Page 35 of Love in the Lab
I nod. “You have. Thank you.”
His face turns serious. “Listen, I have a weird question that I know I have no right to ask, but it keeps bugging me, and I know it’ll bother me if I don’t at leasttry.”
I laugh nervously. “O-kaay?”
“Can I make a copy of your apartment key?” He grimaces.
“You want a key to my apartment?” I narrow my eyes.
“Not touse. But, like, to hold for you, in case something like this happens again. I could be your hide-a-key,” he explains.
Is it strange that I believe him? He got pretty worked up last night about how “unsafe” the hide-a-key is. Is it even stranger that I trust him? Jonathan’s annoying, but he’s never done anything to make me think he’s dishonest or unreliable. Is it the strangest of all that the idea of Jonathan protecting me,wantingto protect me, stirs up all kinds of butterflies in my stomach?
My bewilderment must show on my face because Jonathan backpedals quickly. “Never mind. That was stupid. It’s a stupid idea.”
His expression of bald insecurity is one I’ve never noticed on my coworker before. Usually, he’s confident, annoyingly smug. But now, instead of his characteristic smirk, he’s wearing a tentative smile. Instead of his typical, relentless eye contact, he’s staring at his hands. It feels sincere. It’s … endearing.
Maybe that explains what I do next. I reach into the pocket of my pants and slide out the extra key to my apartment. I hand the key to Jonathan.
His eyes widen. “Wait, really?”
I smirk. “Yeah, I kind of like the idea of you doing my bidding.”
His eyes flash. “So do I.” He mutters it under his breath, but he’s standing close enough that I hear it anyway.
I do the only thing I can think of doing: ignore the comment. Instead, I smile and tease, “But if I catch you raiding my kitchen in the middle of the night, Iwillshoot you.”
He scoffs. “Do you even have a gun?”
I tap a finger against my chin. “Hmm, I am from Texas, you know.” I don’t own a gun. I’ve never even touched a gun in my entire life.
He laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
After checking into their hotel late Friday afternoon, my parents meet me at my apartment where we’ll make plans for dinner. We exchange hugs all around and I lean in, trying to remember how long it’s been since I’ve been hugged. Probably not since Nicole was here in April. That’s probably why physical contact with Jonathan is affecting me so much. Simple human touch deprivation. Humans are meant to have physical contact with other humans. It’s not him or his touch specifically; it’s a natural biological reaction to touch starvation.
My dad is tall—just under six feet—his long legs providing half that height. His graying hair is mussed from travel, but his gray-blue eyes are bright.
Growing up, my dad always joked that I’m my mother’s mini-me. My face still looks like a younger version of hers, except her eyes are blue-green hazel and mine are just plain blue. We’re about the same height, but her brown hair has changed to gray, and she’s thicker around the middle than I am.
My mom notices the stack of picture frames on the coffee table. I still haven’t gotten around to hanging them since the morning, over a month ago now, I had to stop so I could get to work on time. She picks them up, shuffling them to see the photos. “Ooh, pictures! These are so cute. Ben, you should help Molly hang them while we’re here.”
Neither of them comments on the clutter stacked on every flat surface of the apartment. They didn’t nag me about that kind of thing when I was a kid, either, even though my room was always a disaster. I wasn’t allowed to leave my belongings in the common areas of the house, but in my own room I could organize or disorganize how it made sense to me.
Still, I can’t help but feel a degree of inadequacy when I look around my apartment through my parents’ eyes. My deodorant sits on top of the TV. A giant mixing bowl is taking up space on the nightstand next to my bed. My electric toothbrush, cap on, stands upright on the kitchen counter. I really hope neither of them checks the refrigerator or cupboards, because I’m not even sure what’s in there. Maybe some shriveled carrots and stale crackers? There’s definitely a layer of dust on the lampshades and fan blades.
Now that I’ve noticed what a wreck my apartment is, it’s all I can see. All of a sudden, the space is overwhelming, and I feel the impulse to clean and organize everything. I resist and suppress, forcing myself to focus on my parents, though my fingers are literally twitching to grab a dust rag and get to work.
“Molly?” My dad’s voice breaks through my distraction. The way he’s watching me with an affectionate smile on his face, I know this is not the first time he tried to get my attention.
I smile ruefully back. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Mom asked where you’d like to go for dinner.”
I look between my parents. I have a difficult enough time making decisions when it’s something I care about, never mind when the outcome won’t really matter. “Oh, wherever you want. There are over one hundred restaurants within walking distance, so…” I shrug.
Dad’s eyes light up and he rubs his hands together. “How about some traditional New Orleans food?”
I think of the spread Jonathan provided earlier this week. “Oh, actually I do know a place like that.”
