Elements of Chemistry: Heat

by Penny Reid

  “My eighth grade science fair project was a solar heater and it was made out of tin foil, black paint, and a shoe box.”

  “So?”

  “So,” I returned my gaze to his, “I’m never going to be a great scientist or a world leader.”

  He watched me like he was waiting for me to continue. When I didn’t, he prompted again, “So…?”

  “So? So?! You said it yourself yesterday to that vile woman. I’m Kaitlyn Parker; my grandfather is an astronaut; my dad is the dean of the college of medicine at a very excellent medical school; my grandmother outfitted the first nuclear submarines with freaking nuclear weapons; my mother might be the first female president of the United States in the next ten years…and I’m not brilliant.”

  He laughed. At first it was a short laugh of disbelief. Then it became a full on belly laugh when he saw I was serious. He was wiping tears from his eyes and shaking his head.

  “It’s not funny,” I said, even though I fought a smile. Of course, it was funny; and I didn’t mind laughing at myself.

  I was smart. I knew that. I had no reason to complain. I came from a loving—if not comparatively regimented and sterile—family. I had all my fingers and toes. I had everything to be grateful for.

  And yet…

  I knew who I was supposed to be, but I was not that person. As well, I had no idea who I actually was.

  When he finally stopped laughing, he sat back in his chair and considered me with glittering eyes over steepled fingers. A warm smile lingered over his features.

  “Kaitlyn, you are very intelligent, and besides that you’re a freaking musical prodigy.”

  I shook my head. “I know you know what I mean, and I didn’t say what I said because I was fishing for compliments—though, if I were fishing for compliments, I would want one of your cheating fish pole holders.”

  His smile widened, though he persisted the point. “Why do you think you have to be a scientist or a world leader? Why not focus on your music instead?”

  I glared at him. “Come on, Martin. Don’t play dumb. You know it’s what everyone expects. I may love music, but aren’t there enough musicians in the world? If I have even the smallest talent or aptitude for politics or scientific endeavors, and the connections, don’t I owe it to society to at least try?”

  “What other people expect doesn’t matter. You don’t owe society anything. Screw society! You should do what makes you happy.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Life isn’t about making yourself happy. Life is about exploiting your talents for humanity, in order to make lasting difference for good when and where you can, and for as long as you are able.”

  “Is this one of your stupid life rules?”

  “Don’t call them stupid. My life rules keep me from making avoidable mistakes.”

  “What a load of self-sacrificing, martyring bullshit.”

  “It is not! There is great value in self-sacrifice.”

  “And you think you can’t ‘do good’ with music?”

  “No. Not as much as I could by stepping up and becoming a leader like my mother or a scientist like my grandmother. Even you respect my mother.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to fuck your mother.”

  I felt a spike of anger at his crass reply. “Are you telling me that who my family is has nothing to do with why you like me? That it doesn’t make me very attractive girlfriend material?”

  He held my glare and his grew increasingly heated, the earlier amusement giving way to stony severity. He took his time answering, like he was debating with himself, and eventually his non-answer seemed to speak for itself.

  I felt abruptly hot and cold and adrift.

  “Martin…?”

  “Of course not, Parker,” he finally said.

  I exhaled my relief, but the back of my neck tingled. Something about the way he was looking at me, how long it had taken him to respond, didn’t feel honest.

  “You misunderstand my meaning.” His tone was firm, unyielding, like he was trying to lead me to a certain conclusion. “I meant, of course I’d never tell you that who your family is has nothing to do with why I like you so much, because that statement would be a lie. Who your family is has a great deal to do with why you’re very attractive girlfriend material. Of course I want you because of who your family is.”

  My hesitant relief became stunned incredulity at his admission. He was watching me closely, though giving none of his own thoughts away.

  I stood abruptly, filled with sudden restless energy, and a fierce need to reject his words. My hands came to my hips, then fell to my legs, then pushed through my hair. Stunned incredulity grew into a cauldron of boiling anger.

  “How can you say that to me? You know better than anyone, better than anyone else, what it’s like to be wanted because of who your family is.”

  “Because it’s true,” he answered, watching me carefully.

  “What? This is…”

  …you are the Olympic gold medal and the Nobel Peace Prize and the Pulitzer Prize and the Academy Award of marriage material. Ray’s irritating words from Monday came back to me in a rush accompanied by the thundering sound of blood rushing between my ears.

  Distractedly, I said, “Ray warned me about this.”

  “Ray?” This got his attention, he sat up straighter.

  “Yes. Ray.” I glanced at Martin, feeling equal parts anger and confusion. “He said that you liked me because of my credentials, that I was the girl guys like you married after you finished sowing your poison oats—or some such nonsense—but it wasn’t nonsense because he was right. He was right.” I muttered this last statement to myself.

  “He was right,” Martin confirmed, again stunning me. This time the wind truly was knocked from my lungs.

  “No, he wasn’t.” I shook my head, making the denial on his behalf because I didn’t want it to be true.

  “Kaitlyn, Ray was right. He knows what kind of girl I want, what I’ve been looking for.”

  I felt like he’d slapped me across the face or sucker-punched me in the stomach. Therefore, I didn’t think much about the next words out of my mouth.

  “You, Martin Sandeke, are a complete and total jerk-face! How dare you… How dare you! Why would you…and I thought…” I screamed this at him in fits and starts, which felt weird because I’d never screamed at anyone before in my life.

  I decided just to go with it.

  The line of his mouth became contemplative as he looked at me, but he said nothing. This only served to increase my frustration.

  “What the heck is wrong with you?” I continued my tirade. “Aren’t you going to defend yourself? Or are you just going to sit there and stare at me?”

  “Do you want me to defend myself?”

  “Yes!” I immediately responded, loudly and on instinct, the single-word admission ripped from some insurmountable desire to be wanted and seen for who I was, even if I didn’t know who that person was yet.

  “Why?” He was on the edge of his seat and his gaze was filled with a strange hope.

  “Because…” My voice cracked and so did my heart. Stupid tears flooded my eyes.

  Tuesday night’s crying was cathartic, necessary, and I’d embraced it. But I didn’t want to cry now. I didn’t want to show weakness to someone who, by his own admission, cared more about who my family was than who I was as a person.

  I kept thinking, I knew it! I knew he would make me cry! Stupid Kaitlyn. Stupid passion. Stupid trust. Stupid jerk-face Martin Sandeke.

  I turned away from him before he could see my face crumble. I needed to hide. The desire was brutal. Thus, I tried to bolt for the cabin below deck, with my ultimate goal one of the two closets. But, somehow detecting my intentions, Martin had other plans. I listened to his chair hastily scrape against the deck, his quick steps circle the table.

  He was hot on my heels as I descended the stairs and he intercepted me before I could grab for the handle of the closet door.

  Martin g
ripped my shoulders and he turned me to face him.

  “Let me go!”

  “Christ, Kaitlyn. Calm down for a minute. You wanted me to defend myself, so listen.”

  “I hate you!” I yelled this, but I didn’t really mean it. Besides feeling wonderfully dramatic and perfect in the moment, I wanted to hurt him. Because I was hurting.

  “No, you don’t. You’re falling in love with me.” He looked stunned by my outburst, but sounded almost pleased by it, like my reaction was part of some big plan, a game of strategy he’d been playing.

  Damn it all, he was such a bully. I knew this, but I must have forgotten it someplace between his mouth and his hands and his eyes and his words.

  I responded to this accusation through clenched teeth, sounding not at all convincing. “No, I’m not.”

  I fought his grip and pushed against his granite chest. Of course this did nothing but make him change his hold so I couldn’t continue hitting him.

  “Listen to me, Kaitlyn. Just—would you listen?”

  I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down.

  Even though you don’t feel calm doesn’t mean you can’t be calm.

  I stilled. I closed my eyes so I couldn’t see him. I needed to distance myself. I needed to either reason or bluff my way through this. My urge to cry dissipated as I thought through my action plan.

  I would…I would just freeze him out. I could do that. I’d been doing it for months before he found me in that science cabinet and everything went to hell.

  I cleared my throat, testing the steadiness of my vocal chords. “I changed my mind. I’m not interested. I don’t care.”

  He laughed at this, though it sounded completely frustrated. “Shutting me out, are you? How convenient that you’re able to just turn your feelings off so easily.”

  I kept my eyes shut and repeated over and over, even though you don’t feel calm doesn’t mean you can’t be calm.

  I had no reason to answer him, so I didn’t. I just pretended he wasn’t there. Eventually he’d have to let me go. When I was eleven, I spent seven hours in a closet waiting for a babysitter to leave. I didn’t like her because she cheated at Monopoly.

  Martin hadn’t cheated at Monopoly, but he did just admit that he was using me because of who my family was. In some sick way it made sense. By his own admission, college was one large-scale job interview of his classmates for the future Martin Sandeke conglomerate. Why wouldn’t he also be interviewing girls for the role of girlfriend?

  In the game of life this made him one of my least favorite people. He was manipulating me. The very thing he detested in others. He knew I was falling in love with him. He knew. Was I the first girl he was going to test? Martin Sandeke’s Girlfriend 1.0?

  “You are so stubborn.” Now he sounded upset. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

  I didn’t. Instead I built the case against him in my mind. Everything he’d said and done became damning evidence and I felt myself grow numb.

  “Fine. We’ll do it this way.”

  Martin’s hold changed, and he was walking me backward. The high mattress of the cabin’s double bed hit my bottom and before I quite understood what was happening, he lifted me into his arms and placed me on the bed.

  I did open my eyes then, scrambling away from him to the far corner of the mattress. I glared at him, hoped to communicate that I would kill him dead if he touched me with intent to arouse.

  He seemed to understand the silent threat because he lifted his hands up and said, “I’m not going to touch you, not if you don’t want me to. I’m just going to sit here, on this side. But you have to promise me that you won’t cover your face or close your eyes again. I need you to see me when I say this. And I need to see you.”

  I said nothing. I wasn’t going to make him any promises.

  He paused, indulging himself in a moment to examine my face. At length, he said, “You’re so good at that. You’ll have to teach me how to do that, hide in plain sight. It’s a handy skill.” These words were surprisingly bitter, approaching the intersection of sarcasm and spite.

  I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms around my legs, and said nothing. Though I got the distinct impression he was stalling. I briefly wondered why, but then became irritated with myself for my curiosity. I shouldn’t care.

  He sat on the edge of the bed in the opposite corner, facing me. His features were hard, verging on resentful.

  Abruptly, he released a breath and with it the words, “I’m in love with you, Kaitlyn.”

  I said nothing, but I did flinch. As silent seconds ticked by, feelings welled within me, ballooning past the numbness, and I could barely contain it. I felt like I was being stretched beyond my capacity, my chest tight and heavy, my stomach intermittently twisting and pitching. I was dizzy.

  As well, I found I couldn’t quite hold the enormity of his gaze paired with his admission, so earnestly spoken. I believed him and I couldn’t quite handle this truth, so I removed my eyes from his and swallowed. It didn’t help. I was shaking.

  He cleared his throat, politely ignoring my turmoil, and said, “Who your family is, it’s a part of you. Just like my family—all their fucked-up spite and bullshit—is also a part of me. We’ve been shaped by them but they don’t define us. I’m not them. I don’t have to be like them. You’re not your illustrious ancestors. You don’t have to be like them. You can be whoever you want. Our families couldn’t be more different, but—because of who your family is—you understand what it means to have…expectations. To have people prejudge you or want to use you for who they are, what they’ve done, and what they have. That’s what I meant when I said who your family is has a great deal to do with why you’re very attractive girlfriend material.”

  I slid just my eyes to his. They were stinging and I felt like crying. I was overwhelmed but I was unable to keep from surveying him to discern the veracity of his words. He appeared to be completely sincere and I felt the gravity of his blue-green gaze to my bones.

  Before I could catch myself, I blurted, “So you like me because I can empathize with you?”

  “No…yes, that’s definitely part of it, but…” His frustration was a tangible thing, curling around his strong body and filling the air with tension. “I like you because you are Kaitlyn—genuine, beautiful, brilliant, amazing Kaitlyn—not because you’re Kaitlyn Parker. And I’m in love with you because I can’t help myself.”

  Oh well…barnacles.

  That struck me right in the feels.

  I knocked my feels on their collective swooning asses for a moment because I needed to focus on the real issue. “But, upstairs you were trying to make me think you were using me. Why make it sound like you were just using me?”

  He leaned forward, but made no move to advance closer, his voice rising with every word. “Because you’re so controlled all the time. I ask you to move in with me and you make a pro/con list, as though we’d be just roommates, but make no reference to what you feel for me, like it doesn’t factor. I’m in love with you and I have no idea what you feel for me, if you feel anything at all!”

  “How can you say that? How can you even think it? Who was upstairs yesterday giving you a hug and trying to comfort you after your wicked stepmother showed up?”

  “You. You were upstairs.” His tone held a hard edge, ripe with unhappiness. “But you would have done that for anyone; you would have tried to make things right for any random person. I don’t want to be just anyone to you.”

  I couldn’t believe this. I couldn’t believe him. “Then who has been on this boat with you since yesterday morning? Who was all up in your junk yesterday afternoon? And who woke up naked, tangled up with you this morning in this bed? You are not any random person to me! I’ve never done anything with anyone before! I’ve never let anyone so close. And these things, all these things we’ve been doing, and not just the physical stuff, the sharing of…of myself, of our dreams and our fears, this means something to me. None of
this has been done lightly.”

  “I needed to be sure.”

  I hoped I was misunderstanding him somehow, because the alternative was completely cray-cray.

  “So, help me understand this. Earlier, on the deck, just now…you misled me as some kind of test? To see if I’d be upset?”

  “Yes.” He nodded, looking unrepentant.

  My brain was going to explode.

  “That’s messed up, Martin. You know this is a sore spot for me, if not the sorest spot. Your need for certainty does not matter more than my feelings. You don’t purposefully hurt people you care about. You can’t do that. That’s not allowed!”

  He flinched and abruptly stood, turned away, like he couldn’t stand looking at me with the knowledge that he’d hurt me. He tugged his fingers though his hair and sighed, stalking back and forth from one side of the cabin to the other.

  “I never wanted to hurt you. I didn’t think I could hurt you. I didn’t expect you to freak out like you did. You never freak out about anything. I just wanted to see how you would react. I wanted to see if I mattered.”

  “Well, looks like you have your answer. You matter. Happy now?”

  “No. I’m the opposite of happy,” he yelled back, then exhaled like he was out of steam. His gaze moved over me with such raw longing that I couldn’t stand looking at him anymore. I closed my eyes and I covered my face.

  A moment later I heard something crash followed by, “Goddammit!”

  I jumped at the sound and blasphemy, but kept my face buried. I was all mixed up and not one thought or feeling seemed to rise to the top.

  “Kaitlyn, will you look at me?”

  I gathered a fortifying breath then peeked at him between my fingers. It was the best I could do.

  He was now glaring at me, likely irritated by the hands still covering my face.

  Then he broke the stony silence. “I’m sorry,” he said, then waited like he expected me to respond in a certain way, like we were following some script I hadn’t been given. He growled impatiently, “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So, am I forgiven?”

  My hands dropped from my face in my shocked outrage. “No!”