Page 9 of Love in the Lab
Instead of answering, I turn my head toward the window.
“I’ll take that as a reluctant yes. You’ll love this place. Their hot wings are incredible.” He starts the engine, so I buckle my seat belt.
He’ll do what he wants whether I agree or not. I just hope this restaurant has something on the menu I can eat.
The truck is quiet as Jonathan drives us to the restaurant. Now that I’m mostly dry except for my hair, which still feels uncomfortable against my neck, and I’m wearing reasonably cozy clothes, I feel more regulated. I’ve been overstimulated all day.
I have ADHD, and one of the ways that shows up for me is with sensory processing issues. The simplest explanation is that my brain gets overloaded, my nervous system thinks there’s a threat, and my body goes into fight, flight, or freeze mode. Today, I’ve been choosingfightan awful lot.
My ADHD also looks like losing focus easily, interspersed with long bouts of hyperfocus. Forgetting things, like my phone at the lab or the fact that Dr. Gantt said fieldwork would start today. Disorganization, if I’m not super proactive. And pickiness about food, which is also tied to my sensory challenges.
Years ago, I developed a set of rules designed to minimize the effects of my ADHD and help me appear totally normal.
First, stay in the lab. It’s a predictable, fairly low-distraction environment where I can, usually, control the variables.
Second, keep a rigid schedule. If each day has the same cadence, it’s easier for me to keep track of what comes next.
Third, focus on work. No dating, friends, or other distractions. My sisters are my best friends, and they’re all I need.
These rules have worked well for me. I got into my first choice masters and doctorate programs, where I was top of my class (well, I tied with Jonathan). I had my pick of postdoc research teams to join and contributed meaningfully once I got there. Aside from publications related to my PhD research, I’ve been a third or fourth author on five publications and have presented at six conferences. Not bad for a scientist who hasn’t yet turned thirty, especially a woman in a male-dominated field.
At least, everything’s been fine until recently. Until the principal investigator of my lab, a woman I deeply admire, decided I’m not being creative enough in my work. It’s a blow to my confidence, for sure. I know I do good work. I also recognize that Dr. Gantt, our PI, understands better than I do what it takes to find success in this field because it’s something she’s fought for herself despite the challenges. I only wish she had designed a way to stimulate me that didn’t involve fieldwork. Or Jonathan.
It’s not Jonathan’s fault. Not really. He’s actually been pretty great today, which I can’t believe I’m thinking. I’ve been the difficult one.
My stomach growls, and I pat my midsection. Hopefully that growl was an internal sound and not something Jonathan could hear. I glance over at him, but he’s focused on the road. I often don’t notice my body’s signals until they’re extreme—I don’t realize I need to pee until I’m bursting; I don’t pay attention to how tired I am until I crash. Likewise, I usually don’t notice I’m hungry until I’m past hungry, until I’mhangry.
Fortunately, we pull into the parking lot of a local dive restaurant called The Saucy Wing. Jonathan parks the truck in front of a large menu board posted on a wall near the order and pickup windows.
He turns to me. “Let me know what you want, and I’ll go place the order and bring it back when it’s ready. You won’t have to get out of the truck.”
I study the menu. It’s limited; this place is mostly a wing joint. I can’t stand eating anything that has bones in it. I don’t like foods that are creamy. Most dairy makes me gag. I can’t get near any foods that have strong smells like seafood or garlic. Fruits and vegetables are hit or miss. I can eat one grape and it’s amazing, crisp and juicy, and then I eat another grape from the very same bunch and it’s squishy and sour.
“I’ll have the boneless barbecue wings,” I tell Jonathan. “With fries. And just water to drink.”
Jonathan opens the truck door to go place the order.
“Wait!” I call. “I don’t have my wallet with me.”
He turns his face back toward me and smiles. “My treat. It’s the least I can do after everything I’ve put you through today.”
I start to protest, but my stomach growls again, and I can tell by Jonathan’s smug expression that it definitely wasn’t just an internal noise this time.
“Fine. Thank you. I’ll pay you back.”
I watch through the windshield as Jonathan talks to the guy at the order window. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’reboth smiling and laughing. I may need to come to terms with the fact that if everyone likes Jonathan except for me—and it really seems that way—maybe it’s not him that’s the problem.
Or, I think as he tosses his curly hair out of his eyes and slides his hands into the pockets of his pants, making the muscles in his forearms pop,he masks his evilness with looks and charm, and I’m the only one who sees past the ruse.Yep, that’s it.
When Jonathan climbs back into the truck with two white paper sacks dotted with grease, a bottle of water, and a large paper cup, he’s still smiling. He hands one of the bags to me, and I practically rip it open.
I eat the fries first because once they get cold, they’re disgusting. After I polish off the fries, I reach back into the sack for the chicken wings. I hazard a glance toward my dining companion. He’s watching me, the ever-present smirk on his face. He hasn’t started eating yet.
“What?” I challenge.
His smirk gets … smirkier. “Nothing. I just like a woman who can eat.”
I scowl at him. “I don’t care what kind of woman you like.”
