He wasn’t avoiding me. He simply wasn’t here.
I hadn’t seen him at the keynote. Nor among the attendees mingling and drinking cocktails afterward. I hadn’t seen him in the lobby this morning, nor had I caught sight of him heading to the first conference session.
The conference was large, but not so populous that he could have gone completely unnoticed. Not with how intently I’d been looking for him.
Only out of professional concern, of course. Naturally I’d wonder where my colleague was.
It had nothing to do with what we’d done yesterday afternoon. That had been a mere opportunistic sexual encounter. Two people who’d already determined their physical compatibility, engaging in a mutually pleasing act. That was all.
Which meant it shouldn’t have stung so much when he’d abruptly left my room. But it had.
He’d hesitated, half-dressed, and for a moment, I’d wondered if he would ask to stay. Or suggest we have dinner together. And in that moment, I’d stupidly let myself yearn for it. My illogical heart had swelled with hope.
But he hadn’t. He’d left.
And that was precisely why I was so anxious to see him again. I needed to show my silly heart that it didn’t need to be involved where Corban Nash was concerned. There wasn’t anything between us. No reason for my heart to be hurting today.
I slipped out of the first session approximately one minute early. Adjusting my glasses, I scanned the lobby outside the conference rooms. There were a handful of people—attendees with name badges around their necks—but no Corban. I checked my phone, but he hadn’t replied to my texts.
Of course, he was probably in the neighboring conference room, listening to a different session. Perhaps he’d arrived a few minutes late, when I’d already taken my seat in the first room, and I’d missed him.
Or maybe he’d decided to skip the morning session in favor of a walk on the beach. That was possible. It didn’t seem like him, but the weather was beautiful.
The sessions ended and all four conference room doors opened. Attendees filed out and the hum of noise in the lobby grew. Some headed for the growing line at the coffee bar. Others checked their schedules or their phones. Small knots of people formed, introductions were made, conversations began or continued.
Still no Corban.
Where was he?
My phone hadn’t vibrated with a notification, but I checked it again anyway. Nothing. Feeling agitated and jittery, yet still assuring myself this was only professional concern, I peeked into each of the conference rooms. Maybe he was talking to someone. One of the presenters, perhaps.
He wasn’t there, either.
A sick feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. Had he left? We weren’t supposed to go home until this weekend, but he could have called the airline and changed his flight.
Had he gone home because of me?
I debated what to do. Press on with the conference and assume there was a logical explanation for his absence? Ask the front desk if he’d checked out? Call Elliott to see if he’d heard from Corban?
There were fifteen-minute breaks between sessions. Plenty of time to go upstairs and knock on his door. I’d simply go up there and find out for myself what was going on.
Because he had to be there. He couldn’t have left.
The elevator seemed to move in slow motion, rising from floor to floor as if it had no reason at all to hurry. I tapped my foot and tugged on my name badge, growing increasingly impatient.
And increasingly angry.
Corban had given me one of the most intense orgasms of my entire life—vying for the title with the copy room orgasm, also courtesy of Corban—and then disappeared. If he’d decided to blow off the conference, the least he could have done is text me to let me know. He had to realize I’d expect to see him, if not last night, then certainly this morning.
The elevator doors opened on our floor. I barely noticed the humidity of the outside corridor. I was too busy fuming at Corban. My heels clicked on the ground, my gait going from a walk to a determined march. I wasn’t hurt that he’d abandoned me. I was angry at his rudeness.
That’s what I told myself, at least.
I stopped in front of his door, my spine straight, and knocked. Hard.
Nothing.
I knocked again. Waited. Still nothing.
A lump rose in my throat. Leaning closer to the door, I strained to listen for signs of life inside. For any sound that would tell me he was still here.
Silence.
Anger flashed through me again and I felt the frustrating burn of tears. Damn him. He had no right to leave without telling me. The next time I saw him, I was going to—
The door opened.
The first thing I noticed was Corban’s lack of glasses. His hair was a mess—even more than usual—and his t-shirt and sweats were rumpled, like he’d just gotten out of bed. But it was his face that made my breath catch. His eyes were heavy, ringed by dark circles, and his skin was deathly pale.
“Oh my god, what happened to you?”
“Stop.” He lifted a hand, palm facing out, and his voice was rough. “Don’t come closer.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to get you sick.”
He looked unsteady on his feet, like he was about to fall over.
“You need to get back in bed.”
Ignoring his weak protests, I stepped into his room and put my arm around him. He shuffled toward the closest bed, his feet barely leaving the floor. His skin was hot—I could feel the feverish heat coming off him.
“When did this happen? You seemed fine yesterday.”
He collapsed onto the bed and closed his eyes. “Last night. I felt a little off after… you know. Fell asleep in my room. Woke up a few hours later feeling like I got hit by a bus.”
I put my things down, then touched his forehead and face with the back of my hand. “Fever. What are your other symptoms?”
“Everything hurts and I want to die.”
“Any vomiting?”
“No.”
“Diarrhea?”
He cracked an eye open. “God, Hazel. Really?”
“I need to know if you’re in danger of dehydration.”
“No. You shouldn’t be in here. Whatever this is, you don’t want it. Trust me.”
“Corban, we exchanged copious amounts of bodily fluids less than twenty-four hours ago. If this is a viral infection, I’ve already been exposed.”
He just groaned and closed his eyes.
I looked at him for a moment, lying on his side, his legs bent. His face was flushed with fever, his skin sallow. He was disheveled and miserable.
And utterly adorable.
I ran my fingers through his hair, a gesture that was overly familiar, considering we were barely even friends. But we’d also slept together twice, so I decided my urge to physically comfort him wasn’t out of place.
“Have you had any water?”
He didn’t open his eyes. “Some.”
“What about food?”
“No.”
“Do you want anything?”
“Death. Sleep. I don’t know.”
“Okay,” I murmured, smoothing his hair one last time. “I’ll be right back.”
I found his room key sitting on the bedside table, so I tucked it in my pocket, grabbed my purse, and went downstairs to the shop in the lobby for supplies. There I found bottled water, microwavable soups, and ibuprofen to bring down his fever. I brought everything back to his room and roused him enough to sip some water.
He was still hot and clammy, so I soaked a washcloth in cool water. At first, I stood by the bed, holding it to his forehead. But I had to lean over at an odd angle, so finally I got on the bed with him.
“You should go back to the conference,” he muttered.
“Don’t worry about me. I will.”
I pressed the washcloth to his neck and gently stroked his back. It seemed to help him relax. The tension in his forehead e
ased and his breathing slowed. Even after the washcloth had warmed from his body heat, I stayed next to him, touching him softly. Rubbing slow circles across his back and idly threading my fingers through his hair.
After a while, he seemed to have fallen asleep. I glanced at the clock next to the bed. I’d missed the second session, but if I left now, I could listen to the lunch lecture.
But Corban might be hungry when he woke up. If he wanted some of the soup I’d bought, it would be easier for him if I was here to heat it up.
It wouldn’t hurt if I stayed. There was an extra pillow right here. This way I’d be close if Corban got worse.
I glanced at the door, wondering what I was doing. This didn’t make sense, and I knew it. Why would I stay? It wasn’t strictly necessary, and given the nature of our relationship, it was probably out of place. But even though I couldn’t explain why, I didn’t want him to be alone. I felt compelled to stay.
Leaving my glasses on the bedside table, I settled in next to him. After a moment, I glanced around the room—not that anyone was around to see—and scooted closer.
Closer.
A little bit closer.
Until I was right up against his back and could feel him breathing.
Just a precaution in case his condition turned significantly worse, of course. Not because my body craved closeness with his.
He was still feverish but sleeping peacefully. I’d just stay for a little while. With my body tucked against him, I relaxed and waited while Corban slept.
21
Corban
“Mathematics is not about numbers, equations, computations, or algorithms: it is about understanding.” ~ William Paul Thurston
The first time I woke up, Hazel was there. I didn’t know what time it was, but daylight peeked through a small gap in the curtains. She was curled up next to me, her hands tucked beneath the pillow, her eyes closed. My head was too fuzzy and my body hurt too much to contemplate what it meant. All I knew was that I was glad she was here.
I relaxed and went back to sleep.
The second time I woke up, she was sitting in bed next to me, reading by the light of a lamp. I was dimly aware of her touching my face and smoothing back my hair. She gave me a few sips of water and offered me soup. But I wasn’t ready for food.
But unlike the previous night, when whatever shitty virus I’d caught had kept me up, tossing and turning, my body was calm. Relaxed. I drank some more water and went back to sleep.
It helped knowing she was there.
The third time my eyes opened, I could tell my fever had broken. I didn’t feel good, exactly, but the haze in my brain had lifted and I was no longer hot and clammy. Light once again peeked through a crack in the curtains. It was probably morning.
I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, then rubbed my hands up and down my face. I was weak and sore, but it seemed like the worst was over. What a crappy time to get sick. Not that there was ever a good time, but alone in a hotel thousands of miles from home was particularly bad.
Except, I hadn’t been alone. Hazel must have been here all day yesterday. She’d missed the first day of the conference to take care of me.
That realization made my chest feel tight. Not only had she come looking for me, she’d stayed.
I put on my glasses and checked my phone. I had a text from her, asking me to let her know when I woke up. I replied that I was up and feeling better. Less than a minute later, there was a knock at my door.
“Morning,” I said when I opened the door.
Hazel’s short-sleeved shirt was white with dark blue dots and pearly white buttons. My mouth twitched in a hint of a smile, thinking about the buttons flying off her shirt the other day. I’d probably ruined that one, but I had no regrets.
“You seem to be recovering quickly.” She stepped in and put the back of her hand to my forehead, then touched my neck. “Body temperature appears to be normal. How are you feeling?”
“Better.” I let the door shut and she followed me inside. “Still kind of run down, but I also haven’t eaten since the flight.”
“Would you like me to heat up some soup?”
“You don’t have to do that. You’ll miss more of the conference.”
She raised her eyebrows. I knew that look. Determination, or maybe stubbornness. But it meant she wasn’t going to back down.
“It’s fine. I can stay.”
I lowered myself onto the edge of one of the beds. “I don’t have the energy to argue with you. But I need more than soup. How about we get room service?”
“Are you sure your digestive system is ready for something substantial?”
“Yes. My digestive system needs waffles.”
That made her smile. “Very well. Waffles it is.”
I called room service and ordered eggs and waffles, plus coffee for me and tea for Hazel. While we waited for breakfast, I decided to shower. I hadn’t since I’d been here, and I felt gross from the fever. By the time I came out, dressed in a clean t-shirt and pair of sweats, I felt mostly human again.
Our food arrived and we took the tray to one of the beds. I wasted no time scarfing down everything on my plate. Hazel looked amused, but I didn’t care. I was starving.
“Feel better?” She took a sip of her tea.
“Much.”
“Good.”
She was probably going to go once she finished her tea. Which kind of sucked. I didn’t want her to leave, but it didn’t make sense to ask her to stay.
A train of thought took off, the idea racing through my brain.
A dangerous idea.
A terrible idea.
An irresistible idea.
Once the thought hit my frontal lobe, I couldn’t get it out. So I just said it. “Do you want to do my questionnaire together?”
Her mouth parted and she blinked a few times behind her glasses. “You want me to do your questionnaire with you?”
“Yes.”
“The one you claim makes people fall in love with each other?”
I decided not to counter with, it does make people fall in love with each other, but to consider it a win that she hadn’t thrown something at me for suggesting it.
“It’s actually more complex than that. The questionnaire is designed to develop intimacy, which is a necessary condition for falling in love.”
“So you’re saying you want to develop intimacy with me?”
The thought train was still racing through my head and I was along for the ride. I didn’t particularly want to contemplate why I’d suggested we do my questionnaire. There were reasons—I could sense them pushing at the edges of my consciousness. But I was vaguely aware that if I thought too hard about those reasons, I’d balk.
I adjusted my glasses. “I just figured it might be interesting. And you don’t have to worry; it won’t make you fall in love with me against your will.”
Her back straightened. “I’m sure it won’t.”
Of course it won’t. It doesn’t work on me. “Will you do it?”
She pursed her lips but still didn’t answer.
One corner of my mouth turned up in a grin. “What if I dare you?”
“Are we children on a playground? You’re going to issue a dare?”
The spark in her eyes contrasted with her words. I was getting to her.
“Yeah, I am. Hazel, I dare you to go through my questionnaire with me. Right now.”
Her eyes narrowed and a flush of pink hit her cheeks. It was such a turn on when she looked at me like that. Even better when it wasn’t because we were arguing.
“This isn’t a controlled environment. It won’t have any scientific merit.”
“I know. It’s not an experiment. Just two people in a hotel room asking each other questions.”
“Fine.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I’ll do it. But only out of professional curiosity.”
We cleared the remnants of breakfast and I got out my laptop. There was a small table
with two chairs, but she sat cross-legged on the bed, so I joined her. I liked that she’d chosen to sit here. It felt more personal.
Plus, I liked her on my bed. Even if we were dressed and I wasn’t bending her in half.
“How are we going to do this?” she asked.
I clicked to open the document. “It’s pretty simple. There are thirty questions, and they—”
“Get increasingly deep and complex. I know, I’ve read your articles.”
I lifted my eyes to meet hers. “And argued with every one.”
“Valid criticisms.”
“If you say so. You’ve read my articles, but I don’t publish my questionnaire publicly yet, so you haven’t seen that. Thirty questions designed to make each partner increasingly open and vulnerable.”
She shifted, like she was trying to get comfortable. “All right. Are there any specific parameters that need to be followed?”
“That’s a good question. I haven’t determined how variables like encouraging or discouraging back and forth conversation or imposing a time limit change the results. Obviously, I need a lot more data. But since we’re just doing this out of—what did you say, professional curiosity?”
She nodded.
“Then we can just see how it goes.”
“Fair enough.”
I turned my laptop so we could both see it. “It seems to work best if we take turns asking the questions. But we both need to answer each one. Do you want to start?”
She nodded took a deep breath. “First question. What is your favorite holiday, and why?”
“Christmas, because I like getting presents. I like giving them, too.”
“Very deep, Corban. I feel like I know so much about you now,” she deadpanned.
“Just answer the question.”
Her mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. “Halloween, because ever since high school, my friend Nora has picked matching costumes for us. She dresses me up and I get to pretend to be someone, or something, else.”
“Why do you want to be someone else?”
She glanced at the screen. “That’s not the next question.”
“I know. I’m just asking because I’m curious.”
It took her a moment to answer. “I suppose because it’s fun to pretend. I’m different from my friends, but when we’re all dressed like cats, or witches, or zombie prom queens, I feel very included. Which, when I think about it, is an odd sentiment, because they never make me feel excluded.”
Love According to Science Page 16