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They’d just looked at me in exhaustion when I walked in the door. Looked at each other.
“Where have you been?” my father asked.
“Vegas.” I’d folded my arms defiantly so they could see the ink.
And I’d waited for the inevitable explosion. Really, Jay? Is that the best you can do?
No, I wanted to tell them. No. I can do better. I should have done better.
“Well.” My father stood up. “I’ll tell the police you’ve come home.” And that was all the scolding I received.
That was the moment everything turned around. The moment I went from trying to get them to express their disappointment to trying to prove I deserved to have their expectations back.
I’ve been waiting twelve years.
And now, now…
“Oh, we wouldn’t lecture you,” my father says. “We were going to gently suggest a hobby. Tennis once a week. Something like that.”
“Nothing so gauche as work-life balance,” Mom says with her mouth full. “Just, you know, a little life atop all the work. For seasoning.”
I smile. It feels like a mask. “Well, I’ll just slot that into my copious spare time.”
My mother rolls her eyes. “Listen to Mr. Smartypants. I invented copious spare time.”
Dad cuts his pastry with a knife. “Sai, we agreed to be respectful of our child. Remember?”
“Yes, but—”
“I know we have to get used to it, but he’s Professor Smartypants now.”
They both burst out laughing, my mother choking on her food.
“Thanks, guys,” I say sarcastically. But it’s something. I’ll take it, however little it is.
My mom pats my hand. “I just want you to consider that maybe—just maybe—if I think you could stand a little time off, you’re overdoing it just a smidge, yes? I will stab you if you work yourself into a heart attack.”
“And then your mother will go to jail,” Dad says, “and where will that leave me?”
They ask for so little, and I owe them so much. I pretend to frown at my cinnamon roll. “Very well.”
I’m joking. They’re joking. We’re all joking so hard, and it’s just as well. As long as we’re joking, we don’t have to admit that Chase died twelve years from yesterday.
We don’t talk about it. We don’t visit his grave. We don’t remember him in any way except in the overwhelming silences that swallow our laughter.
One settles on us now. This table is too big for just the three of us. There are too many cinnamon rolls.
I twitch restlessly in my seat. After Chase died, my parents couldn’t even stand being around each other. I don’t understand how they can bear to be around me.
Except they can, and if they want to spend time with me, I should make it happen. They don’t ask for anything else. “I suppose,” I say slowly, “I can take a day off next year. One.”
“You see?” Mom smiles. “I knew he’d come around.”
14
JAY
January
HELP ME, ACTUAL PHYSICIST. YOU’RE MY ONLY HOPE.
I haven’t stopped talking to Em even after that night at my parents’ house. I feel…terrible. I go back and look at the conversation—at the point where I told her I didn’t want to know her—and I want to take it back.
Every time we’ve talked, I’ve wanted to say something. I want to tell her that the timing was awful. The anniversary of my brother’s death always takes me hard.
But the truth remains: I still don’t need to fall for Em any more than I have. And if I had a picture, a voice, a name…
I’m not sure who I’m fooling.
We still talk. We still joke. It’s probably just me reading a stiffness into our interactions.
Wait, I say. What is happening? Where are the plans? Are these the droids I’m looking for?
Em types back. Thank god you’re there. I need someone to text me in five minutes and tell me there’s an emergency.
Oh? I raise an eyebrow.
This date is terrible, she says. Neither of my BFFs are responding to my texts. You’re the only person I know who won’t be doing anything on a Friday night.
Ouch. I frown at my screen.
It’s shitty to be pissed that Em is out on a date. I told her I didn’t want anything to happen with her. And even if I hadn’t, I don’t own her. She can date.
But, the unreasonable part of me grumbles, she doesn’t have to tell me about it. Nor does she have to remind me that I’m preparing peer review reports at this time of night.
Pretty please? she asks.
I’m viciously, selfishly glad that her date is going badly.
Fine. It’s a good thing tone doesn’t translate over the internet. You will have your “emergency” in five minutes.
Son of a bitch. Em is dating. I always assumed she did, in fact. Casually. I figured that maybe she went out to a club a few times a month. She’s busy, too—it’s not like she’d have time for more than the occasional hookup. Nothing more meaningful than that.
I’ve always assumed she was shy, that those glorious shoes I saw earlier were her one way of defiantly standing out. But I know the truth. Someday, someone is going to break through her diffident exterior and discover that she’s smart, funny, fantastic…
I drum my fingers on the table.
That someone isn’t going to be me.
I know how things would turn out if we ever exchanged information. They’d turn out badly. I’d end up even more enamored of her than I am. We would talk on the phone. Eventually, we’d agree to meet. Even assuming that half-Chinese/half-Thai guys with confused accents do something for her, I work all the time.
Someday, she would need me, and I…
I shake my head. Nope. It’s better this way.
My five minutes have passed. Hey, Em, I text, feeling almost malicious. There’s been an emergency Chihuahua invasion in the left reactor. We need you to call in the alligator squad stat.
I go back to trying to figure out if there is actually any sense to be had in this mangled paper on fault-tolerant quantum computation.
Her reply comes twenty minutes later.
You’re the worst. I laughed out loud. Like, sprayed Diet Coke on the table out loud. I had to lie my ass off.
You’re welcome, I say. This is what you get when you text a social recluse on a Friday night.
No, there’s nothing barbed in my response. Not at all.
Aw, A. Did I hurt your feelings?
Yes. A little. I don’t know what you’re going on about, I write stiffly. Reading papers is a perfectly acceptable activity on a Friday night.
I need to get laid, is what I need to do. I frown at the ceiling.
Also, I write, I’m hideously ugly and have a terrible personality. This is why I’ve devoted my life to science.
Maybe I want her to ask again. To tell me to send a picture so she can judge for herself.
Not me, comes her reply. I have a scintillating personality, and I’m drop-dead gorgeous. If we ever met in person, you’d probably burst into flames.
I’ve maintained a mental image of Em—sandy-brown hair, too tall, reluctant to maintain eye contact. I know she was bullied in middle school. I’ve imagined her in glasses, hiding behind a book.
That image of her goes up in smoke now. I am in flames. I am burning up.
I don’t think she’s teasing me. She says it with an assured confidence that is completely at odds with the image I have in my head.
Yes, she continues, even if you’re not into women. It’s not a sexual thing. I’m just that hot.
You don’t need to convince me, I write. My dick is hard. It needs no convincing. My sexuality has always been people who aren’t afraid of differential equations.
She doesn’t respond. I don’t blame her. I know I’m being inconsistent. I know it’s not fair, least of all to her, for me to jerk her around this way.
There are so many questions she could ask. What are
you waiting for?
What do you want?
What the hell is your problem?
My phone stays silent. It would be easy if Em were just a girl I didn’t know in a club. I imagine her like that—meeting her, not knowing her. She’d be in the back. We’d make eye contact, and I would drift over and start talking.
We’d make jokes. She’d ask me about my accent. I’d ask her about…whatever struck my fancy.
I’d talk her into my bed before I knew I could fall in love with her. I’d take off her clothes, piece by piece, touching her, teasing her into every yes. I’d go down on her until she screamed. I’d get her on top of me, let her ride me, set her own pace, her own angle, until…
I undo my jeans. My hand is on my cock, stroking unconsciously, and I give up. Give in to the fantasy of Em in my bed. Sighing into my ear. Breathing hard, then harder, then setting me on fire as my orgasm comes.
It doesn’t make me feel better, just less horny. My mind-fog clears after I come.
Em is not in my bed. I’m not going to run into her in real life. I’m not going to get to know her slowly, find myself entangled before I realize how hard she’s caught me.
I’m here. She’s…wherever there is. I’m entangled now; I just don’t want to admit it.
I glance at my phone. I imagine her putting her hand on her hip and shaking her head.
What are you waiting for? She hasn’t asked. She hasn’t responded to me at all, and I can’t blame her.
With my mind now cleared of lust, the answer to that question is obvious. I’m waiting until I believe that Em can have expectations of me.
15
MARIA
