Page 46 of Call It Chemistry

But Aaron is still watching, and after a few minutes, he makes his move. He weaves through the crowd, pausing to refill a drink or pose for a photo, then drops onto the footstool beside Natalie with a practiced ease. The volume dips around them, enough that I can’t hear their words but can track the conversation in the movement of shoulders and eyes.

It starts tense: her posture straight and her jaw set, his smile tight and too wide. They sit that way for maybe thirty seconds, trading one-liners that land with the soft thud of apology not quite spoken. Then Aaron leans in, drops the act, and says something that makes Natalie’s shoulders drop half an inch. They both stare at the wall for a moment, then she laughs—a quick, brittle thing, but it’s there.

He says something else, and this time she looks at him. Really looks. She sips her drink, sets it down, and offers him a handshake. He takes it, but then they both start laughing, the handshake dissolving into a full-on embrace, careful at first and then genuine. When they break apart, her eyes are wet, and his mouth is set in a line that says he’s both relieved and slightly embarrassed.

I look away, let them have the moment.

Hunter is beside me, tracking the exchange with the hungry look of someone who’s just realized his prank has grown up and moved out. “Never thought I’d see the day,” he says, nudging my ribs with his elbow. “My little scheme actually made the world a better place.”

“You’re a menace,” I say.

He grins, wolfish. “And you love it.”

I roll my eyes but can’t suppress the smile. The party is humming, the chemistry of the room rewritten: guests move more freely, laughter hits harder and lingers longer, even the playlist seems to pulse in time with the beat of the crowd. Hunter has now organized a glow stick relay in the hallway, and Sara is giving rapid-fire eyeliner tutorials to anyone brave enough to try.

Aaron and Natalie have migrated to the balcony, faces close in deep conversation. There’s no drama, no scene—just two people figuring it out, letting the past run off like water on a windshield.

I drift through the party, picking up empty cups and half-eaten pizza crusts, but mostly I float. Every few minutes someone stops me for a selfie, or a compliment, or a quick fist bump—former lab partners, randoms from Chem, even the TA who once docked me half a grade for “inconsistent titration protocol.” The shy version of me, the guy who once wore headphones at parties to avoid having to speak, is long gone, replaced by someone who actually enjoys the swirl of people, the electric possibility of each new face, just not too often.

At the edge of the kitchen, a group of chemistry majors waves me over. They’re in costume, but it’s clear none of them coordinated: one is a Ghostbuster, another a generic mad scientist, the third in a hand-lettered t-shirt that says “Mole Day 2023.” They’re deep into a debate about whether sodium vapor lamps would make a good party light, but when I approach, the conversation snaps to attention.

“Montgomery!” says the Ghostbuster. “You and Aaron are a legend. I read your paper for Collins’s class—was that real, or did you just make up half the data?”

I flush, but he’s grinning. “It’s real,” I say. “Aaron ran, like, forty trials to make sure.”

They hoot, then the mad scientist raises his cup in a salute. “That’s why Collins nominated you guys for the student symposium.”

I freeze, brows knit.

“Didn’t you get the email?”

“For real?”

He grins. “Check your inbox. You’re presenting in December.”

For a moment, everything in the room sharpens—every voice, every light, every pulse of the bass. I steady myself on the edge of the lab bench, the news hitting like a bolt of cold air.

“Congrats, man,” says Mole Day, clapping my back. “Seriously. Well-deserved.”

I thank them, but my voice is far away, already running through the implications: weeks of prep we don’t have, the inevitability of standing up in front of an audience, the knowledge that I won’t be able to hide behind a costume or a clever joke.

I look across the room and catch Aaron’s eye through the sliding glass door. He’s still talking with Natalie, but the expression on his face—the small, private smile, the way his posture softens when he sees me—grounds me. I remember our first presentation, how I could barely get the words out, how he stood beside me and made it all feel manageable. How, even now, the only time I really believe in myself is when he’s close.

Sara drifts over, wrapping me in a quick side hug. “You okay?”

I nod. “I think so.”

She smirks. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Just found out we’re presenting at the Chem symposium.”

She lights up. “No way! That’s huge! You and Aaron are unstoppable.”

I look at the mess of the party, the crowd in the hallway, the ring of glow sticks forming a makeshift dance floor. I look at Aaron, who’s coming back inside, and at Natalie, who’s now chatting with Sara like they’ve been friends forever. I think of all the disasters that brought us here—the bets, the memes, the closet, the first kiss, the long year of trying to figure it out.

“Yeah,” I say, a laugh bubbling up. “I guess we are.”

The next song comes on—a slow synth ballad, the kind meant for paired-off dancing but mostly ignored by the group of party goblins on the makeshift dance floor. Aaron crosses the room toward me, a knowing smirk on his lips and his auburn wigslightly askew. He holds out a hand, gloved in purple, and bows with exaggerated formality.