by Edie Danford
She giggles. “Um, maybe.” She scrutinizes my hair. “But it looks good that way. And you always said you didn’t care about that stuff. What changed?”
I take a deep breath. “I’ve decided something.”
“Okaaaaay. What?”
“I want to date Pete.”
Her eyebrows go high. She rocks a little on the stool and then grabs its edges. Then she laughs. And makes whooping sounds. Loud enough that Lia looks up from the bank of monitors in the corner of the lab. I nod at her. “We’re okay,” I say loud enough to be heard over Zoe’s continuing whoops. “Sorry.” She smiles and goes back to her analysis.
“Okay, okay,” I say to Zoe. “I guess this news makes you happy.”
“And-fucking-how. Glag, Mar. Took you long enough. I’ve been shipping you guys since last October!”
“Really?”
She nods. The monitors send cool streaks of silver across her hair.
“Well,” I say. “As you know, Pete can be…”
“A stubborn, head-stuck-up-his-ass obliviotoid?”
I tip my head. “Um.”
She slaps her hands onto her knees, leaning forward. “Okay, then. Now that I know that Pete is the inspiration for this hair makeover, I don’t think color is the way to go.”
“No?” It’s hard to keep the disappointment from my voice. I am maybe looking forward to doing something colorful.
“No. Pete thinks you’re hot just the way you are.”
“Uh…” My cheeks get warm. I hope that any pinkening won’t be noticeable in the flickering lights of the monitors. “I don’t think he does. He, um, is arranging a date for me for this weekend. To go see the exhibit at the Art Institute.”
“Wait. A date?”
I nod.
“With someone else?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A friend of a friend. Of his.”
“But…”
It’s hard to go through this again. I’d gone through it myself when he’d announced this date a few days ago. And several times after.
“But that makes no sense. He’s so into you!”
“Obviously not.”
“He absolutely is. I’ve observed.”
“You have?”
“When he thinks no one is looking, he checks you out. Big time.”
“No. Not possible.”
“If you gave him any kind of sign you were at all interested, Mar, he would be all over you.”
There are many reasons I can’t tell Zoe about the signs—and words—I’d already given Pete. I fix my gaze on the data bouncing across the screen. It’s waiting for me to compile it, sort it, give it meaning. A brief glance tells me which numbers will likely be useful, which equations I’ll discard. I’m good with data, great at reading even the most complex feeds quite easily.
Pete is like a complex feed in many ways—disparate sources of information coming together in bits that seemed unrelated at first. His body. The look in his eyes. The things he does with his mouth. The words that come out of his mouth. His touch. His grace. His abilities.
But reading him? No. So far his patterns, his grooves, his edges—they’ve all escaped me. And fascinated me. And challenged me. I’d flubbed a few interpretations of him, but I am not giving up.
Hard problems make me work harder. So I need to think of Pete the way I think of work here in the lab, instead of the tentative way I’ve thought about relationships in the past.
“I have given him some good signs,” I tell Zoe. “Blatant, even. But he thinks I need to date. To…look around for guys I’m compatible with. And maybe he’s right. He believes I would be more confident—and thus, more successful on this date this weekend—if I improved my appearance. I don’t think he wants me to take his advice, though. Not really. And I don’t believe he truly wants me to date other people. He’s not being entirely genuine. He’s not…how would you put it?”
“He’s talking out his ass?”
“Yes. That. So I am taking his bluff and I’ve made—”
“Calling his bluff.”
“Right. I will have his good friend Ro give me a hot-as-fuck haircut.”
Zoe picks up a pen and begins tapping it against her chin. “I like this idea of making Pete jealous. I’m on board. I have a few ideas for guys to set you up with—friends of Dad’s from his lame-ass book group. They’d be stooges, of course. But dudes who’d be valid enough to make Pete think—”
“Um, no. That is not a path I want to take.” I shudder at the idea of Zoe setting me up with something called a stooge. From a book group. “I’m not trying to make Pete jealous. I’m trying to better understand his feelings for me and mine for him. If he truly wants me to be successful on dates with other people, then I will do my best—”
“Call it what you want, Mar. You’ll be stirring a fire under the green-eyed monster’s ass if you go forward with this plan.”
“Green-eyed monster’s ass?”
“Yes.” She pulls out her phone. “It’s a good metaphor. I’ll find examples.”
Before she can get too absorbed by green things, I need to pin her down on blue. “So you think color is a bad idea?”
“Hmmm.” She tilts her head, considering me. “You maybe need a consultant. When is this appointment?”
“The woman who answered the phone at the salon told me Ro has a two-month wait. But then I told her I was a friend of Pete’s. She put me on hold and when she came back on the line, she said they’ve made time for me this evening. After his last client.”
“Tonight?” She whistles.
“Yes. They told me to be there before they close at nine.”
“Can I go with you?”
“What is the homework situation?” I ask. “And the going-out-on-a-Tuesday situation?”
“It’s good.” The stool creaks as she bounces. “No worries as long as I’m home by eleven.”
She knows all I have to do is text her father to verify. But the woman at the salon had told me the appointment might take two or three hours if I chose to do color…
Also, I want to ask Ro a few questions. Questions that might become personal.
“Better not,” I tell Zoe. Before she can rain sounds of bitter betrayal on me, I hold up my hand and say, “I’ll need help with shopping on Friday afternoon. I’d like your company then.”
“Shopping?”
“Yes. For going-out wear. This outfit”—I gesture at my striped button-down shirt and flannel-lined khakis—“is essentially my only outfit. It won’t work.”
“Oh my God. New outfits? Glag, Mar. You are totally flippinazzling my freaking mind.”
“Flippinazzling?”
“Oh yeah. The upping-your-hot-factor scheme might demand a whole series of new curse words. That’s how big this is.”
Later at home, I almost tell Pete about my plan. And I almost tell him, once again, that I am not going on this date he’s arranged for me.
Pete is my best friend and he gives good advice, so my impulse to tell him everything is understandable. But since our oops fuck last week, he’s been insistent about keeping things “normal” between us. Telling him that I plan on upping my hot factor to stir a green-eyed monster will not result in a normal conversation.
I eat quickly. He doesn’t comment. He’s preoccupied. Wednesday—tomorrow—is his class night and he has a big test. This semester he’s taking a course on basic statistics. It’s making him “absofuckinglutely nuts.” Over the weekend he’d holed up in his room a lot, coming out (glasses on and his hair sticking straight up—glag, so cute) only to cook and tidy.
He won’t let me tutor him. Yet. Last semester I’d eventually worn him down enough to let me help with his math course, and we’d ended up having a good time together, solving problems, coming up with crazy real-life applications for equations. I’m a good tutor—reluctantly admitted by Pete. Enthusiastically admitted by Zoe, Lia, Marshall, Jana, Ted…there are a bunch of people I tutor at t
he lab.
Teaching of any kind is a learning experience for me and a nice break from the data that takes up too much of my time. This is why I insisted to my uncle and my family at home that when I finished my last degree, I wanted a teaching position at a college or university and not a job in private enterprise.
My family in Prague had been happy about this idea. My uncle? Not so much. I often wished he were the one who liked to stay in Prague and that everyone else made the frequent visits to the U.S. But my uncle had bailed me out of a seriously fucked-up situation I’d gotten into before moving to Chicago, and I’d promised my family I would take his advice about ways I could stay out of fucked-up situations in the future.
Anyway, Pete barely looks up from his textbook as I put on my coat and get ready to leave. I’m not entirely clear with him about where I’m going. “Heading out to consult with someone on a problem” tends to mean my destination is the lab or the library or the commons.
The taxi driver who I’ve arranged to pick me up at the corner is talkative—and uses some good words I’ve never heard and want to ask about—but I’m nervous and don’t say much on the ride north. He wishes me luck after dropping me off at Rogo Salon, a business with brightly lit windows that are two stories tall and decorated with giant posters of gorgeous humans of all varieties.
“Of course they’re humans, Marek,” I mutter to myself. “Pete’s friend does not work on the hairstyles of the animals at the Lincoln Park Zoo.”
I take a deep breath and go inside. I’m abruptly hit with a thousand scents—most of them herbal or floral, a couple of them food-related, some chemical-based. A tall, smiling woman greets me, offering wine or a beverage (I decline, although that might’ve been stupid), and takes my coat. I want to stare at her eye makeup—she used shades of purple in a truly awesome way—so I can take notes for Zoe, but I figure I’m probably making the woman nervous enough with my bumping elbows and stuttering words.
I sit—carefully—on an armless white leather thing that’s maybe a footstool or perhaps a chair, where I’m told to wait for Ro.
The place is big and airy and hums with the sounds of work and conversation. It reminds me of the lab, although the sounds and scents come from much different sources.
Two or three minutes later a man emerges from one of the doors by the reception area. He says a few words to the purple-eyeshadow woman and walks toward me.
I swallow. Then I swallow again. Yes, it had been very stupid not to accept a glass of wine or to ask for the bottle. This man has to be Ro. And Ro is beautiful.
His eyes are toasty brown. His skin is amber gold. His body is…oh God, everything mine isn’t. He wears a white T-shirt and jeans and boots but makes each of these basic items look like the most stunning articles ever worn by a man ever. Ever. Did I say ever already?
His hair, and I guess this makes sense, is also incredible. It’s super short on the sides and in the back, but longish waves and curls tumble over his crown and forehead, a waterfall of hair in a quintillion shades of silver, white, and lavender.
He approaches, holding out his hand. He smiles with teeth that are the whitest white I’ve ever seen. (Lots more “evers” happening.) I take his hand and he pulls me up—his arm muscles bulging—and then gives me a hug. A real hug, with squeezing arms and hands. Then he kisses my cheek. His breath smells of wintergreen.
I can’t speak.
He pulls back and looks up at me. He’s maybe a little taller than Pete. He says, “I’m so happy to meet you, Professor Adorkable.”
“I am—” I blink. What?
He laughs. “Oops. Sorry. I mean, Marek.”
I nod. “Yes. And you are Ro.”
“Roland Gomez. I went by Rogo back in the day. Folks who knew me then still give me a hard time for it.” More laughter. “But, yeah, Ro is an excellent thing to call me.”
“Okay.”
He takes my hand—surprising but nice—and pulls me toward the main part of the salon. The lights seem like spotlights, the gleaming wood floor like a stage. The mirrors glitter like diamonds. “Ro?” I ask.
“Yes?” His toasty brown eyes get warmer as he gives me another up-and-down look. Before I can answer, he says, “We are going to have so much fun.”
“May I have a glass of wine now, please?”
He laughs that amazing laugh again. “Oh, hell yes. It’s after five. After nine, even. I’ll have one too.”
He says this the same way Pete says things when he’s in a good mood. For the first time in an hour I feel like smiling.
Chapter 5
Pete
I don’t like statistics. I don’t like pilates. So I’m killing two sucky birds with one painful stone and trying to do them together.
I’ve got my textbook on my gut as I “roll like a ball.” I curl forward, read a definition—Each value in group corresponds directly to the value in another group. I roll back. Pause. Ummm. Damn, I know this one. Two-sample T-test? Nothing’s coming to me except lower back pain.
I raise the textbook over my face, squint up it. I lose my grip. It falls on my face, slamming my glasses into my nose. Gah! I flail and roll to my side.
Okay, so “rolling like a ball” doesn’t work for reviewing Chapter Two.
After moving my open textbook to the top of my mat, I go for a few plank-to-pushup moves. I grin when I see the next thing on my review list is Chi-Square Test: For Goodness of Fit. See? I’m getting fit. And it’s good. Because I’m also studying.
Except the squiggly lines of the damn formula are blurring. My glasses are getting steamy due to the extreme vigorousness of my pushups, the incredible exertion of my pumping muscles…
Yeah. Right. I can barely manage four. And my stomach is beginning to feel ugh. Maybe blasting my core doesn’t work while blasting stats into my brain.
I collapse to the floor and roll to my back, staring up at the ceiling.
Laughing in a slightly hysterical way, I scrub my hand over my hair and make my eyes look around the kitchen. Empty. Pristine. The clock over the window says it’s eleven o’clock.
Hopefully Mar will be home soon. We can have a snack. Maybe I’ll put on some music. Maybe I’ll ask him to interpret the blurry, nausea-inducing statistic theorems of Chapter Two.
Marek has an awesome ability to make boring, stupid shit like numbers seem fun. He also has the awesome ability of making fun things funner. And, yes, I knew “funner” isn’t a word. But it’s a word that would make Marek get that adorable concentration-wrinkle between his soft, dark eyebrows. And he would either ask about the word—Are you trying to mess with my brain right now, Pete? Because that word does not sound right. In the slightest. Or he would bide his time and then, when he thought I wasn’t paying close attention, he’d casually pick up his phone, tap around on it, take a few notes, maybe. Then give me a very hard time for having “faulty grammar.”
Sighing, I sit and pick up the textbook. Just because I can’t grasp basic statistics concepts doesn’t mean I’ll fail in all my future endeavors, right?
When was this textbook written? Probably before the personal computer had been invented.
I flip to the front of the book. Okay. The copyright is a couple years ago. But still. If I get a job where I need to know about stats and shit, there are these awesome things called Google and accounting software. I can look up stuff I get stumped on.
In the meantime, though, I need to pass this test—justify to myself and my list of goals for the future that I’m not wasting time and money by slooooooowly acquiring enough credits to get a bachelor’s degree.
Lately I’ve had the feeling that I’m not really doing this for myself, for any vague future business I’d have or job I’d try to find. It’s more like I’m doing it to combat the you-should-do-better beasts that stomp around in my brain.
I smile as I think of advice Mar has given me, a conversation we’d had last quarter about my math class. He’d asked, “What did you do when you kept burning things in
the fancy French pan your mother gave you? Throw away the pan? Curse your mother? Tell your poor starving client he could go without dinner? No. You tried new recipes, new cooking methods, until meals came out perfectly. That is what you must do with learning, with your coursework. Keep trying different methods until you find one that works with your brain.”
And then I’d asked, “Did you just compare my brain to my new Le Creuset dutch oven, Mar?”
“Maybe,” he’d said, smirking.
I glance at the clock again. Where the heck is Marek, anyway?
Deciding I can’t wait for him before having a study-sustaining snack (plus, I’d blasted my core and now it deserves some reconstruction), I stand and hobble to the fridge. I’m considering the fresh pint of Haagen-Daz in the freezer—coconut pineapple would be excellent for rebuilding my strength—when my phone buzzes.
Yes. A distraction.
I swipe it off the counter and see the text is from Ro.
Smiling, I shove on my glasses and look down at the screen.
My smile fades.
Oh my God. Oh my fucking God.
He’s sent me a picture. Of Marek. Marek is…there with Ro?
Yes. Yes. Jesus, he must be there right now. In a salon chair, wearing one of Rogo Salon’s signature purple robes, a big mirror behind him.
And his hair. Oh Christ, his hair.
Ro cut it?
Another picture. Hell yes, he’s cut it. Into some kind of high and tight hipster fade. Oh Jesus. Mar’s neck. His cheekbones. And his eyes…lord, his eyes. And his jawline—
Another text arrives. He wants to go blue with a few spikes. Maybe just a streak? But he’s nervous. Wondering what you’d think.
Then a bunch more. So. What do you think?
OMG, your prof is SO FUCKING hot. And he doesn’t even know it, you know?
THAT ACCENT! THE ADORABLE THINGS HE SAYS!
God, I think I might want him.
Um, you might think about coming over here, tho. He seems a little nervy.
I don’t think I’ve ever typed a text faster in my life. STOP. Do NOT touch him. No blue. NO. I’ll be there ASAP.