“I could bring you a loaf sometime.”
“That would be nice.”
I nod and shift back, facing the experiment room again. That interaction was…pleasant. There wasn’t anything biting or sarcastic. He didn’t bring up my rudeness and throw it back at me. Is Mac…nice? I’ve always seen him as confident, a little arrogant, but he’s actually kind of fun and…sweet?
That’s fine. That doesn’t change anything. There are plenty of nice people that I’m not friends with. There are plenty of attractive guys out there who are fun and nice and smart and who bake and smell like oranges and clean laundry and…
“Hey, actually, Jessie, I—” Mac interrupts my thoughts, but the students filing out of the observation room interrupt him. We rush to them outside the classroom, collecting the rest of the papers from the students and Professor Campbell.
We have a fifteen-minute break before the next round of students. Mac leaves, but I take a seat in the lobby and pull out a bag of chips I packed. Being annoyed with Mac is the easiest thing in the world, but I found myself sort of enjoying his company for a bit today, and I’m not really sure what to do with that.
It was easy, a few years ago, to interpret Mac’s competitiveness as friendly and fun. He’s generally always smiling, so it never seemed malicious. I was naïve, though. I thought he was a good guy. But after The Incident, I knew the truth. Mac showed himself as selfish and malicious, and even though he kept smiling, I saw his smile for what it was.
But today he was sincere and genuine. I don’t know what changed, or if he’s actually changed at all. I’m wary of him still, but at the very least his good behavior shined a spotlight on my bad behavior. I didn’t need to be rude when he was being kind. Since The Incident I’ve had the moral high ground and I gave that up today. The scales are unbalanced now, and not in my favor.
When Mac returns, he’s carrying two water bottles, one of which he holds out to me. The gesture is so authentically considerate my insides freeze up. My jaw goes a little slack.
“I’m sorry,” I say. My voice is strained, and inside I’m screaming. I brace for his reply, something scathing, averting my eyes to the floor.
“For what?”
“For being rude to you earlier.”
“Oh. It’s okay,” he says like he’s already forgotten about it, and when I snap my eyes up from the floor his face is painted with the calmest, kindest smile. He doesn’t seem mad at all.
My racing pulse calms and I loosen my gripped hands.Why isn’t he mad? Does he not hold a grudge?I keep mine like pets.
He moves the water bottle just an inch or so closer to me, and I take it, careful to avoid brushing my fingers against his. I still feel frozen, my eyes glued to him. I watch him open his own water bottle, taking a seat and drinking nearly half of it in one go. His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps, his biceps barely working to hold the bottle to his lips. There’s a stirring in my chest. It’s not quite a flutter, but there is movement.
I ignore it, tearing my gaze away from him as the door opens. The first student of our second group walks in, followed closely by a few more students. Once everyone from the second group has filed in and gotten settled, Mac and I are back in the observation room, back to our silence.
There are two quizzes and three self-portraits per person in the pile of papers from the last group, which we’ll sort and start to code. Today there’s another group of students coming in, and over the next six months we’ll come in for a smattering of other experiment days. I start to sort the papers out, enjoying the quiet of the observation room, but it doesn’t last long because Mac starts humming. I glance over at him, hoping maybe he’ll get the hint and stop, but he’s got headphones in and is lost in his own world. I roll my eyes, that familiar pinch of annoyance around my ribs. If I’m all work and no play, this guy is all play and no work.
I reach over and tap his leg. He looks up, yanking a headphone out of his ear.
“You’re humming.”
“Oh, sorry.” He cringes and pops his headphone back in.
I return to the papers on my lap, but it only takes a few seconds for him to start humming again. I turn to tap him once more but realize I recognize the song.
He notices me half-turned to him, hand frozen in the air. “Am I humming again? Sorry.”
“You are, but—I know the chances of this are slim to none, but are you listening to Black Phantom?”
“Yes!” His whole face lights up. “You know them?”
“Yes! I love them. They’ve been my favorite since, like, middle school.”
“Me too!”
I’m at the edge of my chair, clutching the back of it. I can’t believe this is happening. Of all the people, of all the bands! Mac’s smile is as big as I’ve ever seen it, and he’s at the edge of his seat too, leaning forward. My face is stretched to the max, and I feel like I just took a shot of espresso.
Black Phantom is an indie folk band out of Norway, so they’re less popular in the States than overseas and it’s hard to find other fans. I’ve introduced so many people to them, but I’ve never actually met someone who was already a fan.
“Favorite song?” he asks, ripping out both his headphones.
“‘She Wrote My Murder.’”
