Imperfect Chemistry

by Mary Frame

The rest of the week and Saturday pass in a blur of Jensen and sleeping and eating and more Jensen. I take him to the archery range and he takes me back to the art exhibit. His relationship with the art gallery owner makes more sense now that I know about his artistic pursuits.

  By Sunday morning, I’m sure he must be sick of me, but he calls me only an hour after I get home from his place. We’ve spent the last couple of nights in his bed, doing nothing more than kissing and snuggling despite my best efforts to the contrary.

  “What are you doing right now?”

  I stare down at my hastily jotted notes. I had been working on my experiment. Or trying to. I feel like an idea on how to study emotional pathogens is hovering under the surface of my mind. Every time I attempt to pull it out, it stays just out of reach. The harder I try to catch it, the more slippery it becomes.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “My parents invited us over for brunch. Can you come?” He sounds nervous.

  “Right now?” I glance over at the clock. It’s nine fifty-seven.

  “Yeah. Unless you have something else going on,” he adds quickly.

  “No,” I say quickly. “That sounds fine.”

  A few minutes later, he’s knocking at the door.

  “Are you ready?” he asks when I open it.

  He’s wearing a button-up shirt underneath a leather jacket and instead of the jeans I’m used to seeing him in, he’s wearing dark slacks and shiny black shoes.

  I glance down at myself. I’m wearing stretchy, comfortable jeans, a plain red sweater and sneakers. “Should I change?” I ask.

  “No.” He gives me a small smile. “You look perfect.”

  After grabbing my jacket, we get in his already running car—he started it before coming to my door to warm it up before we left—and he pulls out of the spot and down the alley.

  “I should probably warn you,” he says, when we’re getting on the freeway. “My parents aren’t like your parents.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean, they’re really serious.”

  “I can be serious,” I assure him.

  That makes him laugh, a little bit. “I know you can, it’s just—” he breaks off. “They’re not very affectionate. Or approachable.”

  “Okay.”

  We drive in silence as he exits the freeway and drives up a long street, the houses and property getting progressively larger the farther we go. Finally, he pulls down a gravel driveway lined with snow-covered trees. The road leads to a gate, an imposing black gate with a large golden letter “W” directly in the middle of it. I look out my window. The gate seems to extend around the property. Jensen rolls down his window and pushes various buttons on a panel. Something beeps and the gate swings open. We drive through the gate, down the road a little further and finally to a circular drive in front of a very large house. The outside is brick and the entrance is shadowed by Ionic columns. The property around it is covered in snow, and I can’t see another house in sight.

  “Wow.”

  Jensen sighs. “Yep.”

  We get out of his car and walk up the slate-covered steps to the entrance. I wait for Jensen to let us in, but he rings the bell.

  A few seconds later, the door swings open to reveal a middle-aged woman with a severe bun, a gray button-up blouse and matching skirt.

  “Mrs. Keyes,” Jensen says.

  She opens the door further and ushers us inside. “Oh, good,” she whispers. “You’re here. Your mother was wondering what was taking so long.”

  Jensen gives Mrs. Keyes a quick hug. “I spoke with her less than an hour ago,” he says quietly.

  Mrs. Keyes shrugs. “You know how it is. And you must be Lucy.” She’s still whispering and I don’t really understand why.

  “Yes,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you.” We shake hands and then she takes our coats.

  The entry way is as large as you would expect after seeing the outside. The floors are tiled, the ceiling is vaulted and the walls are wainscoted and golden.

  “You better get to the parlor,” she says, shooing us down the hall.

  Jensen takes my hand.

  “Who is she?” I ask.

  “The housekeeper.”

  “Oh.”

  Then Jensen is pulling me through an open doorway into what must be the parlor. It’s a large open room with pristine white furniture, dark wood tables, expensive-looking rugs, and a bar in the corner.

  “Darling, you made it,” a woman at the bar says. She must be Jensen’s mom. Her hair is short and blonde. She’s wearing slacks with a cashmere sweater and pearls. She comes over and kisses Jensen on both cheeks, causing him to release my hand.

  “Mom, this is Lucy,” he says.

  Her eyes meet mine before flickering up and down my body.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Walker,” I say, holding out my hand.

  She takes it gingerly, setting her fingers in mine. I try to shake her hand, but then she slips it out of my grasp.

  “Lucy.” Jensen’s dad approaches from behind Mrs. Walker. “It’s nice to see you again.” We shake hands, the motion much more comfortable than whatever occurred with Jensen’s mother. He’s wearing slacks like Jensen’s, and a sweater over a button-up shirt.

  “Would either of you care for a drink?” he asks.

  They both have champagne glasses full of something.

  “No thank you,” I say.

  Jensen takes my hand again and we sit on the couch. His parents each sit in a chair opposite us.

  It’s quiet in the room except for the ticking of a large clock behind Mrs. Walker’s head.

  “So, Lucy,” she says. “My husband tells me you’re part of the science department.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please, don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old.” She smiles at me, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. “You can call me Cynthia.”

  “Okay. Cynthia.” I nod.

  “What are you working on now?” she asks, before taking a sip of her champagne.

  “I received a grant to study emotion as a pathogen.”

  “How interesting. How are you planning on doing that?”

  I glance over at Jensen. He offers me a small smile and squeezes my hand.

  “I’m working on developing a viable hypothesis,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says.

  The sound of the ticking clock infiltrates the space for a stilted moment while Jensen’s parents both take a drink out of their glasses.

  “How are you classes going, Jensen?” Professor Walker asks his son. “I hope you’re devoting the necessary amount of time into catching up.”

  “They’re fine,” Jensen answers quickly.

  We lapse into yet another silence. Before the silence has a chance to extend into an unacceptable length, Mrs. Keyes appears in the doorway.

  “Brunch is ready,” she says.

  We file into the impressive dining room. The table is approximately the same size as my kitchen.

  Plates are already laid out for us. I half expect a bevy of footmen in powdered wigs to appear.

  Professor Walker sits at the head of the table, his wife on his right, Jensen at his left, and my plate is positioned an arm’s length away from Cynthia’s plate.

  The housekeeper reappears with bowls of steaming food, and she proceeds to serve each of us freshly cooked eggs. It feels odd, having someone dish out my meal for me but I stay silent, feeling more out of my depth than I would have expected.

  Once Mrs. Keyes leaves the room, and we start eating, Cynthia turns to me.

  “So. Lucy. Tell me about your family.”

  I finish chewing the food I put in my mouth and answer. “What would you like to know about them?”

  “What do your parents do?”

  “Mom,” Jensen says, a warning in his voice.

  I glance over at him and he gives me a slight grimace.

  “What?” Cynthia asks him. “I just want to know more about
your friend.”

  “My father owns the tire store on Ninth Street,” I say.

  “Oh. That’s the discount tire place, isn’t it?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “What about your mother?”

  “My mom does a variety of things, from helping my dad with the bookkeeping, to making quilts and selling them on Etsy.”

  “On what?” Professor Walker asks.

  “Etsy. It’s an online store where individuals can market and sell various items.”

  I take another bite of my eggs while silence stretches yet again.

  The conversation continues in this way throughout the rest of the meal, broken and quiet. I have no idea what to say to make them comfortable, but from the looks I receive from Jensen, I have a feeling most of their time together is this way, whether I’m there or not.

  After the meal, I try to help Mrs. Keyes take the dishes to the kitchen—it’s what my family would do, after all—but she insists I stay seated, and I get an almost panicked look from Cynthia when the words leave my lips, as if I had asked to dance naked on the table instead of trying to help perform the most menial of tasks.

  “Well,” Jensen says, after that moment passes. “We better get going. I have studying and a paper to get done before tomorrow.”

  We exit the dining room and head towards the door, his parents following behind us.

  “Before you leave,” Professor Walker says to Jensen, “I want to show you something in my study.”

  “Oh. Okay,” Jensen says to him, and then he turns to me. “I’ll be right back.”

  They disappear down the hall and I’m left in the foyer with Cynthia.

  “Thank you for breakfast,” I say after a moment. “It was delicious.”

  She nods and watches me in silence.

  “How did you and Jensen meet?” she asks after a moment.

  “We live next door to each other.”

  “Yes. He’s lived there for nearly a year. He never mentioned you until recently.”

  “We didn’t start speaking until recently.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He’s helping me with my experiment.”

  “Ah,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re not good enough for him, you know.”

  I’m not sure how to respond to this, or if I’m meant to respond to this.

  “It’s admirable that you care so much for your son,” I say, finally. “But I think he’s old enough to decide what’s best for him.”

  Her eyebrows lift at my words, and I’m amazed she’s able to perform such a feat without causing nary a wrinkle.

  We’re both silent for another long moment.

  “I better go see what’s keeping Jensen,” I say. I head down the hall in the direction they left in, half surprised Mrs. Walker doesn’t attack me from behind as I move away.

  There’s too many doors to choose from. I find another bathroom, a storage closet that could be a room, and a room that looks nearly identical to the parlor. I finally stop when I hear the murmur of voices from a slightly open doorway.

  “I don’t want this to distract you from your schoolwork. You’re already behind.” I hear Professor Walker say.

  “I’m catching up.”

  “But once you fall in the hole, it’s easier to get buried. You really have to stay on it.”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “That means no distractions.”

  “I get it.” Jensen’s voice is clipped and low.

  I knock gently on the door and then push it open further.

  “Are you ready?” I ask.

  “Am I ever,” he mutters as he passes me, not bothering to say anything further to his father.

  “Goodbye, Professor Walker,” I say. “It was nice to see you again.”

  At this point, I’m not sure the sentiment is honest, but I’m unable to forgo the basic rules of politeness.

  He nods and turns away without saying anything further.

  Chapter Twenty

  The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.

  –Blaise Pascal