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And yes, I get it—my response to her earlier left much to be desired. But she doesn’t address me at all. She chatters to her brother about their grandmother, who apparently lives nearby, some band they both like, and—of all things—his wedding plans.
“No,” Gabe says bemusedly. “I don’t have a venue yet, but we’re not getting married for thirteen months. There’s plenty of time.”
“Sorry.” Maria doesn’t sound apologetic. “But Jutta will kill me if I let you drop the ball on this one.”
The second thing that annoys me about Maria is what she is saying. I’m not sure how serious, thoughtful Gabe ended up with a sister who is bugging him about wedding plans in one breath, then asking him about some movie in the next. She’s like a pond skater, flitting from topic to topic, scarcely touching the surface and skimming away without delving into any depth.
I’m not participating in the conversation, and she’s already driving me nuts.
Three: I can’t stop looking at her.
No, it’s not that I find her overwhelmingly attractive. I stopped letting my little head do all the thinking back when I was in high school. Pretty is a dime a dozen.
But Maria Lopez isn’t pretty to look at. Neither is the Mona Lisa, if it comes down to it. No, Maria is something far more invasive. She’s interesting to look at.
Her nose is sharp and pronounced; her eyes are soft and smoky. Her hair is dark, except where it glints with gold and red. She’s a combination of elements that should not go together—inviting lips, forbidding eyebrows that narrow in my direction when she catches me looking at her. She draws my eye as if a graphic artist designed her for that express purpose. No matter how I try to look away, I keep turning back.
The fourth thing that annoys me about Maria is her shoes. I’m aware the entire length of the walk to the restaurant—almost a mile—that she’s keeping up with the brisk pace that I’m setting.
In heels. Pink heels, and not the short stubby kind either. She doesn’t complain, and she probably should. Her heels have bright silver studs in them, and they keep reflecting little flashes of light as she walks.
And that means I keep looking down at her shoes. And her calves. And the six inches of thigh visible above her skirt. From there, it’s not hard for my gaze to slide to the shift of her hips as she’s walking, the tensing muscles of her behind.
And fuck me, but here is number five: Gabe is a really good friend of mine, and the last thing I want is for him to realize that I keep checking out his sister’s ass.
We finally arrive at the Italian place I’ve picked out and are shown to a table in back.
Both Gabe and Maria head to the restroom to wash up.
Item six: Maria’s the first one to come back. If there were any fairness to the universe, she would have taken an extra five minutes to redo her lipstick, or whatever women like her do. But no.
She approaches the table warily. We make eye contact as if we are a pair of strange wolves, growling over who will be alpha of this restaurant.
She sits stiff-leggedly. A spray of plastic flowers separates us. It’s not enough of a barrier.
Here’s the seventh reason why Maria is incredibly annoying: I was really looking forward to having Gabe around for a year.
Nobody tells you the dirty secret of academia until it’s too late. It should be obvious. In reality, you only realize what’s happening once you’re committed.
I spent all my university years making friends—good friends—who scattered to the wind when we graduated. That’s to be expected. I made more friends when I was getting my doctoral degree. There were labmates, postdocs, some professors. There were people I met at short classes and conferences. In other words, I found my people, and then watched them disappear from my life. Multiply by the absent friends acquired during my postdoc years and more scientific conferences.
Nobody tells you when you decide to be a scientist that you will spend the rest of your life having your forty closest friends live at a distance.
I’m not lonely. I’m too busy to be lonely. What I am is bloody annoyed that I spent ten minutes listening to one of those friends argue with his little sister about Taylor Swift. I’m annoyed that she’s here at this table right now, and Gabe is not.
And maybe that’s why I look at Maria—who is pretending to find the unlit candle on the table more interesting than me—and say these words: “I’ll make you a deal.”
Her eyebrows scrunch together suspiciously. She sets the candle down. “What kind of deal?”
“I’ll apologize to you for being a jerk earlier if you’ll stop distracting your brother.”
Her head tilts slightly; the dim lights of the restaurant catch a light gold strand of her hair. “How am I distracting my brother?”
She doesn’t even know. Her cluelessness is item eight. I hold her gaze. “This is the most important year of his life. He needs to continue to turn the last two years of his work into papers, all while impressing his current principal investigator. He needs to come up with a viable research agenda and practice defending it. Gabe has a shot at the holy grail of a tenure track job. He doesn’t need to waste his time thinking about Britney Spears.”
It wasn’t Britney Spears. She doesn’t correct me. “You think a few minutes talking about music will kill his job prospects?”
“Sunday dinner every week?” I hold up a finger. “A trip to Santa Monica to hear some music that you can stream for free while doing work?” A second finger. “And on top of that, you expect him to put together a full wedding? That’s not even everything I heard in the last twenty minutes. Yes, you’re distracting him.”
Her jaw shifts and squares, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I’m just saying, he’s not in high school anymore. You can’t act like he’s your personal chauffeur.”
She bites her lip. “So that’s the deal you’re offering. You’ll apologize to me, and I’ll go off and do my own thing.”
“Pretty much.”
“Okay.” She leans down and opens her purse. To my great annoyance, she takes out a mirrored compact and a tube of lipstick, which she proceeds to apply.
“You’re not even going to answer?”
“Mmm.” She’s like a parakeet, entranced with her own reflection. “If I have to bargain for your apology, it doesn’t really mean anything, does it?”
I frown at her.
“Also, what my brother and I talk about is really not your business. You don’t know me or my relationship with my brother. You don’t get a vote.”
“I’m rather more of an expert on the academic market than you are.”
She closes her mirror with a snap. “Congratulations.”
“And look at you. You took a selfie with your brother. You’re a girly-girl. You care about your hair and clothes and pop culture. I’ve seen too many of my good friends struggle to get jobs. You don’t know this market.”
“How sweet.” Her lipstick glistens, catching the light. “I’m average, and you only respect people three standard deviations above the mean. I don’t make the cut.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Sure you did, Three Sigma. Back in your lab, right as you were throwing me out.”
I grimace.
“This dinner must be incredibly weird for you,” she continues smoothly. “Forced social interaction with people who like popular things? Oooh. Awkward.”
“I definitely didn’t say that.”
I just thought it. And she heard it anyway. It’s like she heard the entire list I’ve been making in my head, because she tosses back her hair with a practiced flick that a wind machine couldn’t improve, and crosses her legs, pointing one toe of those outrageous pink heels in my direction. The posture is defiantly, femininely rude.
“Let me help you hate me,” she says in a low, silky voice. “I also read romance novels. I watched every part of Twilight in the theater even though I was Team Jacob. If you think that girly-girl is an insult to me, you?
?re wrong. I am a girl, and I am proud of it.”
I exhale. “I don’t have a problem with women. Just you.”
“You know what you do have a problem with? You’re not my brother’s boss. You’re not his owner. You’re his friend. If he wants to come with me to every Britney Spears concert in the country, it’s none of your business. You don’t get to come between us. That’s not your place, now or ever. So take your ninety-nine point seventh percentile intelligence and shove it.”
“Jesus,” says a voice behind me. It’s Gabe. He’s come up to the table. “Jay, what did you say? You made Maria mad?”
She turns her head and tosses her hair, and…
Fuck.
Here’s the thing. Rationally, I know she’s pissed at me. Rationally, I know that we would never, ever, in a million years get along. Rationally, I’m aware that even if I had been nice from the beginning, I would get shot down hard if I made a play for her.
