The Heartbeat Hypothesis

by Lindsey Frydman

  “Of course not.” I laughed. “The tie is a nice touch.”

  He fingered the dark gray material. “This is my one and only tie.”

  “You only have one?”

  Jake tipped his head with a conspiratorial grin. “Do I look like the kind of guy who owns a lot of ties?”

  “Now that you mention it, no.”

  His gray eyes appraised me from head to toe, and I resisted the urge to fiddle with my skirt or to make sure the long-sleeved shirt hung just right. A smile pulled on one side of his mouth, highlighting the dimple pressing into his cheek.

  “You…look perfect,” he whispered.

  A low hum buzzed in my head, stripping my brain of a proper response. How did so few words from him affect me so much?

  “Thank you,” I finally managed.

  Jake held my gaze for another moment and then turned, nodding toward a corner section of the gallery. “My work is over there.”

  “All the way in the back?”

  “I asked for it to be put there.”

  “Oh? That’s…very Jake of you.”

  “Yeah, but do you know why?”

  No clue. But I knew he had a reason for everything. “Because you like being in the corner?”

  Jake moved a hand from his pocket, scratched under his chin, and said, “By the time people get to the back, they’ve seen pretty much everything. And in the art world, you’d better go first or you’d better go last. No one will remember what came in the middle.”

  He turned slightly and started walking. I followed, stealing glances at his profile as often as possible.

  “So what’s the point of the middle then?” I asked. “If everyone only remembers the beginning and the end?”

  “Without the middle, being first or last means nothing.”

  The middle gave the rest its meaning.

  Like life, maybe. People were born and then they died. Everyone remembered those events. But without the life in between… “You’re right. But why pick last instead of first?”

  He grinned. “Why not?”

  The sound of my shoes clicking on the linoleum paled in comparison to the booming in my chest. We neared his art, and I spotted his name on a tiny removable plaque on the wall. I read the Artist’s Note underneath:

  Jake Cavanaugh – Digital Silver Prints

  A collection of black-and-white prints, because I prefer to view the world in colors that don’t exist. Also, I really like the color black.

  A grin tugged at my cheeks, and I looked up at the photos. Two rows of framed prints hung side by side. I started at the lower right-hand corner—closest to where I was standing. Scanning the images, I moved slightly as I took one in and then moved on to the next.

  “Jake, these are great.” I didn’t know why they were great, technically speaking. I looked from photo to photo, trying to find the common element that made them all so poignant. Whether it was the fancy camera or the lighting he’d employed, or the focus or simply the subject—something about his shots captured each subject in that perfect moment of natural, heartfelt expression.

  And then I saw my face.

  I was laughing, my eyes shut, hair spilling around me on the grass, and holy crap, I couldn’t stop staring. It wasn’t an expression I recognized on myself. He’d managed to take an awesome, genuine photo, and I almost didn’t believe it was me. My hair no longer radiated purple, and my eyes were no longer bright green. Instead, they were faded shades of gray. Seeing this, I could understand why Jake liked black-and-white photography so much.

  But the forget-me-not flower in the image wasn’t black and white like everything else. It still held its blue, white and yellow tones, though the colors were subdued, like he’d washed away half the saturation.

  “The flower,” I whispered. “It’s not black.”

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  I stepped back, taking in all the images as a collection. “You did that for me?”

  Jake rubbed the side of his jaw and looked to be fighting off embarrassment. “I don’t remember the last time I had color in my final photographs. My professor was surprised, but she said it added ‘emotion’ and ‘honesty.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “But whatever it adds, it works. I would’ve never considered it if not for you.”

  I turned sideways, unsure of the right words. His expression conveyed an emotion I couldn’t quite pin down. Likely because of that stupid wall he always kept up. Tear it down already—here, use my hammer.

  Jake twisted, stretching out his arm. “You see this guy here?”

  I looked at the photograph. It was a guy with a tuft of messy hair, wearing an expression that reminded me of a game show contestant—super stoked to be there.

  “I took this one at the party. That night I saw you…and told you I wasn’t there for the beer.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t think a picture like this could come from a frat party.”

  “No, you wouldn’t think so. But the idea behind this collection was to capture human facial expressions—the different emotions everyone experiences.”

  “You’re pretty incredible.” My body shifted closer to him without my permission. The fresh scent of lemon and mint burned my senses. “And I think you downplay your skills too often.”

  “You think I should brag about my photography skills? To whom?”

  “All of your friends.”

  His lips quirked. “Right. They’d enjoy that.”

  I gazed at the pictures more, at the colors—or lack thereof.

  “There’s a lot of great artwork in this exhibition,” Jake said, gesturing with his hand. “I was never into painting as a medium, but the work up by the entrance is incredible. If you want to take a look around?”

  A part of me only wanted to stand there and stare at Jake’s photographs, because I was still in awe of what he’d done. But if I did that, I’d end up looking like a human statue posing as a work of art. So we meandered through the wide two-story gallery, stopping to look at sculptures and paintings and drawings. They were all incredible—especially the paintings by the front.

  “I wish I’d been born with a talent like this,” I said as we walked up to a large landscape painting. An abstract forest—fiery reds and burning golds were used instead of the typical browns and greens.

  If I were an amazing painter or photographer or sculptor, I’d know what I wanted to do with my life, right? If I had that kind of talent, I’d be compelled to use it. I’d even take a talent in mathematics, or being a chemistry whiz kid. Then I’d know what I had to offer the world.

  “Talent’s only part of it,” Jake said as we moved down the wall, on to the next painting. “If you don’t have any determination or desire, it’s pretty useless.”

  “But if you don’t have any talent, what are you supposed to do with your determination and desire?”

  He gave me half a grin. “Then you have to find the determination and desire to work really, really hard to get good at something. You can train yourself to do a lot of things you’d never expect.”

  I agreed with him. But as we continued walking through the gallery, I started thinking about all the things you couldn’t train yourself to do. You couldn’t teach your hair to grow a different color, or train your bones to grow longer.

  You couldn’t make yourself love another person, or make yourself forget someone.

  By the time we’d wandered through the entire exhibition, it was near closing time, so I waited for Jake as he went to get his bag from a room in the back. When he reappeared, instead of carrying a bag, he held something rectangular wrapped in brown paper.

  In a Jake-like manner, he headed toward the gallery doors without another word.

  Once I caught up to him, he tilted his head, a curious smile playing on his lips. I raised my brows, watching and waiting. He definitely got a kick out of my impatience.

  He held the main door to the art building open, the package—or whatever it was—tucked under the other arm
. The night air was cooler than I expected it to be, sending shivers down my shoulders. But the sky was cloudless, allowing a grand display of constellations to light up the darkness.

  “I have something for you.” Jake let the door shut behind us. The brown paper crackled while he unwrapped the mystery item. “I didn’t end up using this shot for my exhibition. For a few different reasons. But I want you to have it.”

  I took the framed photo when he offered it to me. This one would have fit in perfectly with the rest—the girl’s expression was stunning. Wide smile and equally wide eyes. Blond hair framing a pale heart-shaped face. Pure happiness.

  “It’s Kat,” I said, a maniacal rhythm to my heart. “You took a picture of Kat… When?”

  “At that party.” His voice grew softer. “I saw you two there, before you saw me.”

  “That sounds a little creepy,” I whispered.

  “Photographers have to be a little creepy. Or it just wouldn’t work.”

  I laughed and stared at the photo again, my fingers tightening over the edge of the frame. “This is perfect.” Kat would have loved, loved, loved it. She looked so pretty, it almost made me jealous. “You didn’t take stalkerish photos of me that night, did you?”

  “I didn’t take any pictures of you that night. You looked annoyed—which would’ve made for an interesting photo.” He grinned. “But the one in the grass turned out perfect.”

  “So that’s why you had me tell you that stupid story while I lay in the grass?”

  He wedged his hands into his pockets, body shaking with a laugh. “If you thought it was stupid, why did you pick it?”

  “I don’t know…it made me happy. You said to pick a happy story. So I did.”

  But my story was nothing compared to the one he’d shared with me. Mine was cotton candy and rainbows, while his was sledgehammers and heartbreak.

  He shook his head. “Your story wasn’t stupid.”

  Maybe. “This really is the best,” I said, wanting to forget about feeling stupid. I held the frame a few inches higher. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You don’t have to.” He stepped closer, leaned over, and dropped his voice. “I’m glad I could make you smile.”

  “Look at you, getting all cheesy and stuff.”

  “Ah, a little cheese never hurt anyone, right?” Jake laughed—which I’d decided was my favorite sound because it was something I had to earn, and because it did something warm and fuzzy to my insides. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your dorm.”

  He started down the steps. I followed, and when I caught up to him, his fingers laced through mine. We walked like that—hand in hand—until we arrived at my dorm. Time with Jake was always too short.

  And then I had a thought that made the back of my neck tingle.

  I looked up at him, keys dangling between my fingers. “Do you want to come in? Hang out? I can probably find a Disney movie I don’t know all the words to.”

  He leaned closer, lowering his voice like we were talking about bank robbing instead of animated fairy tales. “Is there an option where dancing silverware and magic carpets aren’t a thing?”

  “That’ll always be a thing. Sorry.”

  He laughed, looking down the hallway and back. “If we skip the Disney, I’m all in.”

  I pretended to consider for a moment. “All right, fine. No Disney. But we’re getting a Hawaiian pizza.”

  More laughter floated through the hall as I unlocked the door and shoved it forward. Once inside, I set the photo of Kat on my dresser, my gaze lingering on it.

  “Pineapple on a pizza should be a crime,” Jake said, stepping farther into my room.

  “I think pineapple haters should be stoned.”

  “Stoned? That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

  I laughed, turning away from the dresser. “I really like pineapples.”

  A smile lit up Jake’s face, and I eyed my bedspread, once again wishing it didn’t make me look like a twelve-year-old.

  “Maybe we should get two pizzas,” he said.

  “Oh, you’re not getting out of this. You got out of Disney.”

  His lips twitched, and he was closer now. My heart stuttered when his hand found the side of my face. His fingers left a tingling trail blazing across my cheek and down my neck as his warm lips fit perfectly against my own, opening just enough to keep it sweet, but still intoxicating. My hands found his solid chest, felt the rapid thrumming beneath.

  And if heartbeats were currency, this was the best way to spend them.

  He pulled back an inch, rubbing his thumb down the side of my jaw. “You do make me cheesy.”

  I smiled, breathing in. His scent was forever etched into my memory. “You’d better not be blaming me for any of your cheesiness.”

  He chuckled softly, pulling my head against his chest. I shut my eyes, smiling into the blackness, happy for the rapid beating of my perfect, borrowed heart.

  I only wished I could tell Kat how happy I was.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Kissing Jake would never get old, but when he opened the door on Saturday afternoon, I had to tell my brain to shut up about the kissing. There were more important things going on—like confetti.

  I tossed the glittering yellow dust into the air above Jake’s head. “Happy birthday,” I said between my fits of giggling.

  His eyes went wide with horror, mouth hanging open like I’d set fire to his bed. After a moment (and more giggles), he brushed confetti off his arm. “You got me glitter for my birthday?” He stepped back from the doorway looking like he might start yelling.

  “It’s not glitter, it’s confetti. And it’s yellow. Not pink. It could’ve been pink. Be happy.”

  His lips finally turned upward. “Guess it could’ve been worse.”

  “Could’ve been way worse, man.”

  I jumped at the second voice, my laughter dying in an instant. My eyes found a guy nearly Jake’s height standing at the edge of the kitchen.

  “Oh. Hi.” I expected Jake to be alone, like he always was.

  “Hey,” the guy said, taking a step closer, looking at me now. “Should’ve gone with the pink.”

  “Maybe next year,” I said, forcing a smile, feeling like I’d been caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

  “This is Micah.” Jake nodded. “This is Audra.”

  “You’re the friend,” I said, remembering the only time Jake mentioned him.

  Micah laughed. “So Jake’s talked about me?”

  “That’s why you’re the friend.”

  “Gotcha.” He nodded, scratched his scruffy beard, and looked to Jake. “Glitter looks good on you.”

  Jake made a face, assessing his glittering arms. “I’ll never get all of this out of here. Ever.”

  Maybe that was part of my plan. “Your place needed some color anyway. And I also brought this.” I held up the bag in my right hand. “I skipped the birthday cake.” Because I figured he’d hate that. “And I bought you a pie. For eating purposes only.”

  For the first time since I’d thrown the confetti, he gave me a real smile. “I do like pie.”

  “I know.” The particles in his hair shimmered like pixie dust, and it made me think of fairy tales and Disney princesses.

  Thank God he couldn’t read my thoughts.

  “Thank you.”

  I smiled and then remembered Micah, who hovered awkwardly a few feet away.

  After clearing my throat I said, “Well, I wanted to wish you a happy birthday and give you that. I won’t keep you from whatever you have planned.”

  “Don’t go,” Jake said. “Micah was leaving anyway.”

  The two of them exchanged a look I tried not to overthink, and then Micah stepped forward. “Yeah. I’m getting out of here.” He pulled keys out of his pocket and took a few more steps, boots heavy on the wooden floor. “Nice meeting you, Audra. And Jake, it was really good to see you, man.”

  Jake nodded in response, and I shuffled o
ut of Micah’s way as he brushed past.

  “Why did he leave? It’s only two,” I asked after Jake and I were alone.

  He shrugged, walking to the kitchen. “He just stopped by for a bit. You want a piece of pie?”

  I followed, pulled the container out of the bag, and handed it to him. “Of course I do.”

  He took out a knife from the top drawer, then opened a cabinet to grab plates. After cutting two pieces, we took our ginormous slices to the couch.

  “You guys didn’t make plans for today?” I asked.

  “I told you. He just stopped by.” His words were short and low.

  “You haven’t seen him in a while though, right? He drove forty minutes to simply stop by and say happy birthday?” I thought Micah was his best friend—his only friend. If I didn’t count myself.

  Jake looked up from his pie, jaw tightening. “He was here for an hour.”

  Shut up about it. “I got you something else. Besides the pie.” I hurried to the bag I’d left near the door.

  “You didn’t need to get me anything. You know I don’t even like celebrating my birthday.”

  “Yeah, I do know that. But I got you something anyway. And you can’t make me take it back.” I pulled out the small wrapped box and walked back to the couch. I’d spent hours online looking for gift ideas. I thought about photography equipment but most of it was hundreds of bucks, and if it wasn’t expensive, I didn’t know what it was or if Jake could even use it. “Here. Happy birthday.”

  He took the gift hesitantly, looking back and forth between it and my face. “What is it?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ll ruin the surprise. Don’t you like surprises?”

  With a laugh, he started tearing the wrapping paper off. After the black-and-silver paper fell to the couch, he opened the box and pulled out a small bowl. It was black and had a few cracks down the sides that had been filled in with a gold lacquer.

  He stared at it and then looked at me. “What is it?”

  “It’s a bowl,” I said with a grin. “It’s kintsukuroi. The art of repairing pottery with gold.”

  Jake brought the bowl closer to his face, examining it and turning it around in his hands.

  “The idea is, the piece is more beautiful for having been broken,” I added, watching the gold cracks catch the light.