Heat

Martin joined me sometime later, bringing me a new, hot cup of coffee. Wordlessly, he gave me a toe-curling kiss good morning—even though it was already afternoon—and, looking smug and satisfied by my breathlessness, took the chair across from mine. He opened his laptop and began working on something or other¸ likely something serious and important and poised to make him millions.

We didn’t talk. We sat together in companionable silence. It was…really great. Comfortable and easy. Every once in a while I’d catch him watching me and he would smile his pleased smile when our eyes met, but he’d never look away.

I began to daydream about what life would be like if I did agree to move in with Martin, and that was dangerous because smart Kaitlyn knew it was too hasty. But silly, prematurely falling in love Kaitlyn wanted to doodle our names together on notebooks and take cooking classes together on weekends.

Maybe he would come see me play my jam sessions on Sunday nights. Maybe I’d take the train and meet him in New York for lunch on days when I didn’t have class. Maybe I’d write songs for him and about him. Maybe we’d sleep together every night, having fun and taking comfort in each other’s bodies. Maybe he’d sleep naked too at some point.

But I was only nineteen, and college wasn’t a networking conference for me. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted to do with my life. I suspected that music was going to have to be a major part of it—not because I believed I was a prodigious talent, but because something had shifted within me on Tuesday night, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Whether I was good or magnificent or merely adequate didn’t matter. I recognized music as a passion, one that I’d been repressing. Of course, I hadn’t given the matter—the how and when—enough thought yet. I still had a great deal to sort through.

The idea of falling in love with Martin—if I hadn’t already—before I had my head on straight about what I wanted to do and who I was made me feel uneasy. He was always going to be the alpha of his pack, as he didn’t know any other way. I didn’t want to get lost, lose myself before I’d been found, in his flock of admirers.

I was staring at him, lost in my ruminations, and didn’t realize I was staring until he asked, “Hey, everything okay?”

I blinked him back into focus, and shook my head to clear it. “Uh, yeah. Fine.”

He studied me, looked like he wanted to ask or say something. Eventually he did. “What do you think, Kaitlyn?”

“About what?” I gave him a friendly smile as I closed my notebook. I couldn’t study anymore; there was no use pretending.

“About us.”

I flinched involuntarily because his question was almost eerily attuned to my current musings; I wondered tangentially if—in addition to everything else—Martin Sandeke was a mind-reader.

I looked away from him and studied the horizon. It was another beautiful day.

“I think we’re having a lot of fun.”

He was quiet and I felt his eyes on me. The silence didn’t feel quite so comfortable anymore.

Then, very softly, he asked, “What’s going on in your head?”

Out of nowhere and as a consequence of nothing, I said, “I’m afraid of letting everyone down.”

He paused for a beat then asked, “What do you mean?”

“My eighth grade science fair project was a solar heater and it was made out of tin foil, black paint, and a shoe box.”

“So?”

“So,” I returned my gaze to his, “I’m never going to be a great scientist or a world leader.”

He watched me like he was waiting for me to continue. When I didn’t, he prompted again, “So…?”

“So? So?! You said it yourself yesterday to that vile woman. I’m Kaitlyn Parker; my grandfather is an astronaut; my dad is the dean of the college of medicine at a very excellent medical school; my grandmother outfitted the first nuclear submarines with freaking nuclear weapons; my mother might be the first female president of the United States in the next ten years…and I’m not brilliant.”

He laughed. At first it was a short laugh of disbelief. Then it became a full on belly laugh when he saw I was serious. He was wiping tears from his eyes and shaking his head.

“It’s not funny,” I said, even though I fought a smile. Of course, it was funny; and I didn’t mind laughing at myself.

I was smart. I knew that. I had no reason to complain. I came from a loving—if not comparatively regimented and sterile—family. I had all my fingers and toes. I had everything to be grateful for.

And yet…

I knew who I was supposed to be, but I was not that person. As well, I had no idea who I actually was.

When he finally stopped laughing, he sat back in his chair and considered me with glittering eyes over steepled fingers. A warm smile lingered over his features.

“Kaitlyn, you are very intelligent, and besides that you’re a freaking musical prodigy.”

I shook my head. “I know you know what I mean, and I didn’t say what I said because I was fishing for compliments—though, if I were fishing for compliments, I would want one of your cheating fish pole holders.”

His smile widened, though he persisted the point. “Why do you think you have to be a scientist or a world leader? Why not focus on your music instead?”

I glared at him. “Come on, Martin. Don’t play dumb. You know it’s what everyone expects. I may love music, but aren’t there enough musicians in the world? If I have even the smallest talent or aptitude for politics or scientific endeavors, and the connections, don’t I owe it to society to at least try?”

“What other people expect doesn’t matter. You don’t owe society anything. Screw society! You should do what makes you happy.”

“That’s ridiculous. Life isn’t about making yourself happy. Life is about exploiting your talents for humanity, in order to make lasting difference for good when and where you can, and for as long as you are able.”

“Is this one of your stupid life rules?”

“Don’t call them stupid. My life rules keep me from making avoidable mistakes.”

“What a load of self-sacrificing, martyring bullshit.”

“It is not! There is great value in self-sacrifice.”

“And you think you can’t ‘do good’ with music?”

“No. Not as much as I could by stepping up and becoming a leader like my mother or a scientist like my grandmother. Even you respect my mother.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to fuck your mother.”

I felt a spike of anger at his crass reply. “Are you telling me that who my family is has nothing to do with why you like me? That it doesn’t make me very attractive girlfriend material?”

He held my glare and his grew increasingly heated, the earlier amusement giving way to stony severity. He took his time answering, like he was debating with himself, and eventually his non-answer seemed to speak for itself.

I felt abruptly hot and cold and adrift.

“Martin…?”

“Of course not, Parker,” he finally said.

I exhaled my relief, but the back of my neck tingled. Something about the way he was looking at me, how long it had taken him to respond, didn’t feel honest.

“You misunderstand my meaning.” His tone was firm, unyielding, like he was trying to lead me to a certain conclusion. “I meant, of course I’d never tell you that who your family is has nothing to do with why I like you so much, because that statement would be a lie. Who your family is has a great deal to do with why you’re very attractive girlfriend material. Of course I want you because of who your family is.”

My hesitant relief became stunned incredulity at his admission. He was watching me closely, though giving none of his own thoughts away.

I stood abruptly, filled with sudden restless energy, and a fierce need to reject his words. My hands came to my hips, then fell to my legs, then pushed through my hair. Stunned incredulity grew into a cauldron of boiling anger.

“How can you say that to me? You know better than anyone, better than anyone else, what it’s like to be wanted because of who your family is.”

“Because it’s true,” he answered, watching me carefully.

“What? This is…”

…you are the Olympic gold medal and the Nobel Peace Prize and the Pulitzer Prize and the Academy Award of marriage material. Ray’s irritating words from Monday came back to me in a rush accompanied by the thundering sound of blood rushing between my ears.

Distractedly, I said, “Ray warned me about this.”

“Ray?” This got his attention, he sat up straighter.

“Yes. Ray.” I glanced at Martin, feeling equal parts anger and confusion. “He said that you liked me because of my credentials, that I was the girl guys like you married after you finished sowing your poison oats—or some such nonsense—but it wasn’t nonsense because he was right. He was right.” I muttered this last statement to myself.

“He was right,” Martin confirmed, again stunning me. This time the wind truly was knocked from my lungs.

“No, he wasn’t.” I shook my head, making the denial on his behalf because I didn’t want it to be true.