Chapter 25
Monday 7:34 p.m.
I get off the bus, pulling up my scarf and pushing my hands into my pockets.
Under any other circumstances, I would have been upset today: the genomics data of Crazy Gro still haven’t been analyzed. David hasn’t been in all day, so he couldn’t sign the form for the mass spec, which means Siddhartha can’t start with the analysis either.
Frank was working on his old project, so he hasn’t done any staining of the Crazy Gro cells, and Florence was in the robotics lab almost the whole day, so I couldn’t even start my experiments.
All of this would normally get me upset. But right now, it doesn’t.
Because—I smile—I might see Sam this evening.
My smile broadens. My stomach is all wonderfully bubbly, and I feel like I’m walking on a soft cushion of air.
I sigh contentedly and turn onto Buswell.
I have my headset on, listening to Phantom of the Opera. I listened to it the entire day yesterday and I’m loving it. I wish I could see it someday too.
Still, I can’t help but wonder—why this? Why this piece? Why this story? It means something to Sam, that’s clear, but I can’t figure out what.
I’m sort of hoping that by listening to it repeatedly, his reasoning might become apparent.
But for now, it’s still a mystery.
On both sides of Buswell, all the windows are lit, warm yellowish light seeping to the frosty dark blue concrete on the ground. Every other window has a string of shiny colorful balls and gold- or silver-striped squiggly ornaments hanging in the windows.
I walk, smiling behind my dark red scarf. If I’m honest with myself, this bubbly happiness I feel inside is not about Christmas; it’s not about the interesting new project or about my soon-to-be-written scientific paper.
It’s all about Sam.
My heartbeat speeds up just a bit.
Sam.
He’s like—a Christmas present.
I grin.
One that came just in time.
My smile broadens.
He’s been constantly on my mind; not a minute passes that I don’t see him somewhere in the back of my consciousness. And every time I think of him, my stomach does a triple pirouette with a backflip at the end. Despite my knotted tummy, though, I’m happy just knowing that he’s there. That I met him, and that I might see him at any time, by chance, as he walks into his apartment, or in the laundry room, or just on the stairs.
It makes me extremely, immensely, out-of-this-world happy.
I breathe in deeply, content with the whole world around me right now. Then I shake my head and smile again. I really am going crazy. Crazy over a guy I know basically nothing about. Oh, Jane—you’ll never learn, will you?
I climb up my staircase, blissful in my cotton candy bubble as I enter the building.
I half expect him to simply be here, in the hallway, going through his post as I come in.
A smile escapes my lips. Really, Jane? He can’t be hanging around all the time just so he’s here when you come home.
I stop by my letterbox and pick up the mail. As I’m about to close the mailbox door, my gaze falls to the name on the mailbox above mine.
S. Swift.
I run my fingers over the name, feeling the grooves of the letters as I slide my fingertips over them.
Swift.
Hmm, I wonder . . .
Jane Swi—
Oh, shut up!
I shake my head, close my mailbox, and stomp to the elevator.
Just drop it, Jane! You’re behaving like a teenager.
I get in, close the iron gate with a bit more force than necessary, and press the button for the third floor.
Ridiculous!
But as the first floor passes, my angers leaves me, and my smile is back on.
It would fit though, I have to say.
I sigh, contentment all too audible in my breathing.
As I step out onto the third floor, I am actually smiling, almost laughing, as if I just heard a good joke.
“Good evening, neighbor.”
I look up. Sam is just leaving his apartment.
I tense and melt both at the same time. The adrenaline that just burst into my bloodstream makes my voice break as I’m about to respond, so I cough once to clear my throat.
“Hi, Sam.” I smile and inevitably blush, standing sheepishly in front of the elevator, my legs unable to move.
He closes the door and locks it, twice, then puts the keys deep in his side pocket and walks over to me.
For a moment, I’m standing in front of him, oblivious, but then it dawns on me that he probably wants to get in to the elevator and I’m standing in his way.
“Oh, sorry!” I say and move aside, trying to control my infatuated brain.
“No, that’s fine. Um, listen . . .” Then he stops. He looks down, his face serious, a crease at the base of his nose bringing his eyebrows closer together.
“What’s . . . what’s wrong?” I ask tentatively.
He takes a breath, then looks at me again. “Um, I think you should try and find someone else to go to the Bruins game with you. I, uh . . . I can’t come with you. It’s not . . .” His gaze falls to the floor again. “It just won’t work. I’m sorry.”
He glances at me again, but I’m not responding. I can’t. My mind is blank; I’m frozen.
“Jane?”
I force air into my lungs. “Yeah . . .” I look at the floor, my eyes searching restlessly, trying to find an anchor to hold on to. “That’s fine. I mean, it . . .” But my sentence goes unfinished.
I don’t understand . . .
Then I look up into his eyes and whisper, “Why?”
His jaw muscles tighten as he stares back. “It’s—it’s better this way, Jane. Trust me.” Then he loops around me, walks into the elevator, and closes the iron gate behind him.
I stand in the hallway, my back to the gate, the metallic sound of the elevator cable loud behind me.
And I am not moving. I feel like a hollow empty shell someone’s trying to push some air into.
After a long while, I take a breath. Then I walk to my apartment, one heavy step after another. I enter and close the door.
He doesn’t want to come . . . with me.
My knees give way and I slowly sink to the floor, my back against the door, like a single raindrop randomly finding its way to the ground.
It won’t work, he says.
I’m staring at the wall, but I don’t see it.
For a very long time, I stay there, fully dressed, my bag half opened on the floor where I let it drop.
It’s better this way, he says.
It doesn’t make sense to be this hurt by his rejection. I mean, why should I be? I don’t know him, and I shouldn’t care.
But I do. And it does hurt: a deep dull pain in the middle of my chest, crumpling my heart into a tiny ball, like a rejected handwritten letter.
Then the tears come.
And I hate it. Because I never wanted to cry over a man again. I promised myself I never would.
But I can’t seem to stop them. So I cry. Despite my wants and wishes, despite my promises, I cry. Deep into the night.