Page 49 of Mud, Love, and Chemistry

“The same internship Sam’s vying for?” Lisa folds her arms, leaning back in her chair.

“Yes, but I’m her favorite student.” I stab my spoon into my bowl. “If I fuck up this study group thing, though, I might be taken down a peg. I don’t want to give Sam an advantage.”

“But doesn’t helping him succeed with the study group improve his chances too?”

“Of course it does, but it’s way better if I help. I’ll continue to be Professor St. James’ favorite student, I’ll get the internship spot, and then I can rub it in Sam’s stupid, handsome face.”

Lisa wiggles in her chair, biting down on her lip like she’s holding something back.

“What?”

“You still think he’s handsome?”

“Ugh.” I drop my face into my hands. “Why do I talk to you?”

“Because no one else will put up with your shit.”

I glare at her through my fingers. “Ditto.”

“Brat.” Lisa sticks her tongue out. “When are you going over there? Want a ride?”

“No. Thanks, though. I’m supposed to be there at one, and I’m looking forward to the walk. It’ll give me a chance to clear my head about the whole thing.”

***

The walk does the opposite. Instead of clearing my head, I simply clog it with more outrageous thoughts of Sam. Talk about overthinking.

My breath is so short and fast, I can’t enjoy the fresh air. It almost burns instead of cleansing like it should. I’m chugging my water to quench my dry throat, but I know it’s going to make me have to pee.

How could I think this is a good idea? If being alone with your enemy isn’t bad enough, being alone with your enemy, whom you not only think is handsome, but also slept with, has to be terrible. But it’s not like I’m going to act on anything. There’s nothing wrong with finding someone attractive.

At the stoplight, I close my eyes and try to regulate my breath. I’ve got to get my heart to stop pounding. It’s thumping so powerfully, I can hear it. By the time the chirping of the crosswalk signal sounds, I’m a bit more relaxed. I can at least hear myself think now.

This is going to be fine. We’re going to work on the presentation, that’s it. We don’t even have to talk about anything other than chemistry. I’ll get in, get the work done, and get out. Easy peasy.

The closer I get to his complex, the more my anxiety ebbs. That may be due to the fact that I can’t concentrate on anything except my full bladder. Every step gets harder to take. I want to run the rest of the way, but I can’t chance peeing my pants. I’ll have to distract myself.

What was I thinking a minute ago? Oh, right. Sam and I are classmates. We are adults. We are capable of lasting two hours to finish a presentation without killing each other. We’re two colleagues working together on a project that will solidify which one of us gets a coveted position integral to our respective futures?

Breathe, Brynn. Breathe.

So much for decreasing my anxiety. I suck in copious amounts of air as I lean onto the railing of his apartment building. The stairs in front of me seem like Mount Everest; an arduous trek into unknown territory that I’m grossly unprepared to enter. And at the top, who knows what I’ll find.

Taking the stairs slowly, I creep to Sam’s door and force myself to knock immediately. No sense in delaying the inevitable.

Sam whips open the door with a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. “Hey,” he says through the mouthful of food. “Sorry. Come in.” He swallows and steps back to allow me to pass.

As I cross the threshold, I enter a total bachelor pad. There’s nothing on the walls aside from the 80-inch television, and the only pieces of furniture are a couch flanked by two mismatched side tables, and a coffee table in front. I crane my neck toward the small kitchen and find a breakfast table, but with two mismatched chairs.

“Nice place,” I lie, feigning cheerfulness.

Sam laughs. “Don’t mock me.” He shuts the door and rounds the couch, holding out his hand to invite me to sit. “I’d give you the tour, but you’ve seen eighty percent of it, and the last twenty is just as bad.”

“Well, I do have to pee.”

“Oh, um, that door.” He points across the living room. “I cleaned it,” he says as I scurry away.

He cleaned for me? The thought doesn’t linger long before it’s shoved away by the pure joy that comes from emptying one’s bladder. I can’t believe I made it all the way here.

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