I open my laptop as I eat and pull out my notebook with its list of things to work on for the study. We actually got a lot crossed off our list, but the sooner we can get it done, the sooner we can get official approval for the study.
At least Mia seemed serious about this. There would have been nothing worse than being partnered with someone who was only half-assing it.
If we can just stay out of each other’s way in the lab, this whole thing will go fine.
But that’s a big if.
Chapter Three
Mia
I glance over my checklist of things to do for the psychology experiment, running my finger down the page until I can cross off the last major thing. Become a certified biofeedback technician.
I make a line with my pen through the words, satisfaction coursing through me.
I had to get special certification to perform biofeedback working under a licensed supervisor, which Dr. Price agreed to be. It involved several online courses and watching someone already trained in it conduct actual patient sessions, which he set up for me with a colleague of his.
I just received notice that I passed the written certification exam I took last week, so I’m officially good to go now. I had spent so much time researching and reviewing information about biofeedback while designing the experiment that thankfully studying for the exam was a breeze.
And thank God, because today is the first day we meet with our participants. We’ll have different sets of people every Tuesday and Thursday, with twenty-minute sessions apiece for me to perform biofeedback over the course of two hours.
I walk into my apartment’s kitchen and reach down into the back of one of the cupboards to get my cupcake carrier and carefully place the cupcakes I frosted earlier inside.
They’re a peace offering for Tyler to start fresh. I regret my outburst in the library three weeks ago and since we’ll be working together for the next few months, I just want things to be pleasant. We haven’t met in person again, only emailed back and forth. While the tone of the emails is professional, I don’t know if it’ll be the same face to face.
I’m one cupcake short as I put the lid on. I eye Kelsey lounging on the couch, in shorts again with the heater cranked up. Her first class doesn’t start till noon, so she has time to watch the reality shows she loves. On the coffee table in front of her is an empty cupcake liner, crumbs littered all around it. Has she no shame? Especially after what she did to me the other week at the library? I swear I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.
I blow out a breath, attempting to let go of the negativity, and grab my backpack and cupcake carrier to store in my car.
I have three classes before the study starts this afternoon and they each drag by, each tick of the clock a little voice whispering almost time, almost time. I normally find pleasure in my classes, but I’m too keyed up today to enjoy them.
But finally, it’s time as I walk into our assigned space, Room 304. Where I’ll be doing my own research study.
Our own study, I amend, seeing that Tyler’s already here. He’s claimed one of the two desks on opposite sides of the small room, so I set my stuff on the other and glance over at him. He’s taken his coat off to reveal a tight black Henley, the muscles in his shoulders and arms defined through the shirt. Those amazing blue eyes are focused on a stack of papers in front of him he’s separating into groups.
Sigh. Why does he still have to look so good? Why couldn’t he have morphed into a troll over the past few weeks?
I clear my throat and open up the container I brought. “I made cupcakes.”
He looks up, his gaze penetrating. “Okay,” he finally says, returning his attention to the pile of papers.
That’s it?
“I, um, wanted to apologize about my outburst the last time we met.”
He glances up again, no hint of recognition on his face. “About what?”
“About what I said.”
“What did you say?”
Is he seriously going to make me repeat it? “The thing about the…” I pause, peeking behind me to make sure the door is closed. “Fuck buddies,” I whisper.
He grins, catching me off guard, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I know. I just wanted to hear you say it again.”
I press my lips tightly together as he saunters over and grabs a cupcake, tearing off the liner and eating it whole in three bites.
Why did I even bother?
The papers he’s sorting turn out to be the informed consent forms the participants will sign and directions for them, depending on which group we’ve assigned them to. On Tuesdays, we’ll have the control group and exercise-only group that will meet with Tyler, and the biofeedback-only group that will meet with me. Thursdays will be the day we have the people assigned to both physical activity and biofeedback.
This week is just for going over the study with them, explaining what we’ll be doing, as well as what their job throughout the week will be regarding filling out the questionnaires we’ve devised and their assignments depending on which group they’re in.
As we meet with our participants at their assigned times on opposite sides of the room, I catch snippets every now and then of Tyler’s conversation, that beautifully deep voice so knowledgeable in its explanations and answers to their questions.
Ugh, Mia. Focus. Why does his voice still affect me like this? Why does my body find him so irresistibly attractive when all he’s been so far today is either aloof or rude?
I have to admit, that was a good trick he pulled making me repeat that, though.
After about an hour in, we each finish up with our people early and have some downtime before the next appointments.
He strolls over to my desk and looks down in the cupcake container, pointing toward it and raising his eyebrows.
“Are you asking if you can have another?”
He nods.
“Have at it,” I gesture to it. “I made them for us.”
He picks out one of the biggest and wolfs it down, then grabs another.
“Greedy much?”
“They’re good,” he says, grinning. God, that smile. It’s unfair how such a charming smile could belong to someone who doesn’t know how to properly utilize it.
“Thanks.” I select one for myself and carefully peel the wrapper off. The first thing I always do is lick a bit of the frosting. Mmm, buttercream. I’ve tried a lot of different frosting recipes, but always end up going back to the original Betty Crocker one. It’s a classic for a reason.
I look up to find his eyes on me and quickly dart my tongue out to get the frosting on my lip.
He tracks the movement, then meets my eye, the blue so intense I get lost for a moment staring into them.
I clear my throat and break the contact, taking a small bite. “What got you interested in this research subject?” It’s the first thing I can think of to say.
He stays silent, and I assume he’s going to pull the same stunt where he says we don’t have to talk, the way he did in the waiting room during our interviews. But he surprises me by answering, “I used to get in trouble in high school.”
I raise my eyebrows, encouraging him to continue.
“I was an angry kid.”
“You don’t say,” I murmur.
He props his chin on his hand and smirks. “I got into boxing and it saved me.”
Of course he’d be a boxer. The definition in his biceps, the sense of leashed aggression surrounding him I’ve felt at times. No wonder he wants to fight with me if his life is consumed by fighting.
“Hmm,” is all I say.
He glares at me. “What is hmm,” he mocks, “supposed to mean? I thought you wanted to talk.”
I take a moment to gather my thoughts, not wanting to offend him. “Psychology is usually about helping people, healing them. Fighting seems so at odds with that.”
He shakes his head. “Not fighting. Boxing. There’s a difference.”
“What’s the differ
ence?”
“Boxing involves discipline, skill, precision. There are rules.”
“Aren’t you worried about concussions? Brain trauma? I’m sure you’ve taken some of the physio classes. You know what the effects are.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not fighting Mike Tyson. It’s mostly me and the punching bag, and when I do spar with someone, it’s nothing serious.”
I guess if he’s not getting knocked out on a regular basis, it’s okay, then. “So how did it save you?”
“It gave me focus, a place to channel everything.”
“Your anger?”
He nods.
“What were you angry about?”
His face darkens for a second before he clears it, pasting on a smirk that doesn’t seem real. “We’re not that close yet.”
Fair enough.
Our next two participants show up then and we make it through the final hour unscathed.
We pack up in amiable silence and he files the consent forms in the room’s filing cabinet while I put away the biofeedback machine.
He swipes one more cupcake as he leaves and I shout after his retreating form down the hall, “You’re welcome for those.”
He waves a hand in response and turns the corner.
Well, it could have gone worse.
“Hello, Mia.” Mrs. Yang smiles widely as she greets me at the front door of her palatial home, bowing her head slightly. I’m here tonight to tutor her son for his upcoming SAT test. Parents in this area are willing to pay ridiculous amounts of money to get their teenagers into college.
I used to work with small children, focusing on their reading comprehension, but when our apartment complex raised our rates last August, I had to do something that pays more, and SAT prep is where it’s at. I focus on the verbal section, going over grammar rules, familiarizing students with the test’s format, and showing them strategies that will help them break down a question and discover what it’s truly asking so it’s easier to solve.
Tonight’s student, Matthew, is one that has been… challenging, let’s just say. Unwilling to put in the time and effort to practice, he hasn’t improved any in the month I’ve been coming here.
“So good of you to come,” she says in her lightly accented English. As if she invited me over rather than paid me to be here. “Matthew is all ready and waiting for you in the dining room. Also, I know I mentioned last time about how he is a bad test taker. He is a smart boy, so maybe you can focus today on these test-taking strategies I printed out.”
She hands me a sheaf of papers which I accept as graciously as I can, knowing all she did was waste her printer paper. Personally, I don’t believe there’s any such thing as innate good or bad test takers. You just have to put in the time and effort studying to thoroughly know the material.
“Hi, Matthew,” I say brightly as I enter the formal dining room, the long, polished table that seats twelve gleaming under the chandelier. I’ve always wondered what Mr. Yang does for a living to afford such a nice house, but whatever it is, it must mean he’s never home because of it. All I’ve seen are family photos with a stern man in a business suit.
I sit down next to Matthew at the head of the table, but he doesn’t look up from his phone. “Did you work on those problems I assigned last week?”
He glances up at me. “My parents are paying you to teach me, not pawn homework off on me.”
I grit my teeth. “Practical application of the techniques I’ve taught you is the best way to learn and have it stick. Have you at least gone over the grammar rules we covered last time?”
“No,” he says sullenly. “I had a paper to write for AP English and a big test in AP Bio.”
“I know it’s hard to fit in extra studying on top of your already strenuous coursework—”
“Why does it matter anyway? My dad will probably bribe my way in to whatever school I want.”
I stare at him incredulously. Is that seriously his plan for getting into college?
“Well, just in case that doesn’t work out,” I say, unable to completely keep the sarcasm out of my voice, “how about we actually try to learn some things that will help on the SAT?”
He glumly submits to going over grammar rules with me, since it seems he doesn’t remember most of what we went over last week, and when the hour is blessedly over, I accept my check from Mrs. Yang and head out to my car, huddling into my jacket as a strong wind blows past.
I hurry in and turn on the heater, waiting for it to warm me up, and immediately take a picture of the check with my bank’s mobile app. I feel guilty cashing it when all I did was go over the same stuff from last week, but how can I force him to want to learn? You can’t make people change.
My mind automatically flicks to Tyler, at least somewhat better behaved today than the last time we met. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.
Or maybe I’m deluding myself.
Chapter Four
Tyler
“Raise your shoulders next,” Mia instructs Brad, our last participant of the day. “See how the green line on the screen here rose when your muscles contracted? Now drop and consciously relax them.” They both watch on the monitor as the line drops. “We want to keep it here below this level. Think about how you feel right now. How your body is loose and pliant. If you notice your shoulders are up here,” she says, making the movement with her own body, “bring them back down and take a few deep breaths.”
I return my attention to my own computer screen with the last two weeks of data, but I’ll be honest that I don’t really know what it means when it comes to her biofeedback readings. We’re charting each week’s recordings, but without an understanding of what each figure represents, I’m lost.
I’m in charge of compiling all the data since her part takes so long every week, but I need to know what I’m talking about when Dr. Price asks during our check-in meetings.
I wait till she’s finished and Brad has left before asking, “Hey, can you tell me real quick what all these different numbers mean from the machine? Just so I can get a baseline of what’s normal or not.”
“Oh, sure,” she says, stepping close behind me to look at my computer, her body heat welcome in the slight chill of the lab. “So this column right here is from the electromyograph. It measures electrical activity that causes the muscles to contract.” She points to the next column. “This one is heart rate, this one’s respiration rate.” She goes through the rest, explaining what the normal ranges are for each. Mostly we’ll be comparing each week to their initial intake readings, though.
“Actually, how about we do a session for you?”
I glance over at her. Come again?
She smiles at my skeptical look. “Come on. That way you’ll understand it better.”
I turn back to the screen. “I don’t think it’ll work for me.”
“You won’t know until you try.”
“Fine,” I grumble, sensing she won’t let it go.
I sit in the designated chair next to her desk that Brad vacated, glancing at her computer screen. What will my levels say compared to everyone else’s?
She leans in close, wrapping a band around my chest, a few of her curls tickling me as they land on my shoulder. This near, I smell something sweet lingering on her skin, like the cupcakes she brought the other week.
She places her hands on my wrists, turning them over to expose them, placing sensors on the vulnerable pulse points. Her fingers are soft and delicate, the gentle pressure she applies so different from anything I’ve ever used my hands for. Tingles rush up my arms involuntarily, but I can’t shake them out for fear of messing up the wires.
I submit to her touch as she positions sensors on my upper arms next, her gray eyes intensely focused on her task. As her slender fingers inadvertently brush my skin, I wonder where else they might touch. What it would feel like to have her—
I close my eyes, inhaling deeply in an attempt to slow my suddenly racing heart, but only manage to catch more
of her sweet scent. How can it be so intoxicating? And how am I only noticing it now?
She sits down in her chair and turns the biofeedback machine on. Even I can see my elevated heart rate on the screen, the jagged spikes of my breathing. She glances at me briefly but otherwise ignores it, letting me keep my dignity.
It’s only from being tested like this, having electrodes attached to me. It would cause anyone discomfort. That’s the only reason.
And besides, she’s being professional. Nothing about how she’s touched me is any different from what she’d do to a participant. Nothing that could be misinterpreted. She’s just doing her job.
“So through the course of this study, we’ll explore your awareness of your body’s responses to stress and skills that will help you relax—”
“You don’t have to go through the spiel with me. I heard it six times today.”
Her lips twist. “Sorry, it’s already habit.”
She starts then, going through a modified version of her routine with me. Her voice is soothing, reassuring, and it does its job in finally calming my body’s responses down until I can actually pay attention to what she’s saying.
“Focus on each muscle in your arm relaxing, starting from the top of your shoulder, down to the tip of your finger.”
“You sound like some new age hippie.”
She laughs. “Yeah, I kind of do. The woman I observed during the patient sessions was like that. She had this long braid all the way down her back and turquoise jewelry she wore all along her wrists and neck. She even mentioned chakras once,” she says in a stage whisper. “I loved her.”
“She would have driven me nuts.”
She props her chin on her hand, grinning at me. “Am I going to drive you off the deep end listening to me twice a week?”
I focus my attention on the screen instead of her. “No, you’re okay.”
Under Pressure (Lessons Learned Book 1) Page 3