Page 11 of Advanced Chemistry

“It’s okay. I’m used to you sticking your foot in your mouth.” Even his boneheaded statement came out suave. “I still don’t understand why you’re so against getting serious with a guy. Are you really that scarred by your parents’ happy marriage?”

Anton shifted in his seat slightly. To anyone else, it wouldn’t register. But I knew my friend well enough that it signaled internal discomfort, like we were treading close to a sensitive topic.

“Relationships either turn toxic or boring. I don’t want either. I want option C: excitement, thrills, heat. I want to be kept on my toes. I see my parents, and they were madly in love once, but now they’re roommates. Dad never sweeps Mom up in a kiss. He kisses her on the forehead, like she’s his daughter or something. They have discussions about coupons for paper towels and making grocery lists and putting dishes in the sink.”

Was it weird that I found that incredibly sweet?

“To each their own, but I don’t want my life to fall into that kind of lull.” Anton shook his head to underline his point. “Like, is that all there is? Having an ongoing dialogue about whose responsibility it is to load the dishwasher? Life is about living and risk and rush. You know how the top of the muffin is the best part of the muffin? After that, the stump is…fine, but it’s not what you came here for. Those first few weeks of dating someone, when there’s still mystery and desire, that’s the muffin top. After that, it becomes Stump City and wasted carbs.”

“I’m more of a croissant guy,” I deadpanned.

“Actually, you love muffins. I saw you wolf down three corn muffins at that small business conference we went to last year.” He tipped his head, acing a victory in his mind. In my defense, those werereallygood corn muffins. “Kamran is a good person, but he became a big, old stump.”

Maybe it was for the best that I never acted on my crush. The last thing I wanted was to be a half-eaten discarded pastry in Anton’s eyes.

“Goodbye, Kamran.” I shrugged and gave him a half-hearted toast before taking a drink.

We downed the rest of our beer, then got refills. Mitch, the no-nonsense bear of a man who ran Stone’s Throw, gave us a questionable look, a silent warning not to overdo it. We made our way through SpringFest en route to the live bands section. I followed Anton, who cut through the thick crowds with laser focus. He was determined to party, as if he had something to prove.

On stage was a cover band of dad-type guys jamming out to a Dave Matthews Band song. Anton stopped just before we entered the throng of dancers.

“Yo, is that Mr. M. from high school?”

I followed his gaze to our old chemistry teacher Mr. Mathison, standing alone under a tree shoving a deep-fried Twinkie in his mouth. We’d bumped into him a few weeks ago while refilling a vending machine at a winery. He looked the same as he had when he was our teacher. The same neat, blonde hair. The same twinkling, crystal blue eyes hiding behind thick-framed glasses. The same tall, lean figure and general obliviousness in public settings.

“He still looks good,” Anton said with a pleased smile.

Mr. Mathison was always nerdy-cute. Anton and I used to joke about having a crush on him. Whenever Mr. Mathison would turn his back to the class to write on the markerboard, Anton would give me a wink and pretend to take a bite out of his ass.

“The man sure loves his Twinkies,” I said, watching as Mr. M. inhaled the sugary treat, as if it was a really good corn muffin or something.

“Let’s go say hi.” Anton had a glint in his eye, the same glint that let me know when he’d found a new challenge. “It’ll be good to catch up.”

Anton beelined through festival attendees. I hurriedly caught up to him.

“Mr. M.! How’s it going?” Anton clapped Mr. Mathison on the shoulder, nearly causing him to choke on his snack. “How’s the Twinkie?”

“Delicious. It’s deep-fried in chocolate.”

“Yum,” Anton said, though only in hell would he willingly eat something so decadent. “Are you out here enjoying SpringFest by yourself?”

“I came with a neighbor, but she left. I wanted to get another Twinkie. Why they don’t make these year-round is a mystery. They could make a killing.”

“Speaking of, I know I said this when we saw you at the winery, but you still look good, Mr. M.” Anton gave Mr. Mathison a thorough once over. He had the uncanny ability to make blatant flirting come off as charming. Or maybe I was so pathetically in the bag for him that I found anything he did charming.

When it came to Mr. Mathison, Anton’s assessment was on point for the most part. The dark, thick glasses made his eyes and pink lips extra vibrant. His T-shirt that read “I Tell Jokes Periodically,” with “Jokes” broken up into element symbols, clung to his chest. I doubted the man hit the weightroom, but he seemed to at least know the benefits of daily pushups.

“Thank you,” Mr. Mathison said bashfully at Anton’s compliment. “You both still look like you’re in top physical form.”

“We love hitting the gym regularly.” Anton shrugged, getting in a subtle arm flex. His muscles were more subdued than mine, which was just how our genetics shook out since we work out equally.

“What are you two doing now? Home from college, I presume.”

“No college for us. I remember one time, you handed back my test and said you’d never used so much red pen before.” Anton beamed with pride. It technically was a record he broke. He knew how to be self-deprecating while bragging at the same time.

“I guess a career in the sciences wasn’t the most opportune choice,” Mr. Mathison said.

“Anton could’ve been a kick-ass scientist if he put his mind to it.” Despite us all laughing, I meant every word. Anton liked to joke about how he didn’t have an academic bone in his body, but the truth was when he put his mind to something, he excelled. Both his parents were professors, which I think turned him off to school. He wanted to forge his own path. If he really wanted to be a scientist, he had the grit and work ethic to pull it off.

---