Elements of Chemistry: Capture

by Penny Reid

  I smiled against his starched shirt. He smelled like Martin: expensive sandalwood-scented soap, and even more expensive aftershave.

  I knew my smile and voice were dreamy as I said, “When I first saw you, after the show in New York early in December, I didn’t know what to think. I hadn’t expected to ever see you again. Eventually I thought you were trying to give me closure. But then, when you came to me a few weeks ago and wanted to discuss the terms of our friendship, I figured you wanting friendship meant you were indifferent to me, that you didn’t want me anymore.”

  “No.” He communicated so much with the single word, and it was a violent rejection of my assumptions. As well it imparted the depth of his frustration. “How could you possibly think I was indifferent to you?”

  “Well, you said—our last night on the island—that you could never be friends with me because you’d never be indifferent enough. Drawing the logical conclusion, I assumed you were now indifferent enough to want friendship.”

  He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I told you the truth on the island. Like I said in the closet, I never wanted to be just a friend. But, since you offered me nothing else, I was willing to settle for it—for a time—if it ultimately got me what I wanted.”

  This made me grin.

  I felt his answering smile as he continued, “I thought you’d read the interviews. When I first saw you in New York after your show I was waiting for you to either tell me you’d moved on or tell me you felt the same. But then you were quiet. Evasive. So I thought, if I could just…” He shifted on the bed, holding me tighter. “When I found out you hadn’t read anything, that you’d actually been avoiding all mentions of me, I realized how badly I’d fucked up. So when you came to New York for the week before Christmas I tried to give you your space.”

  “So you stayed away that week because you didn’t want to push me?”

  “Yes. I wanted you to see that I’d changed, that I wasn’t…demanding.”

  “But you are demanding.”

  “Well, not as demanding.”

  I slipped my hand under his shirt, wanting to touch him. “So what happened? Why didn’t you say something on Christmas?”

  “I’d planned to. I thought, you would see the piano Christmas morning and then I’d gently explain about the foundation. You would forgive me, see I was right, and then we’d get back together.”

  I tried not to laugh. “Gently?”

  He ignored me. “But you fell asleep in the car. And then took a shower and were sneaking around the apartment.”

  “I wasn’t sneaking. I was trying to put your gifts by the fireplace.”

  Again, he ignored my statement. “And I couldn’t sleep. I needed…to touch you, or have a strong drink. And then we drank and I was an asshole.”

  “Because I implied you never loved me.”

  Martin shifted to the side, glanced at me from the corner of his eye, and contradicted, “No. You didn’t imply. You flat out said it. And I got so pissed.”

  He sounded angry now, just remembering it. I decided it was best to move the conversation forward.

  “I finally read your interview from Men’s Health where you called me The One.”

  “When?”

  “After I got your text on New Year’s.”

  He didn’t respond right away, and when he did he said, “Huh.”

  He looked so handsome, lying in my bed thinking with his big head, so I brushed my lips against his. This of course led to us kissing like mad again.

  When we finally pulled apart, Martin was above me once more and his breathing was labored. “Kaitlyn,” he started, then stopped.

  “What is it?” I reached for him, smoothed my hands over his jaw.

  I saw his chest rise with an impressive inhale before he spoke. “I did choose you. You know that, right?”

  I waited for him to continue. I wasn’t certain what to make of his statement, to what—in specific—he was referring.

  He shifted on the bed, turning onto his side and propping his head up, his arm bent at the elbow. His other hand gripped my hip.

  “I didn’t choose anything at first, after you…left. Like I told you last week, I kept thinking you were going to agree to see me in secret. In my mind, we weren’t over, not at all. But when you didn’t change your mind, nothing about revenge or seeing my father humiliated meant anything. I saw you were right and I walked away, though I think a part of me will always want to see him suffer.”

  I was quiet while he had his moment of anger. Martin’s father was a bad guy. I knew the best Martin could hope for was indifference toward the man.

  Eventually, he shook himself and continued, “I dropped out of university because you asked me to leave you alone, and I couldn’t do that if I stayed on campus. But then I couldn’t let you go, even when I didn’t see you. So almost everything I did—setting up the foundation, the interviews, publicly calling my father a dickhead—was all about earning you back, earning your trust, hoping you would consider taking me back once I’d made everything right.”

  I felt my chin wobble and was relieved these threatening tears were happy ones.

  “Oh, Martin.” My voice was shaky, but I didn’t mind. “Did you really call your father a dickhead?”

  He nodded. “They didn’t print that part, but he is a dickhead.”

  I laughed, wishing the newspaper had printed that Denver Sandeke was a dickhead. But I also wished for so much more.

  “I wish I’d read your interview when it was printed. I wish I’d gone back to you after our initial fight and tried to work things out, find another way. I wish I hadn’t been hiding in the closet all summer, avoiding all mentions of your name.”

  “I don’t.” He shook his head with a remarkable kind of certainty, like he knew all the secrets of the past and the future.

  “You don’t?”

  “No. Because, even without you, I am happier than I’ve ever been. As soon as I walked away from my father, I started working on projects that interested me. You know those sketches on my drafting table? I’m inventing again. My purpose is now about what I want and not dictated by my hatred for him. If you hadn’t called me on my bullshit, then…” He didn’t finish the thought. Instead his eyes lost focus, as though he were imagining an unpleasant alternate reality.

  I felt myself smile. Martin had been the catalyst for my choice to embrace my music and, as such, passion. He forced me out of my closet of expectations and purposeful obscurity. Even separated from him, I was happier in my life than I’d ever been before.

  And, in that moment, I had a thought.

  Maybe that’s what real love is.

  Maybe love, at its essence, is being a mirror for another person—for the good parts and the bad. Perhaps love is simply finding that one person who sees you clearly, cares for you deeply, challenges you and supports you, and subsequently helps you see and be your true self.

  Love, I decided, is being a sidekick.

  CHAPTER 15

  Strengths of Covalent Bonds

  “When will you be home?”

  He didn’t answer right away.

  In fact, he was noticeably quiet, as though he were enjoying the question, the moment, and everything it meant.

  But I knew he was smiling.

  I felt my automatic answering smile, the kamikaze leap of my heart, and the igniting Bunsen burner in my pants—a trifecta of happiness and anticipation—at his silence.

  The last month had been bliss. BLISS I TELL YOU!

  We dated. We went on dates. I saw him almost every day. Although I hated he had such a long commute. During the week when I had classes, Martin stayed with me at my place every night. My weekends were pretty tied up with shows and work. Sometimes we stayed in New Haven and sometimes we crashed at his place in New York. Yet wherever I slept, he slept too.

  But notably, we’d only made love three more times since the closet, each time he swore it was the last until we moved in together, and I was frustrated. Prag
matically speaking, it’s a crime against humanity to have a boyfriend as hot—body hot, brain hot, heart hot—as Martin Sandeke and not have the sex.

  He was being stubborn, and though I’d been able to entice him a few times, he wanted to wait until we had our own place. Really, he was blackmailing my pants.

  “Soon,” he responded from the other end of the phone, his voice so low and lovely, and laced with meaning, the single word a promise.

  I heard the urgent vroooom of his car and pressed my lips together so he wouldn’t hear me laugh, but I was unable to keep the amusement out of my voice. “Really? How soon? Because I was thinking of running some errands.”

  “Parker, don’t tease me.”

  Oh…sigh.

  Tonight he was coming home to our home.

  Home was a really, really small one-bedroom just two blocks from the apartment I’d shared with Sam…until yesterday. The timing had been perfect because her friend Kara ended up moving into my room.

  Honestly, I didn’t know what Sam was more excited about: me and Martin finally getting back together—as she put it—or the fact she didn’t have to pack up her stuff and move into a three-bedroom. Of course, she also took an alarming amount of pleasure in tearing up my chore chart.

  Regardless, today was my first day in our new apartment and tonight would be our first night in the apartment together. I hoped it would be sans underwear.

  I leaned against the kitchen counter, my legs feeling a little wobbly, my heart feeling a lot full. “Fine. I’ll wait for you. But soon better mean soon.”

  “Soon means soon.” This was accompanied by another vroooom.

  This time the sound made me frown.

  “Don’t kill yourself trying to get home.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Remember, I have my weekly call with my parents in about ten minutes. It shouldn’t last longer than a half hour, so you don’t need to rush.”

  “I won’t rush.” Just as he said this I heard his car vroooom. Before I could interrogate him about it, he added, “And I picked up dinner.”

  “Oh! What did you get?”

  “Tacos.”

  I grinned. Over the last month he’d frequently brought New York takeout for dinner. I suspected he did this in an attempt to win Sam over. It worked. The first time he arrived with lasagna from Little Italy she forgave him for everything.

  I further suspected he picked up dinner so often because it was informally exempt from my sharing expenses rule.

  Upon my insistence, we’d decided to split everything for our new apartment down the middle—rent, utilities, groceries, everything. Strangely, I didn’t have to insist at all. Martin didn’t argue. I surmised he recognized how important my financial independence was to me; he understood I needed to prove to myself I could make a living as a musician.

  I did mostly lose our argument about furniture though. He didn’t mind second-hand furniture, but he didn’t like the idea of pressed particle board and plastic. He liked sturdy hardwood antiques—real furniture made from real materials—Mission or Shaker style and time-period. Most of the items that ended up filling our living space—a turn of the century walnut desk, matching end tables, mirror, and chest, art deco-stained glass lamps, and a black leather loveseat sofa with two matching club chairs—were well outside of my price range.

  But he valued genuine and he valued comfort. In the end I relented because we kept my mattress. Honestly, the only items I was attached to were my keyboard, my guitar, and my mattress.

  As well, he kept his New York apartment. He owned it outright and it made financial sense as an investment. Plus, it was fun to visit the city (and my piano) on the weekends.

  I was about to question Martin further about the tacos when I heard the distinct sound of another vroooom.

  “You’re using your hands free, right?”

  “Yes. I’m using the car’s Bluetooth.”

  “Okay…just…just be careful.” I worried. I didn’t want him rushing through traffic and killing himself.

  “I’ll be careful. I love you, Kaitlyn.”

  “I love you, Martin. Bye.”

  “See you soon,” he said instead of goodbye, and then he clicked off.

  As I hung up my phone, still in a cotton candy haze of happiness, I realized that Martin never said goodbye. The entire time I’d known him, he’d never said the words to me.

  Huh…

  Aaaand I was smiling again.

  I was still smiling when I opened my laptop and signed into Skype for the weekly call with my parents. I hadn’t yet told them about Martin and me, but I did ask George to add an item to the agenda this week entitled, Kaitlyn’s new address. I figured I’d give them the heads-up once we came to the topic. They would make note of it. We would move on.

  That is not what happened.

  As soon as the video image of my parents came up on my screen I could see that my mother wasn’t smiling. This was atypical now that we did our calls via Skype. Usually she was happy to see me. Today she looked concerned and preoccupied.

  Furthermore, she started speaking immediately. I didn’t even get a chance to greet my father and George.

  “Kaitlyn, some pictures were sent to me today from an associated press photographer of you and Martin Sandeke. And my office received calls from several newspapers asking about the status of your relationship.”

  My attention drifted to my dad. He looked grim, like he’d just recently argued with my mother. They didn’t argue often, so I could tell when they did because he always looked grim afterward.

  “Uhhh…” I gathered a steadying breath and said the first thing that came into my head. “Do you want to skip forward on the agenda?”

  “The agenda?”

  “Item number seven, my new address.”

  My father’s eyes lifted, he was now looking at my image on the computer screen with curiosity. George was taking notes, appearing neutral as usual. My mother was obviously confused and a little stunned.

  “What does your new address have to do with…?” I could see she’d answered her own question before she’d finished asking it.

  I gave her a moment to absorb reality, my eyes flickering again to my dad. He was giving me a small smile.

  “Oh, Kaitlyn.” My mother shook her head, bringing my attention back to her. She looked concerned. “You didn’t even consult with us about this.”

  I stared at her for a long moment, unsure how to respond, especially since old Kaitlyn and new Kaitlyn had two completely different instinctual reactions to her statement.

  Old Kaitlyn was mortified I’d disappointed my mother.

  New Kaitlyn was pissed.

  New Kaitlyn won, though, and I felt myself flush with mortification and discomfort. “Mom, why would I consult with you on where I live?”

  “Not where you live, it’s with whom you live. Your decisions affect more than just yourself.”

  “That’s right. They affect Martin and me.” I started to sweat.

  “Yes. They do affect you. Martin’s father isn’t likely to let the fact that his son absconded with one hundred twenty million dollars go. Eventually he’s going to try to make Martin’s life very difficult and you will be caught in the middle.”

  “Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I have complete faith in Martin that he’ll be able to deal with his father.”

  “But that’s not the only factor. Kaitlyn, you must see,” she leaned forward in her chair, her voice held a note of pleading, “my opponents will insinuate that you and Martin have been together this whole time. All the denials I made back in the spring will ring false.”

  “And I’m sure you have a staff that can help you handle these kinds of issues.”

  My mother sighed. It was not a pleased sigh. “Are you being purposefully obtuse?”

  “No. Are you?” I said through clenched teeth.

  She stared at me. Or rather, her face on the screen stared at me, and I couldn’t tell if she ac
tually saw me or saw a problem to be solved.

  After staring for a good while, during which I refused to look away, she shifted in her seat, her eyes narrowing just slightly. “I am curious, how is it that—”

  “Nope.” I cut her off, feeling a spike of bravery paired with my spike of irritation. “No. You can be curious, but I’m not answering any of your questions. This is not a senate committee meeting and I am not under oath. I am an adult, as you like to remind me, capable of making my own decisions. As such, the identity of my boyfriend is my prerogative, who I live with and who I decide to love is my choice. I love Martin. What you do for a living is your prerogative. If your job has a problem with who I love, then maybe you should stand up and tell your job to mind its own business.”

  I could see my dad off to the left. He smirked then tried to cover it by rolling his lips between his teeth. When that was ineffective he hid his smile behind his hand.

  George, as always, looked bored while taking notes. I could just imagine reading the meeting minutes later…

  My mother’s calm exterior fractured a little. She appeared to be frustrated, she also appeared to be reluctantly proud. Even so, she surprised the hiccup out of me when she finally said with another sigh. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Clarify what you mean by okay.”

  “Okay, your points are valid ones. I cede that you are an adult and your decisions are your own. I apologize. I will issue a press release that who my adult daughter dates is no one’s business but hers and has no bearing on my career.”

  “So, you’re going to point out the obvious.”

  My dad chuckled like he couldn’t help himself and shook his head.

  To my mother’s credit, she cracked a smile. “Yes. I’m going to point out the obvious. And I’m also going to redouble my efforts to respect your boundaries. But if Denver Sandeke ever…I mean…I hope you know that I…that—”

  I took pity on her. “Mom, it’s okay. I promise I’m not going to do anything— on purpose at least—that might cloud or take away from the work you’re trying to do. You do good work.”

  “But again, Kaitlyn, Denver Sandeke is not to be underestimated.”