Heat

He shrugged like the fact he’d met my mother before he’d met me was not a big deal. “I was in DC with my father. We were at a restaurant having lunch with a team of telecom lobbyists, and your mother walked in with a few members of her staff.”

“And you respect her because…she ordered the hamburger instead of a salad?” I squinted at him, trying to understand how one brief encounter with my mother three years ago could garner his respect, how she could become one in a short list of four.

“My father stopped her as she walked past, suggested that she join us for lunch.” Martin’s gaze moved to a place over my shoulder, his eyes unfocused as he recalled the scene. “It was the first time I’d seen my father be polite to anyone. And she looked at him like he was scum.” The side of his mouth ticked upward at the memory.

“What did she say? Did she have lunch with you?”

He shook his head and smiled softly. “No. She said, ‘No, thank you,’ and tried to walk away; but he stepped in her path and pushed her about it. Then she said, ‘I’d rather eat glass than suffer through one second of your corrupt and tedious company.’”

Martin’s smile grew as his eyes shifted back to mine.

“Holy rude comeback, Batman!” I exclaimed on an exhale.

“I know. And she was fierce, in control, cold even. She made him look small and insignificant by comparison.” He said this like he admired her, how she’d cut down his father. “After lunch I found out who she was, looked up her voting record, and then it all made sense.”

“How so?”

“Because she’s the chairwoman of the Commerce, Science, and Transportation Committee in the senate. She’s sponsored or co-sponsored every pro-consumer and anti-Big Telecom bill that’s been drafted in the last ten years.”

I felt the need to defend her. “That’s because telecom companies in the US hold a monopoly and enter into informal non-compete agreements with each other to keep prices artificially high, which means no one can ever get Sandeke Telecom, or Brighthouse, or Version to actually provide competitive rates let alone appropriate customer service. Is it too much to ask for reasonable Internet speeds that cost less than $100 a month? Or a service call window that doesn’t span eight hours? Who has time for that?!”

Martin chuckled, grabbing my wrists; I hadn’t realized it but I’d started gesturing with my hands to demonstrate my frustration.

“I know, I know. I agree,” he said, trying to pacify me, rubbing the inside of my arms and kissing me softly. “Your mother does good work in Washington.”

She did. I knew she did. She was amazing and I loved that my superhero mother was on his short list. He had exceptionally good taste.

Regardless of our agreement on her awesomeness, I squinted at him again, pursing my lips. “It feels weird talking about my mother while I’m in bed with you.”

“Then what do you want to talk about?”

I blurted the first thing that came to mind, “What was Martin Sandeke like as a kid?”

He lifted an eyebrow in response. “Talking about your mother is weird, but talking about me as a kid isn’t?”

“Just answer the question.”

Martin considered me for a moment before responding. “I was…quiet.”

“So you were a watcher.”

“A watcher?”

“You were one of those creepy kids who watched the other kids play.”

“I wasn’t creepy.”

“I was. I was a creepy watcher. I watched the other kids play—quite creepily—and tried to make sense of their games. Mostly the girls. They seemed to do a lot of fighting with each other. And crying. And making up. And whispering.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No.” I remembered how it had hurt at first, being snubbed when I was seven and eight and eleven and sixteen, but then my mother told me I shouldn’t waste energy on average people because they would never amount to anything beyond ordinary. “You don’t need to befriend them in order to lead them,” she’d said.

I continued, pushing away the memory. “They didn’t let me play their reindeer games, mostly because I was creepy, but also because I was always trying to make them stop fighting. I tried to make lasting peace. But encouraging harmony between little girls is like trying to negotiate a Middle East peace treaty.”

Martin exhaled a laugh and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and shoulder. “I wanted everyone to get along and they just wanted to be dramatic. But that was okay. Their rebuffs allowed me to perfect the art of hiding at a very young age.”

“Why did you hide? Did they make fun of you?”

I shook my head. “No. They ignored me. I think I hid because hiding made it my choice. You can’t be ignored if no one can see you.” I was talking from a stream of consciousness, having never really thought about why I hid before. The revelation of my motivations made me feel acutely uncomfortable, so I cleared my throat and changed the subject. “What were you really like as a kid? Other than quiet?”

“Stubborn.”

“Ha! I’m shocked.” Then I added under my breath, “I’m lying. I’m not shocked.”

Martin pinched my rib, just enough to make me squirm. “I was quiet, stubborn, and shy.”

“Shy?” I settled into the mattress, my cheek on his arm, and frowned at this last adjective. “I cannot imagine you being shy.”

“Why? Because I’m so outgoing now?”

I thought about this—a shy Martin—as my eyes searched his, thought about his behavior for as long as I’d known him.

He’d barely spoken to me as my lab partner, though he’d apparently been thinking about me for quite a while. I remembered the time he’d asked for my phone number last semester and how he wouldn’t look me in the eye while he spoke. At the time I thought it was arrogance. I recalled that at the party last Friday he’d been upstairs playing pool instead of downstairs getting drunk and engaging in merriment.

This prompted me to think and ask at the same time, “Martin, do you like parties?”

His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

My eyes widened, and I proclaimed, “You don’t like parties! You sneak!”

He caught my wrists before I could do anything—like tickle him or pull away or smack his shoulder—and he brought my hands to his bare chest.

“No. I don’t like parties.”

“Then why did you make me go?”

“Because I liked the idea of showing you off as my date.”

My nose wrinkled. “That makes no sense.”

“I didn’t say it made sense, it just is.”

Now my eyes crinkled. “But you left me when we arrived.”

“We’ve already been over this. I left to show you I wasn’t going to…what did you call it? Pee on you? I looked for you twenty minutes later and couldn’t find you. You went and hid in the laundry room. Instead of showing you off as my date, I spent half the night trying to find you.”

“Is that why you were so pissed when you found me?”

“No. I was pissed before I found you, because I thought you might have gone off with someone else. I was relieved when I found you, but then pissed because you preferred to read a book over being with me.”

“Poor, poor Martin.” As much as I could with him holding my wrists, I petted his chest. “I will kiss your ego and make it better.”

He lifted a single eyebrow. “I don’t want you to kiss it.”

I flattened my lips and blinked at him once, very slowly. “Are you always thinking about sex?”

“Yes.”

I snorted.

“More accurately, sex with you.”

I stilled, and watched him as he watched me. Before, when he’d joked about popping my forking cherry, it had felt like a joke. But now...not so much.

I didn’t think I was ready for that, not yet. We’d been together less than a week. I’d given him my trust less than three days ago. This might have been dating boot camp, but I was still trying to wrap my mind around the concept of passion. Having sex with Martin before it was making love to Martin would be a bad idea.

I didn’t want to confuse one with the other.

“Martin, I don’t—”

“I know. You’re not ready yet.” He nodded, his eyes darting between mine, his body shifting closer in a deliciously lithe movement as one of his hands released my wrist and smoothed down the length of my body, from my shoulder to my hip.

Then, making me both smile and scowl, he added, “Maybe tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 8

Transition Metals and Coordination Chemistry

Thursday morning dawned and I found myself one half of a tangled mass of limbs. In Martin’s defense, I was totally crowding his side of the bed. I was basically sprawled on top of him.

Aaaaand, I was still naked.

Diffused sunlight filtered through the undersea portals; I had no idea what time it was. I disentangled myself from Martin, careful not to wake him, and went about getting dressed and making breakfast. Then I took a cup of coffee up to the deck and studied for my upcoming math test, feeling all warm and fuzzy and happy with life in general, especially and specifically because of the sexy boy downstairs.