Page 47 of Love in the Lab
Jonathan doesn’t answer my question, instead asking one of his own. “Is that my shirt?”
I glance down at my holey leggings and baggy red T-shirt, which yes, is indeed the one I borrowed from him that first day of fieldwork. The material is so soft and feels so cozy againstmy skin. Add to that the fact that it’s a piece of Jonathan, and wearing it makes me feel less alone.
It’s a guilty pleasure. I never expected him to see me in it. My face heats, and I’m sure it matches the shirt when I lift my head. I can’t read Jonathan’s expression. His eyes are guarded, his face aloof.
Something feels weird about the interaction. I know I’m the one who inserted this emotional distance into our relationship—and for good reason—but I miss the back and forth. I misshim. And something else is missing, something I can’t put my finger on.
Jonathan pulls his keys from his pocket and singles out the one for my apartment. He slides the key into the keyhole and turns it until we hear the clicking noise that indicates the lock is disengaged. He removes the key and hooks his finger through the key ring.
He takes a step back, but I don’t move to open the door. “Jonathan—” I start. I have no plan for what I want to say; I just know that my heart has been weighed down and miserable these last couple of days without him.
He interrupts me. “I hope you’ve been keeping an eye on the potential hurricane that’s in the Caribbean. They say it might come this way.”
I haven’t been keeping an eye on anything. I haven’t even heard about it. I realize, though, what’s so different about tonight, why Jonathan feels all wrong. He hasn’t smiled once since he got here.
Not a grin or even a smirk, and certainly not the wide relaxed smile that makes my knees wobble. The ache in my chest grows to a throb. I scrabble for anything he might be willing to give me. “Jonathan, please.” I hate how querulous my voice sounds, how vulnerable. “Can we please try to be friends?”
He shakes his head, his expression shifting from the restrained indifference he’s shown since he arrived to a weariness that matches the way I feel. “I can’t be friends with you.”
“Can’t or won’t?” I ask, echoing his challenge to me from the other morning.
Finally, here’s a ghost of a smile, just the smallest uptick at the corners of his mouth. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t just take what I feel for you and stuff it into an undersized box.”
The implication being that I can. After all, he’s seen me do it. I took my joy at being out on the water and crammed it into a box labeled “fear of the ocean.” I funneled my loneliness into a box called “dedication to my work.” Now I want to take whatever this big soft emotion I’m feeling for Jonathan is and force it into a box, slapping the word “friendship” onto it, after calling it “hatred” for years.
Jonathan runs his hands through his hair. “Caring for someone else doesn’t follow strict rules or schedules. You know, with the way you obsess over couples like your sister and her boyfriend, and Anne and Gilbert, and Matthew and Marilla—”
“Matthew and Marilla are brother and sister,” I can’t help but correct.
He pauses. “Really? That’s, um … weird. I could have sworn… Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I find it surprising that you don’t seem to believe in love.”
I drop my eyes to the floor. I can’t face him as I say possibly the most vulnerable thing I’ve said to anyone ever. I owe him this much. “I do believe in love. I just don’t believe it’s meant for me.”
I hear his sharp intake of breath and raise my eyes to take in his expression. He looks stunned. He shakes his head and opens his mouth as if to argue, then closes it again. He steps closer,backing me up against the wall next to the door. Slowly, he slides a hand behind my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, and leans forward. His lips brush mine in the softest, sweetest kiss. A few seconds of contact and it’s over, much too soon. I want to fist my hand in his shirt and pull him back to me, beg him to kiss me for real. It wouldn’t be fair to him.
He rocks back on his heels, his face inches from mine, not touching. His eyes, dark and intense, bore into mine. “You’re wrong,” he whispers in a broken voice.
He reaches behind me and twists the doorknob, swinging the door to my apartment open.
As he turns away, I stop him. “I … I need my spare key back.” I try to keep my voice steady, though my heart is pounding.
Without turning around, he answers me in a rough tone. “Not yet.” Then he walks away.
The interaction guts me, and I feel the full weight of the decision I’ve made to live a solitary life focused on my research. It’s a heavy weight, situated primarily on top of my heart.
But Jonathan’s parting words ignite a flicker of hope deep within me. Why do those two words, despite my insistence that love is not for me, make me so inordinately happy? He came here tonight to help me, no questions asked. He didn’t have to.
Keeping the key feels like a declaration. He wants to be there for me, and he’s not done with me yet.
I wake up Sunday morning feeling ready to take on the day. I shower, get dressed, and go grocery shopping—with a list and everything. In the afternoon, I head to the lab to get started processing the water samples Jonathan collected without me on Friday.
As afternoon turns to evening, Jonathan doesn’t come to the lab. Not that I expect him to after our interaction yesterday. It’s just that he’s become such a part of my routine over the last few weeks. I’ve gotten used to seeing him at the lab on weekend evenings.
He usually arrives right around the time I should be taking a break, and though two months ago I would have said his timing interrupts my workflow, now it seems fortuitous. I never forget to eat dinner on the nights when Jonathan comes into the lab while I’m working. I don’t tonight either, but not because Jonathan comes in. It’s because I never get to hyperfocus; I’m so distracted by watching the door.
