Page 46 of Love in the Lab
Chapter eighteen
Molly
Another lively Saturday night for Molly Delaney, I think dejectedly as I slump on my couch and queue up the nextAnne of Green Gablesmovie. I’m torturing myself, of course.
I couldn’t find the energy to go to the lab today, my hard-won routine failing me at a time when my work is all I have left. By choice. I chose this.
So, it’s a couch day. Honestly, as much as getting out of bed this morning felt insurmountable, I’m surprised I made it all the way to the couch. Some days are like this, and I’ve found that, despite all my instincts telling me to fight through the malaise,giving in produces better results. I can wallow for a day and then be back on track the next. The ache in my chest is new, though, since yesterday morning.
Unfortunately, wallowing isn’t conducive to even the most basic parts of adulting, like feeding myself. The only food I have left in my kitchen from my parents’ visit requires preparation, and I’m certainly in no place to do that today.
But Icanmake ready-to-eat food appear on my doorstep with my phone in just a few presses of a button. I order chicken tenders, my lifelong comfort food, and watch Anne while I wait for them to arrive.
Twenty minutes later, a notification on my phone tells me that the delivery person can’t get through my apartment building’s front entry door. I groan. I’ll have to go all the way downstairs to get the food. I briefly consider if it’s really worth it until my stomach growls. Fine. I heft myself up from the couch. I don’t bother to put on shoes as I walk out the door while messaging the delivery person to wait for me.
Soon I’m back upstairs, bag of food in hand. I twist the knob to open my apartment door, but it doesn’t turn, and the door doesn’t open. It’s locked.
My apartment door has two locks, and they both use the same key. One is a deadbolt that I have to remember to turn to the left to lock the door from the inside before I go to bed at night. From the outside, it can only be locked or unlocked with the key. I didn’t bring a key with me, and therefore, the deadbolt can’t possibly be engaged. The second is a doorknob lock. This one has a button on the doorknob on the inside of the apartment that I can press to lock the door from the outside. The door will still open from the inside when the lock is engaged but then requires the key to open it from the outside.
I drop my head into my hand. I must have forgotten to unlock the doorknob on my way out. Now I have to go all the way backdownstairs and outside barefoot to grab my hide-a-key from the bushes—
Except I don’thavea hide-a-key in the bushes anymore, do I?
I groan. There has to be another solution. My brain cycles through ideas. The building super is out of town this weekend, and their backup lives an hour away. I don’t know any of my neighbors. I pat my pockets. I definitelydon’thave my keys, right?
I consider calling to Beaker through the door and somehow getting her to bat the doorknob enough to swivel the button. I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel for ideas that don’t involve the man I rejected yesterday morning.
I don’t really have a choice. As embarrassing as it is to have to text Jonathan to let me into my apartment, a part of me thrills in anticipation of seeing him. If he’s even willing to come.
Molly:
I know you’re mad at me but I need help
My phone immediately starts to ring. I answer, and before I can say anything, Jonathan’s voice echoes into the hallway. “What happened? Are you okay?”
I hear loud music and talking in the background. He’s out, not sitting around his apartment alone like I am. I sigh, rubbing my knuckles against my chest. The ache there has only expanded upon hearing his voice. “I’m okay. I locked myself out of my apartment, and I don’t have a hide-a-key outside anymore.”
Jonathan’s silent for a few seconds, likely remembering, like I am, how he insisted on holding onto my spare apartment key. “Are you somewhere safe?” he asks.
“Yes. I’m in the hallway with my food order.” I sheepishly explain how I came to find myself in this predicament.
“Okay. I’ll be right there.”
“If you’re busy, I can figure something else out,” I hedge. I’m not sure what that “something else” would be, but I’ve inconvenienced Jonathan so much already. He’s a handsome, single man out on a Saturday night. He doesn’t need to interrupt his evening to rescue his … whatever we are to each other. Just plain coworkers? Frenemies?
Heshouldbe out, meeting people. He deserves to meet a nice, uncomplicated woman without all my baggage. He deserves everything he wants.
“No, I’m not far away. I can come,” he insists. I puff out a relieved breath and give him the code for the front entry door.
The call disconnects, and I sit on the floor with my back against my apartment door. I open the bag of food and eat my chicken tenders while I wait. When I finish, I lean my head against the door and close my eyes.
It’s not long before I hear Jonathan’s familiar footsteps coming up the stairs. I open my eyes and jump up as the footsteps start to echo in the hallway itself.
“Hey,” I greet him breathily as I drink in the sight of him. His black button-down shirt is slim cut through the torso, tucked neatly into dark-wash jeans that contour to his hips and legs. His black derby shoes are different and more stylish than the leather work shoes he wears to the lab. His curls look neater than normal, as if he put product in them.
It’s a study in contrast with me clearly dressed for a night on the couch. He looks like he could have been on a date. Was he on a date?
“Were you on a date?” I blurt.
