Imperfect Chemistry Read online

It takes almost a week of observation, watching out my peephole and listening for his car coming and going, along with carefully posed questions at various locales throughout campus that Jensen frequents. The time and effort is well spent on learning a few important things about Jensen Walker.

  For one, there isn’t a horde of females coming and going as I was led to believe.

  There is one female, a tall blonde, that goes to his house occasionally, stays a few hours and leaves. I suppose she could be a girlfriend of some type, but he never leaves with her so the odds are likely they are not exclusive. The observation makes me feel better. The thought of being one amongst many isn’t enticing. Perhaps Freya’s rumors are wrong—which I find likely—or perhaps he went through a phase of sexual independence but has now moved on. That theory is much more appealing.

  He also leaves the duplex to go to class, and I am able to obtain his class listing from the school registrar, but other than that, he’s generally at home and he’s generally alone. It’s interesting. He moved into the duplex last semester and I seem to remember him having people over—not enough to disturb me excessively—but he was socially active. During the summer months, he was gone, but since this semester began, I don’t recall seeing anyone over there except last week’s visitor.

  I know he has friends. In fact, when I trail him around campus, he’s acknowledged or spoken to by approximately one out of every three people he passes. Despite this, his social calendar seems to be as sparse as my own.

  The most important thing I discover during the week of observation is that every Sunday morning, he goes to get coffee from the stand that opens outside the library at seven o’clock. Even more important: he leaves his door unlocked. I’m not sure why he does this. It seems illogical to put your possessions at risk, even for a short time. If I were criminally inclined, this would be the perfect opportunity to sneak in and steal something of value.

  The only variable I am unable to anticipate is whether he brings his phone with him. Looking out my window and through the peephole in my door isn’t enough to ascertain whether he puts his cell phone in one of his pockets when he leaves. If so, he may be able to use that to call for assistance when he gets locked out.

  But there’s only one way to know for sure.

  On Sunday morning, I set my alarm to wake me up at six thirty. Like the week before, he leaves his place at six forty-five on the dot. As soon as he rounds the corner at the end of our little alley, I bolt out of my house to his door, open it, reach inside and turn the lock then shut it again. I double check to make sure it can’t be opened, before running back inside my house.

  Then I wait.

  Per my calculations, which I obtain by walking the distance myself, it takes six minutes and seventeen seconds to walk to the library from the duplex. On average, it takes two minutes thirty-four seconds for the employees at the coffee stand to make the drink and obtain cash for the purchase. That means I have at least fourteen minutes and fifty-one seconds of pacing. Longer if he walks slower or there are other’s in line before him.

  It takes fifteen minutes and forty-two seconds for him to return and I watch through the peephole as he attempts to open his front door and fails.

  “What the—?” He tries a few more times. Finally, he puts his coffee on the railing that runs against the porch and pats down his pockets.

  I almost hear his heavy sigh, seeing his shoulders heave slightly as he runs his hands through his hair in agitation.

  Then he turns around and walks to my door.

  Suddenly nervous—at least, I assume that’s the emotion coursing through my system, it’s the only thing I can think of to describe my abruptly rapid heart rate and sweaty palms—I bolt down the hallway away from the door as he approaches, like he might sense me hovering on the other side. Why am I so panicked? No one is crying. My life isn’t in danger. The emotion is irrational and confusing.

  He raps out a brisk knock. I try to take my time and pretend I was in the back and am now moving towards the door.

  I open it slowly.

  “Hey.” His hands are in his jean pockets under a thick sweater and he rocks back slightly on his heels. “I seem to have locked myself out. Can I use your phone?” The words create fleeting puffs of clouds in the cold morning air.

  “Just…one second,” I say, finger in the air.

  Then I shut the door on him.

  What am I doing? I’m supposed to invite him in, come to his rescue, have a conversation, and get friendly. But I just…I can’t. I hate this deception. This isn’t me, and Freya might be right, but I just can’t do this. Not this way.

  I race to my bathroom and grab a bobby pin. When I return and open the front door, Jensen is leaning on the railing with his coffee cup in hand, looking down the alley.

  I clear my throat and he turns.

  I show him the bobby pin. “I’ll just…uh.” This is ridiculous. I’m never inarticulate.

  Instead of continuing to speak in stilted phrases, I move to his door, kneeling in front of it and sticking the bobby pin into the lock. It only takes a few seconds to spring the pins and the door swings open.

  “There you go,” I say, stepping back.

  “Wow.” He seems surprised. “Thanks. How did you do that?”

  “It’s fairly simple if you understand the basic locking mechanism.”

  “All right.” I try to decipher the look he gives me, but I don’t excel at translating facial expressions. I think it’s a cross between confusion and uneasiness.

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t engage the dead bolt,” I say. “It’s harder to flip.”

  “Right.” He gives me a half smile that seems forced. “Thanks again.” He steps by me and through his doorway.

  “Wait!” This is it. This is the only opportunity I’m going to have and I’m going to take it. I’m going to do this my way.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “It will take a few minutes. Do you have a few minutes now?”

  “I…guess.” The reluctance in his voice is nearly palpable.

  I step forward, but he steps towards me at the same time and shuts his door behind him, bringing us too close together. I step back.

  “Can we talk at your place? My place is…dirty,” he says.

  “Okay,” I say and lead him to my side of the building. Once inside, I usher him into the small living room and motion for him to sit on the couch.

  He sits and I pace in front of him, gathering my thoughts.

  I stop and face him. “You see, I’m a scientist.” I start pacing again. I’m not sure why, but I still feel nervous, and the movement keeps me calm.

  “Okay.” Now he sounds confused, but I suppose it’s better than reluctant.

  “I have a doctorate in microbiology, with a focus in immunology and pathogens.”

  “Wow. Really?” That seems to have captured his interest. It usually does, which is why I don’t share the information regularly. I don’t want people to be interested in me.

  “Yes. I’ve been attending this university since I was thirteen, and I graduated from the doctorate program last year.”

  “That’s…oh, I’ve heard of you.”

  I stop pacing again and face him. “You have?”

  “Yeah, my dad’s a professor here.”

  I sit on the small coffee table and face him.

  “Professor Walker,” I say, the name coming together in my mind and conjuring a picture of the man in question. “He’s a wonderful lawyer,” I add. I’ve never taken any of his classes, and we haven’t officially met, but he’s a large contributor to various departments. He teaches classes at the law school and he owns a prestigious firm in town.

  “That’s not why I wish to speak with you. You see, I was given a grant last semester to study emotional pathogens. The idea is that emotion is transmittable, like a virus or cold. The problem is that I don’t really understand emo
tions.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Which means, I’m supposed to be testing a theory and I don’t even know where to start. I’m not good with people,” I say. I stand up again and resume my nervous pacing. “I never have been good with people. I’ve never been very good with emotions in general,” I tell him. “And because of that, I need to learn.”

  “Okay,” he says again, more uncertainly this time.

  “My…friend,” I guess that’s what she is, I think rapidly while I begin pacing again, “My friend Freya, you see, she told me you’ve slept with half of campus. The female half.”

  “Excuse me?” Oh no, he doesn’t sound happy. Maybe I should have left that part out.

  “No, that’s not what I meant. I meant to say, I won’t be able to pursue this course of study unless I learn more about people and relationships.”

  He’s still staring at me, his mouth slightly agape with an indecipherable expression on his face. Well. I have nothing to lose now.

  “You see, after conducting statistical research, I discovered that the emotion most relevant to people in general involves relationships. Sex, love, lust, all of that, and I have very little knowledge about these things. But if this is what most people are experiencing, it’s what I need to study.”

  He stands. “Look, I’m not sure what you’ve heard from your friend, but I am not some kind of gigolo.” He turns towards the door.

  Oh, no. This is no good. Why did I say that? Why am I having such a hard time explaining myself to him? It was easy enough with Freya.

  I move in front of him before he reaches the door. “Wait, no. That’s not what I’m asking.”

  “I don’t want to pay you for sex.” That much is definitely true. “I want to understand human emotions which include attraction. I want you to teach me everything you know about it. You don’t have to do more than speak. I assure you I will keep everything in the strictest confidence.”

  For a second he just stares at me, eyes hard, jaw clenched, and I think he might yell or leave, but then he laughs. He throws back his head and laughs so hard, I think he’s going to start crying or pull a muscle.

  He has nice teeth, I think absently while he’s laughing. I didn’t realize how sad and serious he’s looked every time I’ve seen him until I catch this glimpse of rare humor. It’s even more attractive than his brooding face.

  I’m still standing there, watching him when he finally calms down.

  “You’re serious?” he asks.

  I can’t speak anymore. I’m worried that if I open my mouth something else will come out that I haven’t foreseen. I nod and look down at my feet.

  I don’t see his face when he says, “I’m sorry, I just…That’s the weirdest thing anyone’s ever asked me. I can’t do it.”

  This time, when he steps around me to head to the door, I let him pass.

  Chapter Seven

  Dispassionate objectivity is itself a passion, for the real and for the truth.

  –Abraham Maslow