* * *
The campus email directory was public information within the school’s Black Board system. I could find any person’s email address by conducting a simple first name, last name, year enrolled search. However, since it was so easy to find a person’s email address, very few people actually used their on-campus email account, preferring Gmail or another alternative where spam wasn’t such an issue.
I knew this. I knew the chances of Martin actually receiving my email were minute. Regardless, I reasoned I would have the moral high ground if I sent him an email as soon as I arrived home. Then, when he showed up the next day and I was missing, I could point out later that I did—in fact—send him an email.
It wasn’t my fault if he didn’t check his email.
Martin,
I hope you are well.
I appreciate your offer to accompany you on your travels during spring break, but I’ve reconsidered my response. Upon gaining distance from the situation, I see that I made an error when I agreed to go with you. I simply have too much school work to do this week. As well, I volunteer at a women’s crisis center as their resident desktop support. I do not want to leave without giving them proper notice as they count on me to be here when issues arise. Therefore, please accept my apologies. I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding an alternative.
As well, I would appreciate it if our future topics of conversation were limited to chemistry (and only chemistry) from now on. See you in the lab.
-Parker
“What are you doing?” Sam asked as she walked into our room.
When we arrived back to the dorm, I’d gone to the bathroom first to wash my face and brush my teeth while Sam changed. Then, she went to the bathroom while I changed. But instead of changing, I pulled out my laptop.
“Nothing.”
She tsked, putting away her toiletries. “You’re sending him an email. That’s a mistake.”
“It doesn’t matter if he gets it. I sent it. That’s what matters.”
“That’s not what I meant. You’re giving him a heads-up. Now he’ll be able to plan a counter attack.”
I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. “Counter attack? This is not some exercise from Sun Tsu’s The Art of War, this is me rejecting his free vacation offer. What can he do?”
“You’ll see.” She said this in a sing-song voice, switching off the light on her side of the room, and climbing into bed.
“Besides. I sent it to his school account. He probably won’t even get it.”
“Then he’ll show up tomorrow and you’ll have to deal with him in person.”
“No. I’ll be gone. He said he’d be here at eight. I’ll leave at seven and stay at the library all day.”
“Coward.”
“Is a chameleon a coward because it can change its color? No. It’s evolved and awesome. I like to think of myself in a similar fashion. There is nothing wrong with having a strong sense of self-preservation.”
“Whatever. Do you want me to wake you up? I have tennis practice at six.”
“Nah, I’ll set the alarm on my phone.” I closed my laptop and tucked it next to our shared nightstand, then stood to dress for bed.
After changing, I grabbed my phone to set my alarm for 6:30 a.m. I wanted to be gone long before Martin or one of his people arrived. I usually woke up around 7:30 a.m., therefore the alarm was necessary.
Upon glancing at the screen of my cell, I noticed I had two missed calls from my mother plus a text message. It read,
Just got home. Call when you can. I’ll be up until 2.
My mother: senator, workaholic, efficient conversationalist, superhero.
Distracted by the message, I abandoned my alarm for the moment and dialed my mother’s number. It wouldn’t take long. Our discussions rarely lasted over three minutes. She answered after one point five rings.
“Kaitlyn. You have not communicated your plans for spring break. Is it your intention to join us in Monterey or are you remaining on campus?” my mother’s brisk, businesslike voice sounded from the other end.
She had an agenda and talking points for every conversation. Growing up, she would hand me a paper copy and ask me to follow along. When I was very young, she used pictures in place of words and we’d discuss things like: Three month review: Preschool. Scheduled: Haircut. Action plan required: Cleaning your room. Music: Interfering with scheduled playtime.
Before I left for college, if one or both of my parents were traveling, the family meeting would be conducted via conference call. Now we typically held the meeting via conference call due to my physical absence from home. Topics for discussion ran the gamut of Purchase Request: New Bike, to Family News: Your Grandmother has cancer, to Point of Concern: Time spent on music surpassing time spent on homework, to Scheduled Recreation: Yearly vacation options, to Kaitlyn News: Accepted to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, MIT, Caltech.
“I am remaining on campus.”
“Will Sam be present?”
“Yes.”
“Do you require any funds?”
“No.”
“Are you amenable to a visit with your father and me next Sunday? Brunch or lunch, Kartwell’s Deli.”
“Yes. Sunday. Brunch.”
Even now, family meetings occurred on Sundays. My father and I would submit agenda items to George, my mother’s PA (Personal Assistant) no later than Friday night. A draft agenda would be circulated Saturday afternoon for comment and the final version distributed Saturday evening. Attached to the agenda would be a copy of our individual calendars for the next month, updated weekly.
I’d fallen out of the habit of updating my calendar since leaving home. Agendas, schedules, and lists ensured we made the most efficient use of our time. I knew this. But my schedule only changed once a semester. My life was predictable, therefore I saw no need to send weekly updates.
“How is school?”
“Very well. How is work?”
To my surprise, she didn’t provide her typical rapid-fire response of, “It is what it is.” Instead, she paused then sighed and said, “Terrible.”
My mouth opened and closed, I could feel my eyebrows jump on my forehead. “Uh…care to elaborate?”
“My Net Neutrality measure is not progressing to my satisfaction in The House, the Telecommunications lobbyists are growing rabid, and the FCC is being difficult. I am frustrated.”
I immediately responded, “Net Neutrality is an important issue and worth the effort and frustration. You are doing the right thing.” Every once in a while I served as my mother’s cheerleader. Every so often she served as mine. These occasions were rare as we both believed in self-sufficiency unless circumstances were dire.
However, we loved each other. Neither of us were so austere as to withhold support when it was requested, but I appreciated and subscribed to her no-drama mantra. Energy should be spent on solutions to real problems—like the abysmal status of the US foster care system, or our strained foreign policy with Pakistan, or Telecommunications giants using Net Neutrality as a weapon against the public good—therefore, when she said she was frustrated it usually meant she was at her wit’s end.
“Thank you. I appreciate your words of encouragement and I value your opinion.” Her tone was softer. It was the voice she’d used when I was a kid and she’d read me the first three Harry Potter books before bedtime.
“Anytime.”
She then surprised me further by saying, “You know I love you, right?”
Again, my mouth did its little opening and closing dance before I blurted, “Of course. Of course I know you love me. I love you too.”
“Good…good.”
She told me every Sunday that she loved me. It was the last thing my parents and I would exchange on our conference calls even though it wasn’t listed on the agenda. A mid-week I love you hadn’t occurred since my parents dropped me off at University my freshman year.
I was about to push her for more details on the source of her stres
s, because she was obviously out of sorts and had me concerned, but before I could, her efficient tone was back.
“Please send George your updated calendar with a weekly update for the period of spring break. You do not have classes next week, as such the calendar is incorrect.”
“I will.”
“Thank you. Goodnight, Kaitlyn.”
“Goodnight, Mom.”
She clicked off first. I held the phone to my ear for several seconds before lowering it to the nightstand, then distractedly readied myself for bed.
My mom was the daughter of a physicist (my grandmother) and an astronaut (my grandfather). My grandfather was also a physicist in the Navy. She’d been an overachiever her whole life and believed in goal-focused structure. She was a superhero. She was my hero. Therefore, moments when she allowed herself to display vulnerability were distressing. It was like watching Superman struggle through a bout of kryptonite exposure.
I returned to my pillow and comforter, both of which I loved; they smelled like lavender, and were so cozy, poems should be written about their epic cozy wonder. I snuggled against their softness and willed away the touch of anxiety I felt about my mom’s strange behavior.
Eventually I fell asleep.
5
Basic Concepts of Chemical Bonding
“Parker.”
Fingers were in my hair, brushing it away from my face. Then the fingers caressed a path over my shoulder, down my arm, and fit themselves around mine, squeezing.
“Parker... Time to get up. Time to go.” A mystery male voice reverberated in my head. It was a nice voice. It made my insides feel like a warm marshmallow, sweet and fluffy and melting.
I lifted my eyebrows but couldn’t quite open my eyes; I asked in a sleep mumble, “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to the beach.”
The words sounded faraway and my drowsy brain told me to ignore them. I began to drift.
“You’re cute when you don’t want to wake up.” The mystery voice sounded both growly and amused. I liked the mystery voice.
I also liked the word cute, but not as much as its alternates. “Adorable, captivating, charming, darling…”
“What?”
“Synonyms.”
“Okay. Come on, Cutie pie. Wake up.” The hand was on my face, cupping my cheek. I noted that it felt exceptionally callused. A thumb brushed back and forth, whisper light touches over my bottom lip, sending little shivers down my neck to my spine.
I opened one eye, managed a squint at the fuzzy form, and recognized the owner of the mystery voice. It was Martin Sandeke. And it looked like he was sitting on my bed. I couldn’t quite make sense of it.
“What’s going on?” I rubbed my eyes with the base of my palms, still someplace between my dreams and reality, but closer to dreams.
This was a dream. I was certain. It was a dream within a dream or one of those dreams that felt eerily real. Maybe, if I was lucky, I’d be able to control the action of the dream and spend some naked time with Martin Sandeke’s superior physique without the danger of his personality ruining things.
“I’m picking you up for our trip.” His hand settled on my bare thigh. The weight of it felt very real.
I stopped mid-eye rub, opting for motionless contemplation instead of a gasping shriek.
“Martin?” I asked to what I hoped would be an empty room.
“Yes?”
I jumped to a sitting position, my eyes flying open. “Oh my God, what are you doing here?”
Martin was sitting on the edge of my bed toward the middle. I stared at him; he was wearing dark, faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and a smile. He was so handsome I felt like filing a civil lawsuit against his parents, claiming punitive damages, pain and suffering to my psyche.
“I’m picking you up.”
I reached for my phone to check the time. It was 7:00 a.m.
“What? What? Why? What?” was all I could manage, because my alarm didn’t go off.
I had fallen off to sleep, but forgot to set my alarm… Gah!
So, Martin was one hour early and he was here. In my room. Sitting on my bed. Watching me like he wanted me for…things.
He leaned forward, his gaze on my mouth somehow both gentle and wicked. Horrified that he might try to kiss me first thing in the morning, I scrambled to my feet and ran off the bed, jumping from the mattress like it was a spring board. I’m sure I jostled him on my way.
I reached for my bag and pulled out my Wintermint gum, unwrapping three pieces, and shoving them into my mouth.
“It’s seven,” I said sloppily around the wad in my mouth.
“Yes. I’m early.”
I glanced over my shoulder and found Martin Sandeke had stretched himself out on my bed, ankles crossed, leaning against my pillow, his laced together fingers resting behind his head.
Turning fully around, I aggressively chewed and stared at him. His eyes were moving up and down my body with a heated and slow appraisal. I glanced down at myself. I was wearing my Sponge Bob Square Pants tank top and sleep shorts. But I wasn’t wearing a bra and my shape was easily discernable through the fitted shirt.
I crossed my arms over my chest and stiffened my spine. “How did you get in?”
“I have my ways…” He’d gone from appraising to ogling. He licked his lips. The action felt malicious. “Why don’t you come over here?”
“I’m perfectly fine over here,” I said primly, but the effect was ruined by the gob of gum in my mouth that was quickly losing its flavor. I reached for a napkin next to my food stuffs and daintily rid myself of the gum, tossing it into the trash two feet from my position. The nice thing about dorms is that everything is within reach.
However, I’d positioned myself on the side opposite the door. If I wanted to leave I’d have to walk by Martin on my way out.
Abruptly he said, “Bring the red pants.”
“What?”
“When you pack, bring those red pants. I’ve been thinking about them a lot.”
I sputtered, “I’m not bringing the red pants.”
He shrugged, his hands still folded behind his head. “Fine. Don’t bring the red pants. Bring nothing.”
“I’m not bringing nothing, I’m not bringing anything!”
“Good. We’re in agreement.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m not bringing anything because I’m not going.”
He squinted at me. “You promised.”
“Under duress.”
“I wasn’t holding a gun to your head.”
“No, just holding yourself to my body. That’s quite enough to put me in a state of duress.”
“My body places you in a state of duress?” Something wicked sparked behind his eyes.
“Of course. Of course it does. What a ridiculous question. Your body causes distress, disquiet, desolation, and puts me in a state of duress.”
He grinned, sitting up in the bed like he planned to stand up. “Maybe I’ll use it now.”
“Please don’t.” I held up my hand as though it could stop him. It didn’t stop him. He stood, reached for and closed the door, then whipped his shirt off. My mouth went dry. My heart thumped painfully. My girl parts forcefully made their opinion known.
Me want Martin flavored cookie! Me want cookie now!!
The sight was indecent because the sight immediately made me want to do several indecent things to him, around him, near him, on top, underneath, adjacent to—if it was a preposition, I wanted to do it with Martin.
“Ack! No!” I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my face with my hands. “Not the chest! Anything but the chest!”
“Anything?” I did not miss the wicked teasing in his taunt, nor did I miss the distinct sound of a zipper being undone.
“Okay, I lied. Shirtless is fine, just please, please, please don’t take off your pants.” I turned from him, still covering my face with one hand, and blindly reached for the door of the closet with the other. The closet ran the l
ength of one wall and had sliding doors. I knew I would be able to fit inside. Maybe I could barricade myself until he left, or throw my shoes at him like missiles.
For the first time in my life I wished I owned spiky heels instead of mostly sneakers. I did have one pair of Doc Martins, however…
His pants hit the floor, the change in his pocket jingling on the descent, and I imagined he was now toeing off his shoes.
“For the love of Bunsen, please put your pants back on.” My voice sounded desperate because I was desperate.
I slid the closet door open just as Martin’s hands claimed my hips from behind. I stiffened because he pressed his bare chest to my back and his groin to my bottom. He was hard and I was soft, and I was convinced I was about to die of… something related to abrupt sexual desire. I released a tortured moan because I could feel his stiff thickness through his boxers—or briefs, or boxer briefs.
Unthinkingly I reached around me, my eyes still shut, and encountered the thin cotton of his boxer briefs just as he bit and kissed my neck. I yanked my hand back. “You’re in your underwear.”
“So are you.”
“Oh my God. Who does that? Why would you do that?”
“I’m launching a counter attack.”
“A counter attack? I haven’t attacked. You can’t launch a counter attack until the other person has attacked.”
“Fine.” Kiss. Bite. Tongue. Lick. “Then it’s a preemptive strike,” he said, hand under my shirt, on my stomach. Other hand over my shirt, kneading my breast.
Some instinct had me pressing my bottom backward and against him as I arched into the hand toying with my breast.
“You think I’m only interested in you for one thing. You’re wrong,” he whispered against my ear, hot breath spilling against my neck making me shiver, his hand on my stomach inching lower.
“This, what you’re doing now, how you’re touching me, does not give credibility to your words.” My breath hitched, my brain disengaging.
“You’re wrong. I’ll prove it to you.”
Beach Reads Box Set Page 5