by Penny Reid
“How so?”
“Because she’s the chairwoman of the Commerce, Science, and Transportation Committee in the senate. She’s sponsored or co-sponsored every pro-consumer and anti-Big Telecom bill that’s been drafted in the last ten years.”
I felt the need to defend her. “That’s because telecom companies in the US hold a monopoly and enter into informal non-compete agreements with each other to keep prices artificially high, which means no one can ever get Sandeke Telecom, or Brighthouse, or Version to actually provide competitive rates let alone appropriate customer service. Is it too much to ask for reasonable Internet speeds that cost less than $100 a month? Or a service call window that doesn’t span eight hours? Who has time for that?!”
Martin chuckled, grabbing my wrists; I hadn’t realized it but I’d started gesturing with my hands to demonstrate my frustration.
“I know, I know. I agree,” he said, trying to pacify me, rubbing the inside of my arms and kissing me softly. “Your mother does good work in Washington.”
She did. I knew she did. She was amazing and I loved that my superhero mother was on his short list. He had exceptionally good taste.
Regardless of our agreement on her awesomeness, I squinted at him again, pursing my lips. “It feels weird talking about my mother while I’m in bed with you.”
“Then what do you want to talk about?”
I blurted the first thing that came to mind, “What was Martin Sandeke like as a kid?”
He lifted an eyebrow in response. “Talking about your mother is weird, but talking about me as a kid isn’t?”
“Just answer the question.”
Martin considered me for a moment before responding. “I was…quiet.”
“So you were a watcher.”
“A watcher?”
“You were one of those creepy kids who watched the other kids play.”
“I wasn’t creepy.”
“I was. I was a creepy watcher. I watched the other kids play—quite creepily—and tried to make sense of their games. Mostly the girls. They seemed to do a lot of fighting with each other. And crying. And making up. And whispering.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No.” I remembered how it had hurt at first, being snubbed when I was seven and eight and eleven and sixteen, but then my mother told me I shouldn’t waste energy on average people because they would never amount to anything beyond ordinary. “You don’t need to befriend them in order to lead them,” she’d said.
I continued, pushing away the memory. “They didn’t let me play their reindeer games, mostly because I was creepy, but also because I was always trying to make them stop fighting. I tried to make lasting peace. But encouraging harmony between little girls is like trying to negotiate a Middle East peace treaty.”
Martin exhaled a laugh and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and shoulder. “I wanted everyone to get along and they just wanted to be dramatic. But that was okay. Their rebuffs allowed me to perfect the art of hiding at a very young age.”
“Why did you hide? Did they make fun of you?”
I shook my head. “No. They ignored me. I think I hid because hiding made it my choice. You can’t be ignored if no one can see you.” I was talking from a stream of consciousness, having never really thought about why I hid before. The revelation of my motivations made me feel acutely uncomfortable, so I cleared my throat and changed the subject. “What were you really like as a kid? Other than quiet?”
“Stubborn.”
“Ha! I’m shocked.” Then I added under my breath, “I’m lying. I’m not shocked.”
Martin pinched my rib, just enough to make me squirm. “I was quiet, stubborn, and shy.”
“Shy?” I settled into the mattress, my cheek on his arm, and frowned at this last adjective. “I cannot imagine you being shy.”
“Why? Because I’m so outgoing now?”
I thought about this—a shy Martin—as my eyes searched his, thought about his behavior for as long as I’d known him.
He’d barely spoken to me as my lab partner, though he’d apparently been thinking about me for quite a while. I remembered the time he’d asked for my phone number last semester and how he wouldn’t look me in the eye while he spoke. At the time I thought it was arrogance. I recalled that at the party last Friday he’d been upstairs playing pool instead of downstairs getting drunk and engaging in merriment.
This prompted me to think and ask at the same time, “Martin, do you like parties?”
His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
My eyes widened, and I proclaimed, “You don’t like parties! You sneak!”
He caught my wrists before I could do anything—like tickle him or pull away or smack his shoulder—and he brought my hands to his bare chest.
“No. I don’t like parties.”
“Then why did you make me go?”
“Because I liked the idea of showing you off as my date.”
My nose wrinkled. “That makes no sense.”
“I didn’t say it made sense, it just is.”
Now my eyes crinkled. “But you left me when we arrived.”
“We’ve already been over this. I left to show you I wasn’t going to…what did you call it? Pee on you? I looked for you twenty minutes later and couldn’t find you. You went and hid in the laundry room. Instead of showing you off as my date, I spent half the night trying to find you.”
“Is that why you were so pissed when you found me?”
“No. I was pissed before I found you, because I thought you might have gone off with someone else. I was relieved when I found you, but then pissed because you preferred to read a book over being with me.”
“Poor, poor Martin.” As much as I could with him holding my wrists, I petted his chest. “I will kiss your ego and make it better.”
He lifted a single eyebrow. “I don’t want you to kiss it.”
I flattened my lips and blinked at him once, very slowly. “Are you always thinking about sex?”
“Yes.”
I snorted.
“More accurately, sex with you.”
I stilled, and watched him as he watched me. Before, when he’d joked about popping my forking cherry, it had felt like a joke. But now...not so much.
I didn’t think I was ready for that, not yet. We’d been together less than a week. I’d given him my trust less than three days ago. This might have been dating boot camp, but I was still trying to wrap my mind around the concept of passion. Having sex with Martin before it was making love to Martin would be a bad idea.
I didn’t want to confuse one with the other.
“Martin, I don’t—”
“I know. You’re not ready yet.” He nodded, his eyes darting between mine, his body shifting closer in a deliciously lithe movement as one of his hands released my wrist and smoothed down the length of my body, from my shoulder to my hip.
Then, making me both smile and scowl, he added, “Maybe tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 8
Transition Metals and Coordination Chemistry
Thursday morning dawned and I found myself one half of a tangled mass of limbs. In Martin’s defense, I was totally crowding his side of the bed. I was basically sprawled on top of him.
Aaaaand, I was still naked.
Diffused sunlight filtered through the undersea portals; I had no idea what time it was. I disentangled myself from Martin, careful not to wake him, and went about getting dressed and making breakfast. Then I took a cup of coffee up to the deck and studied for my upcoming math test, feeling all warm and fuzzy and happy with life in general, especially and specifically because of the sexy boy downstairs.
Martin joined me sometime later, bringing me a new, hot cup of coffee. Wordlessly, he gave me a toe-curling kiss good morning—even though it was already afternoon—and, looking smug and satisfied by my breathlessness, took the chair across from mine. He opened his laptop and began working on something or other, likely something serious and impor
tant and poised to make him millions.
We didn’t talk. We sat together in companionable silence. It was…really great. Comfortable and easy. Every once in a while I’d catch him watching me. He would smile his pleased smile when our eyes met, but he’d never look away.
I began to daydream about what life would be like if I did agree to move in with Martin, and that was dangerous because smart Kaitlyn knew it was too hasty. But silly, prematurely falling in love Kaitlyn wanted to doodle our names together on notebooks and take cooking classes together on weekends.
Maybe he would come see me play my jam sessions on Sunday nights. Maybe I’d take the train and meet him in New York for lunch on days when I didn’t have class. Maybe I’d write songs for him and about him. Maybe we’d sleep together every night, having fun and taking comfort in each other’s bodies. Maybe he’d sleep naked too at some point.
But I was only nineteen, and college wasn’t a networking conference for me. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted to do with my life. I suspected that music was going to have to be a major part of it—not because I believed I was a prodigious talent, but because something had shifted within me on Tuesday night, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Whether I was good or magnificent or merely adequate didn’t matter. I recognized music as a passion, one that I’d been repressing. Of course, I hadn’t given the matter, the how and when, enough thought yet. I still had a great deal to sort through.
The idea of falling in love with Martin (if I hadn’t already) before I had my head on straight about what I wanted to do and who I was made me feel uneasy. He was always going to be the alpha of his pack, as he didn’t know any other way. I didn’t want to get lost, lose myself before I’d been found, in his flock of admirers.
I was staring at him, lost in my ruminations, but didn’t realize I was staring until he asked, “Hey, everything okay?”
I blinked him back into focus, and shook my head to clear it. “Uh, yeah. Fine.”
He studied me, looked like he wanted to ask or say something. Eventually he did. “What do you think, Kaitlyn?”
“About what?” I gave him a friendly smile as I closed my notebook. I couldn’t study anymore; there was no use pretending.
“About us.”
I flinched involuntarily because his question was almost eerily attuned to my current musings; I wondered tangentially if—in addition to everything else—Martin Sandeke was a mind-reader.
I looked away from him and studied the horizon. It was another beautiful day.
“I think we’re having a lot of fun.”
He was quiet and I felt his eyes on me. The silence didn’t feel quite so comfortable anymore.
Then, very softly, he asked, “What’s going on in your head?”
Out of nowhere and as a consequence of nothing, I said, “I’m afraid of letting everyone down.”
He paused for a beat then asked, “What do you mean?”
“My eighth grade science fair project was a solar heater and it was made out of tin foil, black paint, and a shoe box.”
“So?”
“So,” I returned my gaze to his, “I’m never going to be a great scientist or a world leader.”
He watched me like he was waiting for me to continue. When I didn’t, he prompted again, “So…?”
“So? So?! You said it yourself yesterday to that vile woman. I’m Kaitlyn Parker; my grandfather is an astronaut; my dad is the dean of the college of medicine at a very excellent medical school; my grandmother outfitted the first nuclear submarines with freaking nuclear weapons; my mother might be the first female president of the United States in the next ten years…and I’m not brilliant.”
He laughed. At first it was a short laugh of disbelief. Then it became a full on belly laugh when he saw I was serious. He was wiping tears from his eyes and shaking his head.
“It’s not funny,” I said, even though I fought a smile. Of course, it was funny; and I didn’t mind laughing at myself.
I was smart. I knew that. I had no reason to complain. I came from a loving—if not comparatively regimented and sterile—family. I had all my fingers and toes. I had everything to be grateful for.
And yet…
I knew who I was supposed to be, but I was not that person. As well, I had no idea who I actually was.
When he finally stopped laughing, he sat back in his chair and considered me with glittering eyes over steepled fingers. A warm smile lingered over his features.
“Kaitlyn, you are very intelligent, and besides that you’re a musical prodigy.”
I shook my head. “I know you know what I mean, and I didn’t say what I said because I was fishing for compliments—though, if I were fishing for compliments, I would want one of your cheating fish pole holders.”
His smile widened, though he persisted the point. “Why do you think you have to be a scientist or a world leader? Why not focus on your music instead?”
I glared at him. “Come on, Martin. Don’t play dumb. You know it’s what everyone expects. I may love music, but aren’t there enough musicians in the world? If I have even the smallest talent or aptitude for politics or scientific endeavors, and the connections, don’t I owe it to society to at least try?”
“What other people expect doesn’t matter. You don’t owe society anything. Screw society! You should do what makes you happy.”
“That’s ridiculous. Life isn’t about making yourself happy. Life is about exploiting your talents for humanity, in order to make lasting difference for good when and where you can, and for as long as you are able.”
“Is this one of your stupid life rules?”
“Don’t call them stupid. My life rules keep me from making avoidable mistakes.”
“What a load of self-sacrificing, martyring bullshit.”
“It is not! There is great value in self-sacrifice.”
“And you think you can’t ‘do good’ with music?”
“No. Not as much as I could by stepping up and becoming a leader like my mother or a scientist like my grandmother. Even you respect my mother.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to fuck your mother.”
I felt a spike of anger at his crass reply. “Are you telling me that who my family is has nothing to do with why you like me? That it doesn’t make me very attractive girlfriend material?”
He held my glare and his grew increasingly heated, the earlier amusement giving way to stony severity. He took his time answering, like he was debating with himself, and eventually his non-answer seemed to speak for itself.
I felt abruptly hot and cold and adrift.
“Martin…?”
“Of course not, Parker,” he finally said.
I exhaled my relief, but the back of my neck tingled. Something about the way he was looking at me, how long it had taken him to respond, didn’t feel honest.
“You misunderstand my meaning.” His tone was firm, unyielding, like he was trying to lead me to a certain conclusion. “I meant, of course I’d never tell you that who your family is has nothing to do with why I like you so much, because that statement would be a lie. Who your family is has a great deal to do with why you’re very attractive girlfriend material. Of course I want you because of who your family is.”
My hesitant relief became stunned incredulity at his admission. He was watching me closely, though giving none of his own thoughts away.
I stood abruptly, filled with sudden restless energy, and a fierce need to reject his words. My hands came to my hips, then fell to my legs, then pushed through my hair. Stunned incredulity grew into a cauldron of boiling anger.
“How can you say that to me? You know better than anyone, better than anyone else, what it’s like to be wanted because of who your family is.”
“Because it’s true,” he answered, watching me carefully.
“What? This is…”
…you are the Olympic gold medal and the Nobel Peace Prize and the Pulitzer Prize and the Academy Awar
d of marriage material. Ray’s irritating words from Monday came back to me in a rush accompanied by the thundering sound of blood rushing between my ears.
Distractedly, I said, “Ray warned me about this.”
“Ray?” This got his attention, he sat up straighter.
“Yes. Ray.” I glanced at Martin, feeling equal parts anger and confusion. “He said that you liked me because of my credentials, that I was the girl guys like you married after you finished sowing your poison oats—or some such nonsense—but it wasn’t nonsense because he was right. He was right.” I muttered this last statement to myself.
“He was right,” Martin confirmed, again stunning me. This time the wind truly was knocked from my lungs.
“No, he wasn’t.” I shook my head, making the denial on his behalf because I didn’t want it to be true.
“Kaitlyn, Ray was right. He knows what kind of girl I want, what I’ve been looking for.”
I felt like he’d slapped me across the face or sucker-punched me in the stomach. Therefore, I didn’t think much about the next words out of my mouth.
“You, Martin Sandeke, are a complete and total jerk-face! How dare you… How dare you! Why would you…and I thought…” I screamed this at him in fits and starts, which felt weird because I’d never screamed at anyone before in my life.
I decided just to go with it.
The line of his mouth became contemplative as he looked at me, but he said nothing. This only served to increase my frustration.
“What the heck is wrong with you?” I continued my tirade. “Aren’t you going to defend yourself? Or are you just going to sit there and stare at me?”
“Do you want me to defend myself?”
“Yes!” I immediately responded, loudly and on instinct, the single-word admission ripped from some insurmountable desire to be wanted and seen for who I was, even if I didn’t know who that person was yet.
“Why?” He was on the edge of his seat and his gaze was filled with a strange hope.
“Because…” My voice cracked and so did my heart. Stupid tears flooded my eyes.
