

  * * *

  My arm ached from creaming butter and sugar. I had a stand mixer, but I’d opted for some old-fashioned elbow grease. I made a mental note to research the etymology of the expression elbow grease. It was an odd turn of phrase when I thought about it, one I surmised had its origins in agriculture or perhap
s the Industrial Revolution.

  With my large glass mixing bowl braced in the crook of my right arm, I stirred furiously with my left, whipping the soft butter and sugar into a smooth mixture.

  The oven beeped, letting me know it had finished preheating. Erwin twitched his ears at the noise, lifting his face and blinking his green eyes at me.

  “It’s just the oven,” I said, still stirring.

  Erwin lifted a single gray paw and licked between his claws a few times. He sat on the floor just outside the entrance to the kitchen, where carpet met linoleum. He only came into the kitchen to eat—or to escape capture—seeming to prefer the softness of the rug. His long gray fur spread out around him, making him appear larger than he was.

  Glancing into the bowl, I studied the texture of the butter and sugar mixture. Deeming it smooth enough, I set the bowl on the counter and shook out my tired hand.

  “Erwin, what am I going to do?” I started measuring dry ingredients and carefully pouring them into a second bowl. “I have to work with him. How can I work with that man? He’s… well, he’s… I mean, really, he’s so…”

  I didn’t know what to say. Not that Erwin understood. Nor did he reply. He didn’t, as a general rule, which was only to be expected considering his feline nature. Despite the illogic of holding one-sided conversations with a cat, I did so regularly. I told myself it was fine because I was fully aware of what I was doing. Talking to an animal as if it were a person wasn’t crazy if you didn’t expect them to answer.

  Truthfully, I found it comforting.

  “He’s a pain in my ass,” I said, finally. I picked up my martini and took a sip.

  Usually baking relaxed me. I liked the precision of it. Proper baking required exact measurements to produce the right chemical reactions during the heating process. And the products of my labor had their own, delicious appeal.

  But whipping up a batch of my signature chocolate chip cookies wasn’t making me feel better.

  My persistent sexual frustration wasn’t helping my mood. I cast an irritated glance at my bedroom, just down the short hallway. The most recent accessory I’d tried had been as useless as the rest of my growing collection of self-pleasuring technology.

  I picked up the bowl of butter and sugar and stirred it more, just for good measure.

  “Obviously I’m excited at the prospect of working in the motion capture lab. And surely this experience will strengthen my grant application. We both know how important that is.”

  I was excited to work on Elliott’s study. But my professional goals included doing my own research. That was another reason I’d taken the job at Woodward College. Elliott was highly supportive of his staff pursuing their research interests. To that end, I was working on a grant application. It was quite competitive, but I was confident I had a solid chance at securing the funding. And I certainly wasn’t going to let Corban Nash get in the way of that.

  “What do you think, Erwin? Am I being too hard on him?” I put down the bowl and cracked an egg into the sugar-butter mixture. “There’s just something about him. It’s like he knows exactly how to get under my skin and drive me crazy. How does he do it? We haven’t even known each other very long. Not in person, at least.”

  I added another egg, plus a teaspoon of vanilla, and started mixing again.

  “I have to figure out how to make this work. What choice do I have?”

  Erwin’s ears twitched, his eyes drifting closed.

  “Yes, obviously resignation is one option, but that’s a bit drastic, don’t you think? I haven’t even been there a month. And so far, Corban is the only real problem with my job. The positives outweigh the negatives.”

  I combined the wet and dry ingredients and gently folded the thickening cookie dough so I didn’t get flour everywhere. After mixing in chocolate chips, I plopped dollops of dough onto a baking sheet and slid them into the oven.

  “There. Finished.” I brushed my hands together, adjusted my glasses, and drained the last of my martini.

  While I waited for the cookies to bake, I checked my phone for messages.

  Sophie: I have an idea and don’t say no until you think about it. What if we train for a half-marathon?

  Everly: Um…

  Nora: Sophie, are you joking?

  Sophie: I’m serious. The Soggy Seattle Half-Marathon is coming up. I know Everly’s wedding is soon, but we’d still have time to get ready. And it’s not competitive. We’d only be doing it to finish.

  Everly: I don’t know. What do you think, Hazel?

  I sat back and stared at Sophie’s message. A half-marathon? That was both an interesting and intimidating prospect. We’d started running to keep ourselves healthy, and admittedly to offset our indulgences. And I’d enjoyed researching training regimens to improve our fitness. But a half-marathon? That was thirteen-point-one miles. We’d never completed a run longer than four.

  Generally speaking, I wasn’t afraid of a challenge. But this poked at one of my deep-seated insecurities. Growing up, athletics had been the bane of my existence. I’d been physically awkward, and my high IQ hadn’t translated into any sort of body coordination. The only threat to my perfect GPA had been the dreaded physical education requirements.

  Years of yoga had improved my brain-body connection, so I no longer felt like an awkward bundle of limbs. But the mention of training for an athletic event made me nervous in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Essentially, I had two options. Let an old fear influence my decision or face that fear head-on.

  Me: I think it’s an excellent idea. New challenges are stimulating for both the body and the mind.

  Nora: I’d rather be stimulated in other ways, thank you very much.

  Everly: Okay, I’m in.

  Sophie: I’m so excited! This is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time, just to prove that I can.

  Everly: That’s so awesome, Sophie. We’ll be right there with you.

  Sophie: Is it weird to say I love you guys? Because I love you guys.

  Everly: We love you too.

  Nora: Fine, I’ll do it. But I hate you all.

  Everly: No you don’t.

  Nora. You’re right, I don’t. Still, this calls for retail therapy. Should we get matching shirts like the Bitches?

  Everly: Oh my god, no bedazzling.

  Nora: I’m insulted you’d think I’d even consider it.

  Sophie: Matching shirts would be adorable.

  Me: I can work on creating an appropriate training program if you’d like.

  Sophie: That would be great. Thanks, Hazel. By the way, how are things with your nemesis?

  Me: I’d resolved to avoid him but my boss assigned us to the same research study.

  Everly: Uh oh. So that means working together.

  Me: Closely together.

  Sophie: Any more lunch shenanigans?

  Me: No. But he did send me a very irritating and unnecessary memo.

  Nora: This is perfect!

  Me: Did your phone autocorrect to an antonym? I’m sure you mean this is terrible, or this is a disaster.

  Nora: No, I mean this is perfect.

  Me: You’re not making sense.

  Sophie: I’m with Hazel on this. Why is this perfect?

  Nora: Because now you’ll have even more opportunities to drive him crazy.

  Everly: She’s not wrong.

  Me: Why are sexually suggestive antics the only solution?

  Nora: They’re not, but they’re effective. I know you’re already attacking the problem with your big brain. I’m just trying to get your hot body involved.

  Me: I tried some of your suggestions, but I’m not very adept at this sort of thing.

  Nora: You don’t give yourself enough credit. I bet he’s at home fantasizing about you right now.

  Everly: I agree with Nora.

  Me: I highly doubt it. But I’ll keep you posted.

  I put my phone down. I was going to enjoy creating a training progra
m to get us ready for the half-marathon. My mind was already swirling with possibilities. First, I’d dig into existing research. There were numerous options already in existence. I’d take our current level of fitness into account and proceed from there. And I didn’t want to neglect the mental side of training for a distance event. That could be just as important as training runs.

  As for Corban, I’d trust my friends’ advice. Nora knew what she was talking about, and not just because she had an aptitude for interacting with men. Her online column, Living Your Best Life, was very popular, and covered topics such as dating, attraction, and sex. This was what she did for a living. I wasn’t particularly talented at flirtatious behaviors, but if I kept it simple, perhaps I wouldn’t make a complete fool of myself.

  But I still couldn’t let his lunch-freezing antics go unanswered. And I knew just the thing to counter it.

  8

  Corban

  “Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love.” ~ Albert Einstein

  The data from Elliott’s preliminary work in the motion capture lab was fascinating. I was used to codifying subjective information. I’d started my career doing data analytics for a large social media platform and later I’d worked for the company that had invented the most popular dating app in existence. Truthfully, I’d invented it—or the algorithms that made it work, at least. But in both positions, I’d gained experience in taking subjective information and finding the patterns behind it.

  The motion capture data was totally different, and it made my brain light up like a Christmas tree. I clicked through the interface, familiarizing myself with how it worked. I already had so many ideas. Ways we could codify and display the information. Things we could do that no one else in the field was doing yet.

  It was exciting.

  Almost exciting enough that I could forget I had to work with Hazel.

  I hadn’t seen that coming. Maybe I should have, but Elliott putting us together on the same study had surprised me. Hadn’t he noticed that Hazel and I didn’t exactly get along? It was obvious she didn’t like me. Anyone could see it on her face. The woman hated my guts. How were we supposed to work together?