Elements of Chemistry: Parts 1-3

by Penny Reid

  “I was hoping you’d be working today.” Still looking at me, he passed Chelsea a twenty.

  Her eyes bounced between us, narrowing more.

  “That’s right, I forgot. I told you I worked here.”

  “Are you going to make my coffee?” He grinned, leaving his twenty on the counter for Chelsea to pick up, and floated closer to where I was mostly hidden by the machines. But I wasn’t really hidden from him because he was so tall. He could easily see over the row of contraptions. Realizing this, I stopped twisting my fingers and reached for a large cup.

  “Yes. I am your barista at this fine establishment. It is my pleasure to make you coffee.” I lamented the fact that, due to my uneasiness, I sounded like an android.

  He must’ve noticed my odd speech pattern too, because he asked, “Do you always talk like that?”

  “Like what? Like Mr. Roboto?”

  “No, like awesome.”

  My lips parted and I blinked at him, his comment catching me completely off guard. When his eyes began to dance and his grin widened, I realized he was using our past to tease me. This might have pissed me off two weeks ago, Martin thinking he had the right to tease me about anything, but the fact that he’d given me his gloves when I was cold and read The Lord of the Rings somehow made his teasing not…bad.

  “You’re weird,” I blabbered unthinkingly and shook my head at him and his bizarre teasing. But I had to twist my lips to the side to keep from returning his contagious smile. “Why are you here, weirdo?”

  He seemed pleased with my name-calling and drifted closer until he was directly in front of me, only the machines between us. “I want to talk to you. Do you have a break soon?”

  “Umm…” I stalled by commencing coffee creation; I flipped the brew switch and moved two doppio cups under the dual espresso dispenser.

  I was way overdue for a break. Chelsea had taken three, and I’d taken one. I glanced at Chelsea, found her watching us with a frown. It wasn’t an angry frown or a sinister frown; rather, it was a the world has ceased making sense frown. Her brain was obviously working overtime trying to figure out how I knew her Chris Pine, aka my Martin Sandeke.

  “S-s-s-sure. Let me finish your Americano and I’ll make myself some tea. Go grab a table.” I tilted my chin to the one by the window, in the center of the café.

  “Good. Will you please bring me a muffin? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  I could only nod and stare at him, again caught off guard by his conversational tone—like we were old friends—as well as the use of the word please. The smile he gave me before he departed was softer, smaller, but somehow more devastating than his others. As I watched him ignore the spot I’d indicated in favor of a very private table in the corner, I mulled over his strange behavior.

  The smiling.

  The teasing.

  The manners.

  The lack of bluntness and demands.

  It was all very disconcerting.

  Disconcerting, distressing, confusing, alarming, perplexing, odd…

  ***

  “You make good coffee.” Martin sipped his hot beverage, his eyes watching me over the rim.

  “Technically I just press the buttons.” I was having difficulty relaxing beneath his gaze, so I fidgeted with my tea cup and spoon.

  “Parker, just take the compliment and say thank you.”

  “I won’t. I won’t take it because I don’t deserve it. The machines make good coffee, as do the bean growers and bean roasters.”

  His face told me he thought I was being ridiculous. “Fine, then you’re an excellent button pusher.”

  “Thank you. I accept the compliment and acknowledge that I excel at pushing buttons.”

  “Especially my buttons.” He paired this with a smirk and an eyebrow lift.

  I huffed, irritated I’d walked right into that verbal trap, and yet reluctantly amused by the word play. “Very funny, Sandeke.”

  His smirk became a smile. Then he laughed and my heart gave a little leap.

  Suddenly, it was nine months ago and we were on a plane headed for the island. I was faced with the heady sight of a happy Martin. It was a reminder that happiness on Martin was a revelation of beauty and physical perfection married to excellent and infectious good-mood vibes.

  But this time I didn’t laugh. My heart felt tender and wary of this Martin, because he was so easy to like. So I crossed my arms over my chest, protecting myself from the onslaught of his magnetic charisma, and waited for his laughter to recede.

  When he saw I wasn’t charmed, his smile faded and he straightened in his seat, clearing his throat as though he were about to speak.

  I spoke first, wanting to get right to the point. “Why are you here? What do you want to talk about?”

  He must’ve read something in my expression, perhaps a hardness in my eyes that told him I was low on patience, because when he spoke next, everything about his demeanor changed.

  His eyes grew sharp, the set of his jaw rigid, and his shoulders leaned back in the chair, making him appear taller, more imposing, and yet relaxed at the same time. Based on this body language and what I knew about power dynamics from watching my mother, I surmised we were about to enter into a negotiation.

  I was quickly proven correct.

  “I want to discuss the terms of our friendship.”

  I stared at him, careful to keep my face devoid of expression, even though I wanted to yell, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

  Instead I said, “What friendship?”

  “The one you promised would always be mine if I ever wanted it, no matter what happened between us.”

  This made me blink several times, succeeded in cracking my calm exterior, but I managed to say in a steady voice, “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am. I’m completely serious. You promised I would always have a safe place with you, and now I want that safe place.”

  This was the Martin I remembered. This was the unyielding, demanding, blunt boy that had stolen then broken my heart.

  I gritted my teeth and willed the rising tide of so many different emotions to stay buried. Obviously anger was the first, the strongest to swell in my chest and try to choke me. Again, he must’ve seen something shift or build in my expression because, and to my astonishment, he leaned forward and his austere business façade yielded, his eyes turned beseeching.

  “Listen, I’m not here to take more than you’re willing to offer. Obviously you can tell me to go fuck myself. All I’m asking for is a chance to be your friend. Because, even though things between us didn’t end well, I still trust and respect you more than anyone I’ve ever met. You are,” he paused, gathered a deep breath, his gaze searching as it skated over my face, “Kaitlyn, you are incredibly honorable, and reasonable, and good. I could really use your advice. I could really use some honorable and good in my life.”

  “But not reason?” I questioned, stalling, not sure what to make of this impassioned speech.

  “No. I have plenty of reason. But without honor and goodness, reason isn’t worth much.”

  My lips parted in surprise and I felt my mask of indifference slip at his shockingly wise words. He looked earnest and focused and I knew I was already teetering on the edge of acceptance.

  But the acrid taste of past heartbreak and the bitterness of his previous betrayal held me back, keeping my altruistic instincts from taking over.

  And something else, something petty and entirely based on vanity.

  When we had this conversation in the past, at the cottage on the island, he’d told me at the time that he could never be indifferent enough to be my friend. That he would always want me too fiercely to settle for just friendship.

  If he wanted to be friends now, that could only mean he’d become indifferent to me. He didn’t want me anymore. And that made my vain, selfish heart hurt. This realization stung, because I couldn’t imagine being able to achieve the same indifference toward him.

  “You don’t
have to answer me now.” His gaze and tone were steady, sensible.

  I wanted to tell him he’d hurt me too deeply, that this newfound indifference toward me that allowed him to ask for friendship was hurting me now. But I couldn’t. Because that would be giving him the knowledge he still had power over my feelings.

  Instead I opted to make the decision his and, by doing so, I hoped it would push him away. “Let’s say I only agree to be your friend if you tell the world your father is an evil asshole and that our families were never close, that he never had influence over my mother. What would you do?”

  I didn’t expect Martin to grin, but that’s what he did as he quickly replied, “Parker, I already did that. I did that, like, two months ago.”

  Again I felt my mask slip and I blinked at him in astonishment. “You did?”

  “Yes. The interview was in the Washington Post. Haven’t you read any of the interviews I’ve given?”

  I shook my head and answered honestly, “No. I haven’t. I’ve been avoiding them.”

  “None of them?” Something like dawning realization cast a shadow over his features.

  Again I shook my head. “No. I didn’t…” I took a deep breath and forced myself to continue the thought, “I didn’t want to know about you. I didn’t want to know what you were doing.”

  This was mostly because given how well and unaffected he’d looked the last time I saw him, and how wretched and heartbroken I’d been, I assumed he’d quickly moved on with his life, maybe even dated other women. In fact, given the fact he had a date last week at my show, I was now certain he’d dated other women.

  I didn’t need to see magazine spreads and page sixes of Martin Sandeke, the most eligible bachelor of the universe, hitting the town with his legion of admirers.

  Meanwhile I hadn’t been able to move on.

  He stared at me for a long moment, his grin waning into a pensive frown.

  “Are you going to read them?”

  I shrugged, tried to look unaffected. “Probably not.”

  Martin’s open gaze morphed into an irritated glare at my statement.

  Abruptly he said, “I searched everywhere trying to find out about you, what you were doing, how you were. That’s how I found your band.”

  “My band? Wait, what?”

  “I hired your band to play that party last week. Well, my PA did. It was for a group of startups focused on rural technology education initiatives. It’s a new project of mine.”

  I didn’t hear anything after, I hired your band to play that party last week.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “For the same reason I’m sitting here right now.” Martin sounded like he was on the border of exasperated and angry.

  My gaze drifted to the table between us as I tried to sort through this mountain of surprising information. He hired my band? Why? To have the opportunity to talk to me? But then he brought a date to the event? What the what?

  But before I made it very far, he stood, drawing my attention and focus back to him. He’d pulled out his wallet.

  “Listen, you take some time. You think about it. Here’s my number.”

  I accepted his card without looking at it as I was too busy staring at him with muddled incredulity.

  Dumbly I said, “You have a card?”

  “Yes. It has my personal cell phone number. If I don’t hear from you I’ll stop by again next week.”

  “So…you what? Have other business cards that have a different number on them? Ones without your personal cell phone number?” Leave it to me to be caught up in the details.

  His frown intensified, as though I’d asked a trick question, then he eventually responded, “Yes. My other cards have the number of my PA. So what?”

  “You realize you’re a twenty-one-year-old with two different business cards, right? And a PA. And likely a corner office someplace.” This was all coming out of my mouth stream of consciousness, as I was thinking and speaking at the same time.

  He blinked at me, shook his head like he didn’t understand my meaning, like of course he had a corner office.

  “That makes you both impressive and ridiculous. Please tell me your towels aren’t monogrammed.”

  Martin set his jaw as he recognized my meaning, but I could see the reluctant smile in his eyes as he peered down at me.

  “They are monogrammed, aren’t they? And you’ve probably taken to calling them ‘linens.’”

  His lips pressed together in a firm but rueful line. Martin crossed his arms and said, “Is this what I can expect from our friendship? You giving me shit about my linens?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, then indicated to his wrist with my chin, “and your fancy watches.”

  “So, is that a yes?” he pushed, lifting a single eyebrow.

  “It’s a…it’s a maybe.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Avogadro’s Number and the Mole

  Now that I was working, I typically didn’t have a chance to look at the agenda for the weekly family call until ten minutes before I was supposed to dial in. We’d shifted the time due to my new work schedule, which was nice. But it also meant I was rushing around just before, and I never seemed to have enough time to review the materials.

  This wasn’t usually a problem. However, today, five minutes before I was supposed to call into Skype, I read the agenda and I spotted a new item.

  Benefit and Campaign Fundraiser - Kaitlyn to perform.

  I frowned at the topic. But there was nothing to do about it, no reason to ask for clarification ahead of time since our meeting was just about to start. So I highlighted the line and wrote a big question mark on my paper copy of the agenda. Then I opened the Skype session and dialed in.

  “Hello?” I heard George, my mother’s PA, on the line. He hadn’t activated the video yet.

  “Hey, George. It’s Kaitlyn.”

  “Yes. I see you. Let me switch on the video.” I heard some rustling as he added, “Your mother is on the phone with Senator Peterson, trying to talk him off the ledge. She’ll be right back and then we can get started. Your father was called into surgery.”

  “Sounds good.” I scanned the rest of the agenda. Everything else looked fine. Once his face popped up on my computer screen I asked, “Hey, George. I have a question about one of the new items on the agenda, the one about the benefit and fundraiser.”

  “Oh, yes. Your mother has a campaign fundraiser coming up in May. The week after is a benefit concert for Children’s Charities. Both are in New York. She thought it would be good for you to perform at one or both.”

  I saw my expression in the little box located in the bottom right corner of my computer screen. I looked just as surprised as I felt. But what my expression didn’t show was the spike of panic. The idea of performing in front of a crowd of people who knew who I was, who my mother was, held absolutely no allure for me. Being just another member of a random band meant I was anonymous. But being Senator Parker’s daughter, on stage in front of hundreds or thousands of people sounded horrible and terrifying.

  “Really? That seems strange.” My voice cracked a little.

  He shrugged, scratching the top of his bald head. “No. Not if you think about it. You’ve always been gifted with music. I remember when you were thirteen and you taught yourself all of Beethoven’s sonatas without sheet music. When music was just a hobby for you, asking you to perform would have been an exploitation of your private life. But now that it’s your chosen career, this will be beneficial for you both.”

  That’s what I liked about George, he was a straight shooter, never minced (or chopped) words, just said things plain and simple.

  My mother popped into the picture and gave me a wide smile as she adjusted the computer so they were both visible. “Did George tell you about William?”

  “Yes, Dad was called in,” I said.

  “Since he can’t make it today we’ll skip over the house stuff and hold it until the next meeting,” my mother clarified, still s
miling warmly. She looked so happy to see me.

  “Sounds good.” I smiled back.

  This was only our second week using Skype instead of a dedicated conference line (with no video) and I really liked it. I liked seeing my mom and dad (and George); it made them feel more real. I liked they could see me and see I was doing well.

  “We were just talking about agenda item four,” George said, drawing my mother’s attention to a piece of paper he had placed in front of her on the table.

  “Oh, yes.” Mom glanced at me, her smile even wider. I could see the excitement in her eyes. “Let me tell you about this, I think it’s a great opportunity for you.”

  “George already filled me in on the basics. You want me to perform in front of people for a campaign fundraiser and for a benefit, both in New York in May?”

  “Yes, well, that’s the gist of it. There will be a large number of industry professionals present, people from Broadway and Hollywood at both events. I know you have your little wedding band, but I also know you’re capable of so much more than that. Just think of it as a way to network and make connections for your career.”

  I tried to keep my face from betraying the pang I felt when she’d said little band. I know she didn’t mean anything by it, because—to her—it was a little band. Whereas for me it was a giant leap of self-actualization.

  I had to clear my throat of emotion before responding. “Would I be performing with others? As part of an ensemble? Would there be practices leading up to the performances?”

  “No. You’d be solo, and hopefully playing one of your own compositions if you can have that ready in time. I’m sure it won’t be a problem for you.” She was distracted as she answered because her cell phone was ringing again; she didn’t see me sit back in my chair or the color drain from my face.

  “I’m so sorry, Kaitlyn, but I have to take this call.” She turned an apologetic and frustrated gaze to the computer screen. “We’ll hold the rest of the agenda until after the holidays.”

  I nodded, relieved I would be given a reprieve from having to give her an answer. She stood up again as she answered her cell phone, leaving George and I on the call.