Page 36 of Call It Chemistry
My brain is still processing the way his biceps flex under his t-shirt. “Now?”
He grins, a quick flash. “Unless you’ve got plans to run more titrations.”
“Yeah,” I say, and it comes out softer than I mean. “Lunch is good.”
We slip outside, the air crisp and a little wet from last night’s rain. The campus looks different in November—leaves mostly down, grass turning the color of saltines. Somewhere nearby, a groundskeeper is abusing a leaf blower, but the sound fades as we cut through the quad.
Aaron keeps a steady pace, not rushing, but not letting it drag either. Every so often he glances over, like he’s expecting me to bolt. I wonder if he’s worried I’ll disappear again, like Jessica did.
Neither of us brings up the conversation from the coffee shop, but it’s there, a low-frequency hum under everything. I start a sentence—”Did you—” but abort it, unsure how to finish. He does the same, his mouth opening, then closing again. We’re a matched set of aborted takeoffs.
Our shoulders brush once, then twice. The first time, I flinch. The second time, I don’t.
We pass a kiosk selling coffee and prepackaged donuts, the air tinged with burnt sugar and synthetic cinnamon. For a second, I think about veering off—just grab a donut, retreat to my room, go back to pretending—but Aaron’s presence keeps me on the vector.
“Sal’s?” he says, already angling toward the little ancient sandwich shop across from the science building.
“Yeah,” I say. “Classic.”
He grins, and it’s almost a relief. We reach Sal’s and push through the heavy glass door into a microclimate of garlic, stale fryer oil, and the ever-present drone of the refrigerator case. The booths are vinyl, all in varying states of stickiness, and the tables are engineered for maximum wobble. It’s perfect.
We grab a booth in the far corner, the one under the humming ballast that flickers at unpredictable intervals. Aaron sits across from me, elbows on the table, hands folded like he’s bracing for impact.
For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. The only sound is the distant whine of a blender and the muted pop from the old radio mounted near the soda fountain.
Finally, Aaron cracks his knuckles, a nervous tell I haven’t seen before. “You okay?”
I want to say yes, but my throat sticks. “Getting there,” I manage.
He nods, staring at the table. “Me too.”
We sit, hands in our laps, eyes on everything but each other. The weight of yesterday’s confession settles between us, not heavy, but tangible.
He opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again. “I meant what I said yesterday. I really am glad she’s you. Uh, you’re her. I don’t—” He cuts himself off, then looks up, eyes direct. “I don’t want this to be weird.”
“Me neither.”
He gives a tiny laugh. “Too late for that, huh?”
The overhead light flickers, painting both our faces with a sickly yellow before settling back to its normal stutter. I force a smile. “Welcome to my world.”
A guy in a Sal’s apron appears and asks what we want. Aaron orders the turkey on rye, no mayo; I get the grilled cheese, because it’s impossible to screw up and I need something predictable. When the guy leaves, the silence doesn’t feel so loaded. It’s just… quiet.
Aaron drums his fingers on the table, then says, “Do you ever wonder if you’re just… making it up as you go?”
I blink, caught off guard. “What, life?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. I dunno. Some people, it’s like they get a script. Everyone else is just improv.”
I think of Sara, who always knows the right thing to say. I think of Hunter, who doesn’t care if it’s the right thing as long as it gets a laugh. I think of myself, stuck in the wings, running lines that never sound right out loud.
“All the time,” I say.
He nods, satisfied. “Figured.”
We lapse back into silence, but it’s easier now. The fridge hums, the light buzzes, the world spins on.
Our sandwiches arrive, grease spots already blooming through the wax paper. Aaron takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, then grins at me through a mouthful of turkey. “This place is terrible,” he says, “but in, like, a comforting way.”