The Science of Loving

by Candace Vianna

  “Sorry angel, but you just robbed me senseless.”

  “It’s the dress. It’s kind of over the top.”

  “Over the top is good.” He grinned. “But I’ll bet under the top’s even better.” And just like that, his senses returned.

  I trudged through the clubhouse like one condemned, loitering at the entrance of a garden courtyard as if all the usual suspects were mingling around a guillotine instead of a koi pond and shrubbery. A couple of deep-pocketed pharma reps were sucking up my boss, Bob Tate, while off to the side, my next door lab mate, Dr. Ben Bhatt was chatting with my minions, Dr.s Steven (the stick) Crane and Leslie Jacobs. And commanding center stage, my mother regally held court, looking dangerously poised while a familiar collection of puffed up alumni fluttered around her in their khakis’ and designer shoes.

  “Let’s rock this joint,” Mat murmured, his hand warming my back right before he propelled us out into the open, his grip shifting to my elbow, steadying me on the uneven pavers. I smiled weakly as I felt what seemed to be everyone’s eyes on us. I could imagine what they saw. Although he looked far less sinister in the light of day with his tattoos hidden under buttoned cuffs, he still a towered over everyone, and I was a bloody splash of road kill standing next to him.

  “Angie?” Steve strode over, looking as flummoxed as I felt. “Holy-moly! You look—I almost didn’t recognize you.” He took a step back when he noticed Mat.

  “Mat, this is Steven Crane. We work together. Steve this is my friend Mat.”

  “Hey, how’s it going?” Mat said, calmly offered him his hand. “Are you into fruit flies too?”

  Steve gaped. Seconds passed and it was a relief to see I wasn’t the only one Mat rendered stupid. “Oh yes, they’re really fascinating. Well their genes are—the flies don’t do all that much. Currently, we’re using them to study degenerative muscle disorders.”

  “Like Muscular Dystrophy?”

  “Exactly,” Steve said.

  “That’s very cool.” I glanced up to see if Mat was joking as his hand skimmed up my back, and reddened when I caught his grey eyes sparkling down.

  “Yes, it is.” Steve beamed.

  I eyed the wine boxes across the courtyard. I could really use some liquid courage. “Sweetheart, you want me to get you a drink?”

  “I’d love a glass of wine.”

  “Hey man, you mind looking after my girl while I get her a drink?”

  Pleasantly surprised, Steve stood a little taller. “It would be my pleasure, Mat.”

  Mat brushed a kiss across my knuckles. “I’ll be right back.” People shifted out of his way as he prowled like a lion through a herd, sated at the moment, but with an underlying threat.

  Leslie made a beeline over to me, her eyes never leaving Mat’s back. “Holy shit, Ange. Who is he? What has he done to you? And where can I get one!”

  Thank God for Leslie, she was great at these things—not great as in popular—great entertainment. She’d whisper snarky observations on everything from wardrobe choice to sexual orientation. It was like a bizarre stream of consciousness, funny, occasionally uncomfortable and always unpredictable.

  “Holy shit, indeed, Les. His name is Mat. Nothing so far. And I think he broke the mold.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me, he’s ginormous. Can I at least rub his head? Please? I want to make a wish.” I rolled my eyes as she pleaded. “There’s just something about a shiny, bald head. Gets me every time.”

  Steve grinned and did his best Groucho Marks impression. “I could shave my head doll, but you’d wish I hadn’t.”

  “You’re right; it wouldn’t be the same.” Les sadly shook her head. “I’ve already seen you with hair. There’s no mystery.”

  I felt her coming even before I saw her pastel power suit and perfectly coiffed platinum hair. She homed in on me like a heat seeking rocket, riding a giant wave of disapproval. “Angie, darling, well—just—look—at—you.” A knot twisted in my stomach.

  “Hello Mom.” We traded fake air kisses, and as usual, she didn't acknowledge my colleagues—not that it bothered Les. She couldn’t stand my mother. So, as far as she was concerned, Mom just upped the entertainment value.

  She looked me up and down, distaste clearly written on her pursed lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in that color before.”

  “Yeah, doesn’t she look fabulous? Here you go, sweetheart.” A heavy arm dropped protectively around me. “Thanks Steve, I appreciate it.”

  I muttered my thanks, wondering if it would be gauche to chug the whole thing in one go as I observed Mom’s reaction to Mat. First, there was the understandable eye widening shock. Then, open mouthed amazement, again understandable, then confusion. She looked from him to me, then back to him. In all fairness, he wasn’t my usual desperate type. Even I wouldn’t have pictured a guy like this with me.

  “Mat, I’d like to introduce you to my mother, Stephanie Martin. Mom this is Mat James.”

  The mid-day sun beat against the top of my head in concordance with the coastal breeze. Unbuttoning my cuffs, I rolled up my sleeves as I strolled, observing the group dynamics. The Climbers stroked the Haves while the prey huddled uneasily and the Shakers circulated amongst them stirring the pot. Angie and Steve were definitely in the prey category.

  I filled a clear plastic cup with pink wine from a box sitting next to some crap sandwiches cut into odd shapes in a sad attempt at fancying them up. After grabbing a bottled water for myself, I noted Angie engaged in conversation with a stocky brunette, a smile lighting up her face. And guessing from the looks they were directing my way, my ears should be burning. The chick said something and Angie laughed.

  As I made my way back to them Angie stiffened, her smile becoming strained. Lengthening my stride, I scanned the room, spying an attractive woman stalking over to her. Everything about her screamed high maintenance, from her designer suit to an unnaturally smooth face that only frequent injections with Botox could achieve. She was definitely one of the Haves.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in this color before,” she said in a condescending tone—what the fuck?

  “Yeah, doesn’t she look fabulous? Here you go, sweetheart.” I took custody of my girl as I handed her the wine. “Thanks Steve, I appreciate it,” I acknowledge, then looked pointedly look at the barracuda.

  From the her shocked expression, I could tell a shaved, tatted up, 6’4”, wall of aggression was not what she’d expected—yeah, that’s right lady take a good look—normally, I get one of two reactions when women first see me: Fear or lust. I waited to see which way she’d jump. She regarded Angie with disbelief then returned her gaze to me. I smirked after a mixture of greed, lust and jealousy flashed across her face. Ding, ding, ding… We have a winner: Not a barracuda, a motherfucking cougar.

  “Mat, I’d like to introduce you to my mother, Stephanie Martin. Mom this is Mat James.” Motherfucker!

  “How do you do Mat.” Her tone was meant to intimidate as she extended manicured hand, a polite mask of indifference settling on her face. So Mommy Dearest wants to play it like that.

  “I do very well Mrs. Martin and yourself?” I inquired with a subtle growl. I gripped her hand, not painfully hard, but firmly maintaining control until she dropped her gaze. She thinks she can intimidate me? Not in this lifetime.

  Angie jumped, and woman she’d been laughing with earlier was now giving me a not so subtle look—I guess my girl’s ticklish. “Mat, this is another one of my lab mates, Dr. Leslie Jacobs.”

  “Oh my gosh, can I rub your head, I want to make a wish?” Okay, this is weird.

  “Well chica, I normally don’t give head to strangers, but in your case I’ll make an exception. So it good.”

  “You’ll have to forgive Les, she mislaid her verbal filter during lent and now she can’t find it.” Angie giggled against my chest as I pulled her closer, bending so Les could rub my noggin. It was worth it just to hear that giggle.

  Polishing my melon
with a mischievous grin, she intoned, “I wish I may, I wish I might, find my own giant tonight.”

  “Darling, you might be too much for one giant to handle.” I chuckled. “You’d better order a brace.” This chick’s hilarious.

  “You have no idea,” Angie muttered.

  “I don’t suppose you have any brothers?” Les mused.

  “Nope, no brothers. And after my sister was born, the state pulled my parents’ right to breed—something about the spawn of Satan and hastening the Apocalypse.”

  “So Mat, what is it that you do?” Stephanie wants to dance.

  “I’m into architecture,” I said blandly.

  I could see the wheels turning. Like most entitled types, she couldn’t see past the ink, or maybe the glare from my head was blinding her. When I said architecture, she assumed it was a euphemism for construction worker, not that I was above them. They were the ones who actually created something enduring. I just drew concepts on fancy paper. They made them real. My work wouldn’t exist without them. “Angelina I wish you’d told me you were bringing a friend,” Stephanie said, not bothering to hide her disdain, “I met a charming gentleman last week and told him all about you. I invited him today just to meet you.”

  “Mom I really wish you’d listen to me. I’ve asked you to stop doing that. You know I don’t like it.”

  “I’m just trying to help. You’re practically a shut in. What harm is there in just saying hi.” What the fuck, am I not standing right here?

  “Wait, Wait.” Steve was practically dancing with excitement. “Are you Mathew Saint James?”

  “Yeah, last time I checked.”

  “Oh, my God! Mathew Saint James. Your work is famous. You’re the youngest person ever to win the Pritzker. You’ve won the Erick Schelling, Wolf and Kemper awards too.” He’d started attracting an audience. “The Montague Library is amazing. Didn’t it win something too?”

  “Yeah, that was my master’s project back in the day. Now I’m into this urban renewal thing.” By now, people were politely listening in while Steve looked at me like I was some sort of rock star.

  “I know; I saw a documentary on it.” What a goof. I’ll bet he was the only one who saw that film. I did it to raise money and awareness about urban blight. I was trying to change the way we addressed low-income housing, building sustainable communities instead of slums.

  If Steve’s grin got any wider, I feared his face might break in half. He was excitedly talking about architecture to anyone who’d listen, and he needed to tone it down. He’d attracted Bob, my mentor and our department’s chair’s, attention and some of the alumni and pharma guys were coming over as well.

  “Yeah.” Mat rumbled. “That was my master’s project back in the day. Now I’m into this urban renewal thing.”

  “I know; I saw a documentary on it.” Mat was famous? He was so out of my league.

  “Wasn’t there an article in the Architecture Digest on that project?” One of the alumnus asked. “Something about the psychological effects of community gardens and green spaces.”

  “Oh, it’s more than just the psychological effects. It has a direct impact on physical health, especially for the children. You look at low-income diets and you’ll find they’re mostly processed foods, lots of carbs and empty calories. Unfortunately, a lot of ignorant people assume the poor eat this way because they don’t care about their diets. That they have a choice, when in fact, they don’t.”

  I tried easing away when Mat’s hold on me loosened, only to have him wrap his other arm around me, casually shifting me in front of him, so he could rest his chin on my head without missing a beat. “Think about it. How many of you could feed yourselves on twenty-one dollars a week? That’s basically a dollar per meal with tap water and no snacks. You can make a lunch of Cup-of-Noodles for thirty or forty cents. Fresh produce costs more than canned. Scratch cooking is way more expensive than buying ready-made. It costs three times more to make lasagna from scratch with fresh ingredients than it does to buy a frozen one.”

  Several people were nodding with him. He obviously shared Danny’s gift for social domination. I could tell even Mom wasn’t as immune to his charm as her neutral expression indicated. He was scary big, covered in tattoos, and yet everyone was looking at him like he was the best thing since sliced bread. Well, better him, than me.

  “If they had community gardens, they could supplement their diets with healthy alternatives. We need to go beyond basic shelter and build communities.” Mat paused, taking a breath. “Oh man, you got me going. Sorry you guys, today’s not supposed to be about me, it’s supposed to be about your research.”

  Mat kissed my head, his muscular chest flexing against my back. Now everyone was looking at me, and from the startled look on Bob’s face, I think he’d just recognized me. “Angie, don’t you look a vision. Red suits you.” My cheeks went as hot as my dress, and I wanted to flee when I saw Mom smile narrowly. I knew she’d hate this dress.

  “Th…thank you. Mat, this is Bob Tate. He’s my department’s chair. Bob this is Mathew Saint James.”

  “Mat.” He shook Bob’s hand while he dropped the other possessively across my body, keeping me snugly pressed against him. “I must say, I’m a big fan of Angie’s research. It’s fascinating that genetically, we have so much in common with creatures so different from ourselves. That a simple fruit fly may hold the keys to finding cures for devastating diseases.”

  Bob scrutinized him. He’d been my mentor since I was an adolescent undergrad; I think he even cried a little when I earned my doctorates. Of course, he’d never admit it. We were total opposites. He always held his cards close to his vest, while I went through life with my heart on my sleeve. “Yes, we’re all very proud of Angie. She’s come a long way for someone so young, and I expect great things from her.” Jeez Bob, you’re not that much older than Les. Bob might not have been an idiot savant like me, but he was definitely ahead of the professional curve.

  At the mention of fruit flies, the crowd started drifting away. Yep, even Mat’s charisma was no match for their buzz-kill. Fruit flies, buzz-kill… I slay myself sometimes. Steve and Ben fell into a deep discussion about fermenters and hops. They’d started a brewers club, making beer in some re-purposed fermenters retired from the labs. They tried to get me to join, but I know what’d been inside of those things. Gross.

  I looked around, trying to spot the asshole Mom had invited. If I was lucky, he’d taken one look at Mat and run for his life. I didn’t know how Mom found these guys, but they always turned out to be assholes. You’d think a social dictator like her would be a better judge of character.

  “Tell me, Mat,” Mom brushed her hand up Mat’s arm to get his attention. “How do you know my daughter?”

  “She saved my sister’s life,” he said stiffly.

  “You’re exaggerating. I just fixed her car.” I winced as soon as the words left my mouth, knowing I’d just poured fuel on the fire.

  She chuckled disparagingly. “You and your cars, you’re just like your father.” She stepped closer, her delicate perfume drifting over us as she leaned in touching Mat’s wrist as she added conspiratorially, “It was her father who turned her into little grease monkey.” I’ve always hated that term. It implied mechanics were somehow stupid or subhuman. She’d never understood our love for tinkering: The satisfaction of taking something broken and making it useful again, or figuring out how to make something work better. All she saw was work roughened skin and greasy fingernails.

  “Yeah, I think it’s pretty awesome too,” Mat said dismissively, turning away to listen to the guys discuss mash recipes and fermentation temperatures. Shit, no one dismissed my mother.

  What the fuck! Angie was totally amazing and she acted disappointed. And why the fuck was she touching me! Did Angie realize she was hitting on me? How many levels of fucked up was that?

  “Yeah, I think she’s pretty awesome too,” I said, as if she hadn’t just insulted her daughter, and turne
d us around so I could tune into Steve and this Indian guy’s conversation. Apparently, they were into micro brewing.

  “Breathe,” I whispered, when I noticed Angie was holding her breath again, then took my own advice, burying my nose in freshly washed hair—mmm… melon—breathing her in, forcing myself to relax. I ran my nose along the shell of her ear and she shivered. So I grinned and did it again, rubbing a soothing hand over the fresh goosebumps on her arm—okay, not so mad now.

  “Do you brew Mat?” Steve interrupted my meditation looking at me expectantly.

  “Drink brews, can’t say that I ever tried making them. Have you guys been to Suds? They have over fifty different beers and a pretty good happy hour too.”

  “I’ve heard about that place; I’ve been wanting to try it.” Steve’s companion said, “I’m Ben by the way. My lab’s next door to Angie’s. I study cellular metabolism. The chemistry involved when cells use energy.” Very cool. I was surrounded by super brains. A smarter man would probably find this intimidating. I reached around and shook hands, maintaining a tight hold on Angie. I had a feeling she’d bolt at the first opportunity. I put my chin back on her head. Thank God, the party was winding down. I’d like to check out those stockings, hopefully with her heels digging into my back.

  Leslie came bouncing over. “What’re guys talking about?”

  “We’re thinking of going over to Suds for a few,” Steve said. What? No, no, noooo… Angie and me… alone and sweaty.

  “Cool, count me in.” She looked around raising her voice. “Hey anybody else want to go to Suds?”

  “Is Mat going?” somebody asked.

  “Of course,” Leslie said, leaning up against me, batting her eyes. It was a good thing she made Angie laugh, because right now I wanted to throttle her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Old Engine Oil and Blowjobs