Elements of Chemistry: Parts 1-3

by Penny Reid

  If he’d loved me as I’d loved him, then a Martin Sandeke google search wouldn’t have yielded pictures of him and a pretty redhead, who I was now convinced—after speaking with Emma—was his last girlfriend.

  I glanced at my glass. It was empty again.

  “What?”

  “What, what?”

  “Why did you give me that look?”

  “Because I’m out of sangria.”

  “No. Before you looked at your glass.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You don’t believe me.” He stated this as though the thought had just occurred to him.

  I gave a non-committal shrug and reached for the bottle at my left, intent on pouring a larger glass so it wouldn’t run out quite as fast.

  “You don’t believe that I loved you.” He stated this as fact and I felt the mood in the room shift from friendly to antagonistic.

  “Meh…” I shrugged again. “What does it matter? It’s in the past.”

  “It matters.” His rising anger was tangible.

  I felt a spike of furious indignation and tried to distance myself from my feelings on the subject, because, if I didn’t, he was going to end up with a face full of sangria.

  Instead I attempted to be pragmatically truthful. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m certain you liked me a lot. And it was obvious you made a valiant—but failed—effort to feel more.”

  “Wow.” He breathed, then exhaled again, like I’d knocked the wind out of him. “That’s a really shitty thing to say.”

  Yep. He was super-duper mad.

  But I couldn’t feel sorry about what I’d said—a little twinge of guilt perhaps, but not sorry. He was the king of blunt (and sharp) honesty. He never pulled his punches. If he didn’t like or couldn’t handle my honesty then that was just too damn bad.

  Regardless of the certainty of my own righteousness, discomfort and disquiet made a camp in my chest. I forced myself to look at him. “Listen, twisty britches, listen to the facts—”

  “Fuck your facts.” His eyes burned like an inferno, but his voice was surprising low and quiet.

  “Well, see, here we go.” I gestured to him with my refilled glass but averted my gaze. “This is an example. Your language. You see no problem talking to me like that, you never did. That’s not how you speak to people you love.”

  “It is when you’re passionate about them.”

  “No. It’s not okay. It’s disrespectful.”

  “We can’t all be frigid robots.”

  I ignored this statement, obviously made with the intent to wound, in favor of pointing out the other facts. “And then you chose revenge on your father over us.”

  “And you chose your mother’s career over us.”

  I nodded. “Yes. Yes I did. Because it was the right thing to do.”

  “And God forbid you do anything for yourself. God forbid you be selfish for one single, fucking second and give into your passion, take what you want.” This was said through clenched teeth; I could tell his temper was rising and he was struggling to keep his voice from rising with it.

  “At the expense of good, innocent people? That’s not love, Martin. Love is supposed to make you a better person, love is supposed to…to…” I moved my hands in a circle, some of the wine dripping on his leather couch. I wiped at it with the bottom of my shirt as I searched for the right words. “It’s supposed to improve your character, not demolish it. If you loved me—if you wanted what was best for me—then you wouldn’t have wanted me to destroy my mother’s career due to my own selfishness.”

  “I wanted you to choose me.” He wasn’t yelling, but I could tell he was barely controlling his impulse to intimidate with volume.

  I responded quietly, “And I wanted you to choose me.”

  He looked away, the muscle at his temple ticking, the lines of his jaw and lips severe.

  I shrugged. “So I chose reason, and you chose passion, and nary the twain shall meet.”

  “I chose passion?”

  “Yes. Revenge against your father.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes. I was passionate about that.” His words a reluctant confession as his eyes focused over my shoulder.

  “It’s the love of your life.” The words slipped out before I could catch them and I wished them back immediately. It was one thing to be honest, it was another thing entirely to bare my bitterness. Martin winced like I’d struck him.

  I hadn’t meant it to be mean, but it was mean. My heart constricted with a sharp ache—because I saw my blurted statement caused Martin pain. I didn’t want to hurt him. That was the opposite of what I wanted.

  “Barnacles,” I said, shaking my head, trying to figure out how to apologize without sounding even more like a wicked witch. “I’m sorry, Martin. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “That’s right. That’s who you see, and that’s who I am.” His tone was frosty, laden with animosity and sarcasm. “You still think I’m an arrogant asshole, and that’s all I’ll ever be to you.” This last part sounded as though he were talking to himself.

  I grimaced. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Waaaay too late.” This statement was paired with a sardonic chuckle.

  Another piercing stab nailed me through the heart and I felt cold and a little nauseous. “Okay, well then I’m officially the asshole. I accept the title and all the death stares that accompany it.” Again, I couldn’t meet his eyes; I busied myself by draining my glass.

  “Parker.” He sighed, obviously frustrated, rubbing his hands over his face. “Can we move past this?”

  I nodded, still swallowing, and eventually was able to answer in earnest—but perhaps a little too loudly and with slurred speech. “Yes! Yes, let us never speak of the past again.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Sandeke,” I leaned forward, depositing my glass on the table and tucking my legs under me on the center cushion, kneeling directly in front of him, “despite my awfulness, I really do want us to be frie—”

  “Are you drunk, Kaitlyn?” He cut me off, his eyes glinting with a dangerous mixture of exasperation and barely contained fury.

  “No. Just tipsy enough to say what’s on my mind without overthinking it.”

  “What were you doing earlier, in your room, before I walked in?”

  I held very still and stared at him, a shock of flustering embarrassment crashing through me. His question was unexpected and made me chase my breath. I’m sure I looked guilty because I felt guilty. He was staring at me with contemptuous certainty, like he already knew the answer, like he thought I was a coward.

  I felt caught.

  Even so, I would never tell him the truth. “I…I was—”

  He didn’t give me a chance to lie. “If I kissed you right now, would you remember tomorrow?”

  “Why would you…why would you kiss me?” I couldn’t keep up with this conversation.

  “Because you’re beautiful. Because I want to.” His gaze was on my mouth and he sounded completely belligerent; meanwhile, my heart was in my throat.

  “Do you? Do you really? Or are you just tipsy enough to be feeling nostalgic?”

  “No. I’m just tipsy enough to say what I want without overthinking it.” He mimicked my earlier words through clenched teeth.

  I couldn’t help my next question because I needed to know, “Would it mean anything?”

  “Kissing you always means something to me. Would it mean anything to you?” Despite his anger, he appeared to be choosing his words carefully.

  “I guess it would confuse me. Are we…would we still be friends? After? If we kissed?” I couldn’t choose my words carefully; they tumbled out of my mouth in a mass of disoriented chaos.

  He shrugged, like he didn’t care, but his gaze had turned sharp, menacing. “If you wanted to be.”

  I felt his response like a punch to my stomach, because I didn’t want to be his friend, not really. I wanted him to love me. I wanted him to still wish
like I wished. Yet I did want to be his friend, because it was the right thing to do. Because I cared for him. Because I wanted him to know he had a safe place.

  This exchange hurt, and the rush of dismay bubbling to the surface of my psyche made my throat feel tight. And yet I couldn’t help the desperate desire twisting in my lower belly at the idea of just one kiss, just one more time. I wanted him so badly.

  Martin leaned forward, his eyes capturing mine, though they were sullen, verging on hostile. He placed his hand on my thigh as he advanced, his thumb rubbing back and forth drawing all my awareness to the heat of his palm.

  “What if we kissed, and I touched you? What if we fucked? Would you remember tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I would remember. But I don’t understand why you’re doing this.” A hint of pleading had entered my voice and my eyes stung. Martin paused his forward momentum, now just ten inches separating us, his eyes searching mine.

  “Would it mean anything to you?” he questioned softly, then his voice grew a bit rough as he asked, “or would it be sex between friends? No strings? Could we just make each other feel good for one night?” Martin’s hand inched higher on my thigh, taking the heat of his fingers closer to my center. It was obvious he was very angry with me, as his touch felt vindictive, punishing in its gentleness.

  I shook my head, though my body—and especially the vicinity of my pants—was on fire for him, for his touch, for his attention. The ache was physical, and made forming words difficult.

  “I’m not built that way,” I admitted clumsily, my voice unsteady as I balled my hands into fists because they were beginning to shake. “I think one more night together, just for the purpose of making each other feel good, would be the end of our relationship.”

  By the time I finished speaking my whole body was trembling with the effort to hold myself away from him.

  I read hunger in his eyes, but I also saw resentment and malice. His fingers on my upper thigh drew away, and I captured his hand before he could retreat completely. I cradled it in both of mine and he let me.

  My voice was wobbly, and my vision blurred as I gathered my remaining courage and said, “Martin, I am sorry for what I said. I can see you’re mad at me and I hurt you and I’m sorry. But I don’t want to lose you completely. Not again.”

  The rancor in his glare softened, but didn’t quite disappear. He nodded and ground his jaw, his eyes falling away.

  He used my grip on him to tug me forward but I resisted, feeling raw. I didn’t trust him, and I certainly didn’t trust myself to resist him.

  His gaze lifted back to mine at my reluctance. He studied my face, likely saw my confusion, hurt, and apprehension, because his eyes filled at once with what looked like a rush of remorse.

  “I’m sorry, Kaitlyn. I’m…God, I’m such a fucking asshole. I’m sorry.” As he said this, Martin raised the hand not holding mine and wiped two tumbling tears away from my cheeks with his thumb, his palm moving back to my jaw and cradling my face.

  “Come here.” He swallowed, and I saw he did so with effort. He tugged on my hand again and this time I let him bring me to his chest. He moved both of us down the couch until he was laying horizontal and I was half on top of him, snuggled between his body and the couch.

  I was so confused.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry.”

  I sniffled. “Me too. I’m sorry too. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

  His arm squeezed me. “You’re forgiven and obviously you were right, I’m still an asshole.”

  Something about the way he said, I’m still an asshole made me laugh lightly, but uncertainty and the lingering ache in my chest kept me from relaxing against the length of him. His suggestion that we use each other’s bodies felt like an assault, like an affront against the sacredness of what we’d shared—at least on my side—and the tentative friendship and trust we’d been building.

  And yet…

  I felt him stroke my hair lovingly, his other hand held mine and he toyed with it. He lifted my fingers to his mouth and brushed feathery, cherishing kisses on the tips and knuckles. Eventually I forced myself to relax, and turmoil gave away to melancholy, and finally to exhaustion.

  My cheek rested against his chest where his heart beat, and I listened to it slow then even, lulling me to sleep.

  CHAPTER 10

  Chemical Equilibrium

  I woke up in my bed with a Martin mattress.

  Meaning, we were in my bed and I was sprawled on top of Martin. I frowned, searching my memory, getting ready to stone myself if we’d had wild monkey sex and I’d blacked out in the middle of it. But then I remembered everything from last night/early morning, and I sighed—both in lusty disappointment and levelheaded relief. He must’ve carried me into my room and decided to stay with me until I woke up; and I’d been so exhausted I didn’t wake up.

  A very Martin-esque move. He was smart, so he knew—after last night’s awkwardness—I would avoid him this morning. But I couldn’t avoid a Martin in my bed.

  “Are you awake?”

  I nodded against my pillow, turning my face toward his. I cracked open my eyes and studied him. It was obvious he’d been up for a while. I took stock of where my hands were, where his hands were, etc. None of our touching was technically friend-inappropriate, but I took the opportunity to stretch and shift my leg so it wasn’t quite as insinuated between his.

  “Yes. But barely,” I mumbled, yawning.

  “Good. I’m starving.”

  He lightly pinched my rib, making me jump and squeak. Taking advantage of my involuntary spasm, he rolled above me, planking, and captured my gaze with his, reminding me of the moment right before I’d lost my virginity nine months ago. My throat was Sahara desert dry. I blushed scarlet, but couldn’t look away.

  He was sexy. Epic, unlawful levels of sexy. I was suddenly very awake and quite incapable of moving.

  “Parker, what happened earlier this morning—and I’m not talking about the Hobbit soap dispenser—it doesn’t change anything.” His tone was stern, as though he were commanding me to not feel awkward. “I was a jerk-face and I am really sorry. You made it clear that you don’t want to risk our friendship and I’m going to try to respect that.”

  I blinked at him and nodded, giving him my best brave smile.

  “Me too,” I croaked.

  A momentary frown pinched his features, and he faltered, studying me, his gaze straying to my lips. But then he gathered a large inhale, rolled off and away, and then strolled out of the room.

  He called over his shoulder, his voice tight, “You make music, I’ll make breakfast.”

  ***

  Breakfast was some sort of delicious egg casserole with onions, bacon, spinach, and more bacon. The smell of it cooking filled the apartment causing my mouth to water.

  While he was in the kitchen I eyeballed the piano, found myself caught in its gravitational pull. It was so pretty, so magnificently alluring. The keys were real ivory—which meant the antique upright was over fifty years old—and were warm to the touch. I pressed middle C and found the sound rich, full, and beautiful.

  “Play it.”

  I glanced at him.

  He must’ve visited the muffin man and the danish man yesterday, because he brought me a very fresh-looking cherry and cheese danish, a banana nut muffin, as well as a lovely cup of black coffee. Martin placed his offerings on a table beside the piano then straightened, giving me a stern look, but his words were gentle.

  “Please, play it.”

  I saw it meant something to him, so I sat, gathered a breath for courage, and teased out a tentative melody. Meanwhile Martin hesitated next to the bench. Then, as though abruptly making up his mind, he bent down and kissed my cheek, his morning stubble scratching my face and leaving a warm mark on my skin.

  “You need to visit me all the time.” He lifted his voice as he disappeared back into the kitchen, “Think about moving in. I was serious about accepting cookies as paym
ent.”

  I smirked reflexively, my tune becoming light and silly, and thought about becoming Martin’s roommate. As long as we both dated no one else, were celibate, and never drank sangria around each other, it sounded like a winning idea.

  I allowed myself to get lost in an improvisation, though it was mostly based on a song I’d written over the summer after drinking a Red Bull and being unable to sleep for forty-eight hours. The composition was originally manic, but I slowed it down, added a few bass clef-only stanzas, and closed my eyes.

  When it felt finished, I released the keys, pressing down on the sustain pedal with my last chord, allowing the notes to go on and on until they faded and reverberated like the memory of an echo. It really was a magnificent instrument.

  When I opened my eyes I realized Martin was sitting in one of the nearby club chairs, his elbow on the arm rest, his thumb brushing back and forth against his bottom lip, and his eyes watching me intently.

  I straightened, blinking at him and the room as I came out of my daze. “Sorry…how long was I playing?”

  He didn’t respond right away and I noticed he was also lost in a bit of a daydream.

  “Martin?”

  He shook himself, his gaze focusing sharply on me. “Yes?”

  “How long was I playing?”

  His eyes flickered to a spot behind me on the wall. I turned and followed his gaze, found a wall clock that told me I’d been at it for over forty-five minutes.

  “Gah! Is the casserole ready?” I reached for my coffee, found the tumbler tepid and I pouted. “Cold coffee.”

  “Don’t worry, I have more coffee.” His voice was stiff as he plucked the cup from my grip and disappeared into the kitchen. “And breakfast is ready.”

  I followed him, loitered at the entrance, and appreciated the sight of a fine man moving around the kitchen like he knew what he was doing.

  “How and where did you learn to cook?” I asked, as he opened the oven set to warm and withdrew a casserole dish.

  “Mother had a cook. Her name was Esmerelda. She taught me.”

  “Hmm…” I grabbed my coffee cup from where he’d left it on the counter and dumped the cold coffee into the sink. “Can we play forty questions while we eat breakfast?”