Page 43 of Love in the Lab
Of course, the answer on all counts is that Iwasn’tthinking. I was giving in to my impulses in a way I haven’t since freshman year of college. I let Jonathan poke holes in the walls I’d constructed not only around my heart, but around my mind as well. Walls that were designed to keep me on track and focused. Now, layers of regret are filling in the holes like bricks being cemented into place.
Yes, Jonathan is handsome and charming. This, I’ve always known. He’s also, I’ve learned to my bewilderment, thoughtful and kind and supportive and funny. Add to that his apparent romantic interest in me, and a weaker woman would have given in weeks ago. I take a kind of twisted pride in that. At least I held out this long.
The sad truth is, I don’t hate Jonathan. I’m not sure I ever really have, deep down. But I also can’t have him.
If I had been focused on my work these past weeks instead of playing games with Jonathan, I’d probably be closer to cracking the proverbial code on my data model. I’d have already worked out a plan to test my hypothesis about the effect of tropical systems on harmful algal bloom outbreaks. I wouldn’t have been on the receiving end of that disappointed look from Dr. Gantt.
My phone pings with a text notification.
Jonathan:
Don’t forget we’re out on the boat tomorrow. See you in the morning, Carrots
I’m supposed to meet him bright and early by the bench in the grassy area behind our lab building. He’s probably picturing a romantic day on the water with some work threaded in between flirtatious looks and hot kisses.
Honestly, that sounds amazing. Imagining his lips on me tomorrow, remembering how they felt against my skin earlier tonight, my heart flutters, and my hands feel jittery. It’s desire, and as much as I’ve tried, I can’t control it. Not around Jonathan.
So, I need to control the variables I can: my proximity to Jonathan, my focus on my work, my insistence on staying in the lab.
I text back a thumbs-up, but I already know I’m not going on that boat tomorrow.
Jonathan’s already waiting when I arrive at our meeting spot the next morning. As soon as he sees me, his face splits into a huge, authentic smile. Then he must notice the expression on my face, or maybe that I’m not dressed for the boat, because he dims.
I wring my hands as he approaches. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Did something happen?”
I shut my eyes. “Yes. I’m sorry, but this was a mistake. Last night was a mistake.”
“No, it wasn’t.” I force my eyes back open and look right into Jonathan’s deep, unblinking gaze. His eyebrows are furrowed, his jaw clenched.
“It was,” I insist. “I made a mistake. I don’t usually do impulsive things, but—”
“You have ADHD,” he cuts in. “Isn’t impulsivity a primary characteristic?”
The words sting, but when I assess his expression, he doesn’t look angry, just matter-of-fact. I push away the hurt and try to explain. “Yes, but I’ve gotten very good at suppressing impulsive urges. I purposely fight against them; I don’t follow them, no matter what.”
His eyebrows pinch tightly together. “Even if it’s something you want?”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. It might be something IthinkI want in the moment but will derail my long-term goals, jeopardize my work.”
Jonathan rocks back on his heels, his expression morphing into hurt. “I get it. You’re scared. You’re scared of what we could have for the same reason you’re scared of fieldwork. You think you’ll get distracted and fail.”
“I don’tthink; Iknow. It’s happened before. I can’t risk my work.”
He grabs my hands in his. “Freshman year of undergrad was a long time ago! You’re so worried about how you’ve failed in the past you don't realize that when you suppress the characteristics of your ADHD, you’re losing yourself. Over the last two months you’ve shown me this amazing side of yourself; a side that’s funny and fiery and nurturing and sexy. Why don’t more people know this about you? Why did you showme? I’m more than a distraction;we’remore than a distraction, and you know it. And it scares the hell out of you.”
It does scare the hell out of me. Everything he says is hitting its mark, striking me right in my heart. There’s another piece of this puzzle, though. The piece that tells me he deserves better, even though he doesn’t realize it yet.
“I like you,” he continues, impassioned. “Just the way you are. You. Whether you’re locking your keys in the car or creating complex data models or scowling or laughing. I’m … I’m falling for you. I wantyou.” His voice breaks, and he looks away.
I shake my head. He may think so now, but when it’s day after day of picking up after me and dealing with my issues, how quickly will that feeling fade? No, it’s better for me and for him, even if he doesn’t realize it now, to stick to the plan. No dating, no distractions. Focus on work. Control what I can control to stay afloat.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I just can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” His eyes cut back to me.
“It’s not that simple,” I protest, pulling my hands away from his.
“It is if you let it be.”
