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She was right about color indicating value in vegetation. I shouldn’t have dismissed her point.
“What about beauty that feeds the soul—kindness and sunsets? Rainbows and confidence? What about you? You’re gorgeous. Beauty is only one check on a mile-long list of other things that you are. Does being pretty take away from the good you’re trying to do with your trash algae?”
She’d complimented my work in the least flattering way possible, and in turn I’d lied to her about why her social media post bothered me. I didn’t care that she was pretending that I was a part of her friend group. I cared that she’d captured me in a photograph in a way that turned my stomach. I didn’t want the world to see me like that.Ididn’t want to see myself like that.
The last I’d checked, she hadn’t posted another photo. I dreaded that she soon would.
I closed my eyes and took a breath. This wasn’t the time to indulge in such thoughts.
Perhaps there was something I could alter to change the production of chlorophyll-a. Perhaps temperature was thelimiting factor. The culture was currently sitting at twenty-three degrees Celsius—optimal for most microbial growth.
Like every other factor, the ideal temperature for this genetically engineered strain was unknown.
I turned up the temperature on the sample case by a single degree.
The alarm on my watch alerted me to the time. I scrubbed my arms in the sink and pulled the lunch my chef service had prepared for me from the mini fridge.
I set a fork on the folded napkin to the right of the box, the reusable water bottle two inches to the left and two back.
Before I could even lift the lid to the lunch box, a frustratingly distinct knock came from the door.
“Enter, Pamela,” I said, letting my irritation tinge my words.
“Did you receive my text?” She shot me a look I had never seen on her face before—alarm.
“No. I’ve been in the lab. And as you know, this is my lunch break. Please return during the allotted?—”
“You shouldn’t have silenced your phone. I tried to warn you,” she whispered. She snapped her lips closed and transformed her expression of panic to her usual look of professional composure.
A man followed her into my office. White hair mixed with gray atop his head and over his lip and across his brow. The deep smile lines around his eyes belonged on an older face than his. He carried himself like a relaxed golfer strolling onto the course, a look that matched his khakis and powder pink polo shirt.
Immediately, my muscles tensed. Who was this stranger invading my space? He had to be important to explain Pamela’s behavior.
The man looked around with a smile on his face, a smile that grew larger as it snapped to me.
“You must be the infamous Gabriel Stryker,” he said.
Infamous?My reputation revolved around my social ineptitude, nothing nefarious. Either he didn’t understand the meaning of the word, or he knew something I didn’t.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” I said, in an even tone.
“Gabriel, this is Peter Daniels,” Pamela said. “From Biotabloom Dynamics.”
“Sorry to drop in like this,” Mr. Daniels said in a way that implied he wasn’t sorry at all. He ran a finger across my bookshelf, touching every book’s spine. “I was in the neighborhood.”
Unlikely.
He dropped his hands and turned his perpetually amused—or possibly genuinely jolly—attention back to me. “After a heated discussion with my wife and teenage daughter last night, I just had to see for myself.”
“See what?” I asked.
“What kind of person you are.” He raised a brow.
We stared at each other, me from my seat behind my desk, him strolling about my office as if he had a right to touch anything he pleased.
This was my lunch time. Routine dictated I should be eating my lunch right now. I refused to stand and accommodate whatever it was he wanted. Clearly this was an inopportune time from me, which didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest.
I’d be cordial, but I wouldn’t bend.
