Questions were the lifeblood of a scientist’s work. Words like what if and why were mainstays in our vocabularies. Even if our theories and experiments didn’t produce conclusive results—even when the questions were too big to be answered easily—they drove us to keep deepening our understanding of the world.
I wanted to know why. Why was Corban hurting?
By mid-afternoon, I still hadn’t found a moment alone with him. Perhaps I’d invite him to dinner again. I gathered up a few things and headed down the hallway, smiling at the thought. Dinner with Corban would be nice. He so enthusiastically enjoyed my cooking.
And we both enthusiastically enjoyed other things together.
I stopped in the copy room to make a few copies. The machine whirred, spitting out warm sheets of paper onto the side tray. I picked them up and took my original.
Corban came in and paused just inside the doorway. Warmth hit my cheeks and my stomach tingled with a rush of excitement. Memories of our first encounter in this room flitted through my mind, making my heart beat faster.
The urge to resist him—to treat him as my nemesis—had faded. Although I had no intention of repeating our first sexual encounter in this precise location, his workplace flirtations had become enjoyable and welcome. I smiled, ready for him to make a suggestive comment.
Or maybe even kiss me.
I hoped he’d kiss me. We could get away with it. No one else was around.
But his eyes didn’t shine with playfulness and no hint of a smile tugged at his lips.
“Are you finished?” he asked. “I can come back.”
I hugged the papers to my chest. “I’m finished.”
He didn’t say anything else. Just brushed past me to stand in front of the copy machine. Perhaps he was tired. I’d left his apartment late, and maybe, like me, he’d been up for several more hours.
It was tempting to launch into an explanation of the research I’d done. But I was hoping for a chance to ask questions. Standing in the copy room wasn’t particularly conducive to an in-depth discussion.
And his body language was sending me confusing messages. His shoulders were bunched, and he hadn’t made eye contact. I hesitated for a moment, but he didn’t say anything. No remarks about meeting here again or teasing comments about the buttons on my shirt.
Something was wrong.
My brow furrowed as I studied him from behind. I opened my mouth to ask if he was feeling well, but he picked up his copies and moved past me with barely a nod in my direction.
“Corban.”
He didn’t stop, so I hurried to catch up with him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just have a lot to do.”
I kept walking next to him. “I’m sure you do, but I can’t help but think something is bothering you.”
He stopped outside his office and our eyes met. He held my gaze for a few seconds, then looked away. “I’m okay. Just distracted, I guess.”
“Have you had lunch?”
His eyebrows drew together. “I don’t think so. What time is it?”
“After three.”
“No wonder I’m so hungry.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “You should eat. Did you bring lunch? I’ll come sit with you.”
“I’m not really in the mood for—” He stopped abruptly, meeting my eyes again, and seemed to change his mind. “Yeah, sure.”
I ducked into my office to retrieve my folder of research, then walked with him to the staff lounge. It was empty. He got his lunch out of the fridge and I poured myself hot water to make tea.
Dunking my tea bag, I joined him at a table. Small talk wasn’t my best skill, so I decided to get straight to the point. “I did some research last night.”
“About what?” he asked around a bite of his sandwich.
I opened the folder and thumbed through the information I’d printed. “A variety of things. Parent-child dynamics in adulthood. Attachment theory. Twin studies, especially as they relate to fraternal twins raised in the same household.”
His brow furrowed. “Why?”
“I have questions. You said your parents don’t view you as successful despite your numerous accomplishments, and that they compare you unfavorably to your sister.”
“So you printed out a bunch of studies?”
“This is just a preliminary look at the relevant literature. I’m sure there are angles I haven’t considered.”
He took another bite of his sandwich and chewed slowly.
“The relational dynamics within a nuclear family can heavily influence everything from personality development to self-perception to adult decision-making. It seems to me that your parents relate to you and your sister in sharply differing ways. Which led me to wonder what sort of effect that would have on your ability to form emotional attachments.”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “It did?”
“Yes.” I pulled out a sheet of paper. “And the fact that you’re a twin is another important variable. Attempts at self-differentiation are most commonly seen in identical twins raised together, but a similar phenomenon can be observed in fraternal twins, even of different genders.”
“Meaning what? You think I’ve never gotten married or started a family like my sister because I’m trying to differentiate myself from her?”
I adjusted my glasses. “Perhaps, although I suspect it’s deeper than that. The emphasis your parents seem to place on certain outcomes is also a factor. Do you feel compelled to live up to their expectations? Or is it more natural for you to follow your own path, regardless of parental pressures?”
“Are those your questions or did they come from some study?”
I thumbed through the papers again. “Both. There’s a study on—”
“What are you doing?” he asked, cutting me off.
“Discussing what I found in a preliminary search through the relevant literature.”
“What do you think you’re going to find in there?” He gestured to my folder. “The answer to what’s wrong with me? It’s not there. Trust me, I’ve looked.”
“I didn’t mean to imply there’s something wrong with you.”
Pressing his lips together, he looked away. “Look, my parents are fine. They don’t really understand me, but I’m used to it. It’s not a big deal.”
It seemed like a big deal to me. The pain in his eyes was unmistakable. It made me hurt for him. With him. Which was an odd sensation I couldn’t recall experiencing before—not with this degree of intensity. But this wasn’t about me.
“I disagree. And research suggests—”
“Research?” He cut me off again. “Do you think I haven’t read this stuff before? I know you’re the expert and I’m just the data guy, but give me some credit.”
“That isn’t what I meant. I just thought this might help. Knowledge leads to understanding which leads to solutions.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t try to fix me.”
“You’re misunderstanding my intention. I don’t think you need fixing.”
He pointed to my stack of papers. “Then what’s that?”
“It’s data. And maybe I spent my time looking in the wrong places. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’m trying to understand.”
“I’m not a fucking a lab experiment, Hazel.” He gathered up his lunch and stood. “I have a lot to do. I should get back to my office.”
The crisp sheet of paper slipped from my fingers as I watched him go.
He was angry.
Why was he angry?
Couldn’t he see that I wanted to help? He understood data better than anyone else I knew. I’d thought for sure he’d be as interested as I was in what the research had to say.
This was science. Science had the answers.
But maybe they weren’t the answers he wanted. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to hear them from me.
33
Hazel
“You cannot teach a man anyth
ing; you can only help him discover it in himself.” ~Galileo
The row of macarons I piped were perfect—shiny, round, and even. Pausing with the pastry bag held to the side, I smiled in satisfaction. These would not only be delicious, but pretty to look at. Exactly what I was aiming for.
I’d started my Saturday with an early morning run. We didn’t have long before the Soggy Seattle Half, and the training plan I’d devised called for decreasing mileage leading up to race day. We wanted to be fresh and energized on the day of the race, not sore and tired. This morning’s shorter run had left me feeling good.
For the most part, at least. An undercurrent of worry poked at me as I piped another row of macarons. Could I really do this? Could I run over thirteen miles?
Even without Sophie’s bet with Bella Ferndale, that prospect would have been daunting. Logically, I knew the progressive nature of the training program, and my adherence to it, would enable me to finish. But the increased competitiveness stirred my self-doubt. I could explain to my friends everything they’d ever wanted to know—and then some—about race training. And had. But could I successfully apply it?
This was pushing me outside my comfort zone in ways I hadn’t anticipated.
I finished another row of macarons. Erwin stretched out near the entrance to the kitchen, a fluffy pile of gray fur on the carpet.
“What do you think, Erwin? Will I be able to finish the race?”
He twitched an ear.
“Well, yes, objectively speaking, I shouldn’t be concerned about finishing. Even if I wasn’t adequately prepared and had to walk much of the distance, I could finish. But crossing the finish line isn’t enough.”
I spooned more batter into the pastry bag.
“Look at me, Erwin. I’m a scientist, not an athlete. The Bedazzled Bitches might have terrible taste in fashion, but they’re good runners. They’re experienced. Who knows, maybe there’s something to all those gemstones they use on their shirts.”
Erwin licked a paw and ran it over his flat nose.
“I know, that’s silly. There’s no objective reason their bedazzling would make them faster. Although maybe there’s something to their matching attire. It undoubtedly creates a sense of connectedness between them.”
I finished piping the macarons while Erwin groomed himself, and put them in the preheated oven. There was more batter, so I prepped a second baking sheet.
Before I got started on the next batch, I checked my phone. No new messages. My stomach sank with a renewed sense of disappointment. Corban and I hadn’t spoken since yesterday. I kept hoping he’d reach out and want to talk. But he hadn’t. And maybe he wasn’t going to.
“I feel bad for upsetting Corban. But I’m not sure what to do to make things better.”
As usual, Erwin didn’t answer. But as I went back to the kitchen, I kept talking. Maybe it would help me make sense of my tangled thoughts.
“I didn’t intend to treat him like a lab experiment. I simply had questions. And what do we do when we have questions? That’s right, first we look at the literature to see what’s already been discovered and explained.”
That was true, when the questions were scientific in nature. Questions about human behavior and related outcomes lent themselves well to structured research. We gathered data and drew conclusions based on our findings.
But Corban wasn’t a subsection of the population. He wasn’t a dot on a graph or a percentage. He was a man.
“Oh, Erwin. No wonder he was upset. He was right, I was treating him like a lab experiment. And he isn’t. He’s a unique human being. He’s a man with his own history, personality, and talents. A person can’t be distilled into a data set. Especially not a person like him.”
I started piping a new row of macarons onto the baking sheet.
“He’s intelligent and insightful. Somehow he manages to be handsome in a strong, masculine way, and also charming and adorable. He’s funny and talented, and he knows so many interesting things. I could talk to him for hours. You know what he’s like, Erwin; you’ve met him. He’s…”
I slowly lowered the pastry bag, my latest row of macarons only half-finished. But I was experiencing a feeling.
A big feeling.
An intense surge of emotion flooded through me. It wasn’t new. I’d felt it before, but until this moment, I hadn’t let myself truly feel it in all its fullness.
I’d felt it as I ran my fingers through Corban’s hair when he’d been sick.
When he’d stood up for me at the vet.
Each time he’d stolen a kiss at work or grinned at me like we shared a secret.
It had been there, trying to nudge its way to the front of my brain, every time I’d lain in bed with him, my body warm and satisfied. That had been more than the release of oxytocin and the flood of dopamine. More than just physical gratification.
And now, with a pastry bag dangling from my limp fingers, I felt the full force of the truth.
I was falling in love with Corban Nash.
Scientific curiosity wasn’t driving my desire to understand him. I cared about him. Deeply. I didn’t want to examine him under a microscope. I wanted to feel him laid bare, physically and emotionally, and I wanted to be right there with him, open and vulnerable.
I wanted intimacy with him. Real intimacy.
The oven beeped and I almost dropped the pastry bag.
“Oh my god, Erwin. Do I love him?”
My cat didn’t seem nearly as unhinged by this realization as I was. But I’d never felt this intensely about someone before. I’d dated and even gotten married—although that had proved to be an ill-advised decision—but I’d never felt this way about any of them.
I’d never been in love.
Erwin let his chin settle on his front paws and closed his eyes.
I pulled the baking sheet out of the oven and set it on a cooling rack, my hands trembling. Instead of finishing the cookies, I turned the oven off.
How had I not realized it? I was a smart woman. I understood the science of human attraction. But I’d been walking around, living my life, working with him, sleeping with him, and I hadn’t put the pieces together?
Or maybe I hadn’t wanted to put the pieces together. After all, I’d said I wasn’t interested in dating again, and declared his questionnaire wouldn’t work.
I’d been so determined to be right—or perhaps determined to avoid being wrong—that I’d pushed my feelings aside. Avoided them. Denied them.
What else had I missed?
“This raises an important follow-up question. If I’m falling in love with him, does he feel the same about me?”
Erwin looked up this time, lifting his head and opening his eyes. He meowed, a distinct feline verbalization.
Had my cat just answered me?
I stared at him, open-mouthed. Maybe my habit of talking to Erwin had caused a mental break with reality. Or perhaps this was simply my brain assigning meaning to a coincidence.
Either way, I needed to know. Because I had a feeling the answer to my question was yes. Corban was falling in love with me just as surely as I was falling in love with him.
At least, it was possible. It had to be.
My usual response to a burning question or personal revelation was to do what I did best. Research. But this time, instead of sitting down at my laptop and searching for everything I could find on feelings of romantic love—how did one know?—I did something very un-Hazel-like.
I trusted my instincts.
This couldn’t wait. I didn’t need data or research to confirm what I felt—what I’d been stubbornly refusing to see. And my instincts were telling me, loud and clear, that what I needed to do now was tell him.
The prospect was scary and exhilarating—what if I was wrong and he didn’t feel the same?—and I almost talked myself out of it twice before I put on my shoes to leave. But what good would it do to wait? The last time I’d seen him, I’d made a mistake, and he’d walked away hurt. I didn’t
want to let that linger any longer than necessary.
Energized by the combination of emotion and resolve, I gathered my things and drove straight to Corban’s apartment.
He lived in a large brick building about ten minutes from me. I went inside and took the stairs up to his floor.
My heart raced and my mouth felt dry. I didn’t know if I was excited, scared, or perhaps a combination of both. What was I going to say? What was he going to say once I’d said it? None of the speeches I’d attempted to rehearse on the drive over had felt right. Maybe I didn’t need to say anything other than the important parts. Just, Corban I’m here to tell you that I’m sorry for treating you like a lab rat and by the way, I think I’m falling in love with you.
That wouldn’t be so hard. Would it?
Feeling jittery and unable to stop smiling, I approached his door. I bit my bottom lip and knocked.
The door opened and a blond woman wearing nothing but a plaid button-down shirt—Corban’s shirt—and underwear answered.
My excited smile melted. It was Paisley Hayes.
His sister’s best friend and his high school crush. Answering his door. In nothing but his shirt and her underwear.
The pit of my stomach felt like it had dropped through the floor. I checked the apartment number. Had I gotten the wrong one?
“Can I help you?” Paisley asked.
“Sorry, I must have the wrong apartment.”
“Are you looking for Corban?”
“Yes.”
“You’re in the right place, but…” She paused and glanced over her shoulder. “He’s in the shower.”
The faint sound of running water carried through the apartment.
Why was Paisley in his apartment while he was showering? Given the way she was dressed, I had a good idea. But he couldn’t have. He wouldn’t.
Would he?
“Do you want me to let him know you stopped by?”
I didn’t miss the false sweetness in her voice, nor the way she eyed me like she’d just scored a victory.
“Sure.”
Paisley smiled. “Hailey, right? I’ll tell him.”
Love According to Science Page 25