Page 4 of Love in the Lab (Delaneys in Love #2)

Chapter three

Molly

I ’m soaked to the skin. Worse, these waders are filling up with heavy water, which makes it impossible for me to move. At least my glasses stayed put, though the lenses are dotted with water droplets.

“Are you okay?” Jonathan asks as he pulls me back to my feet, his expression alarmed.

No. I am not okay. I haven’t been okay this whole freaking day.

My clothes are sticking to my skin. The suspenders on the waders are rubbing across my shoulder blades and have been driving me crazy.

My hair feels too heavy on my head, especially with this terrible hat on.

Plus, the water dripping off me smells like rotten eggs mixed with decaying vegetables, and I think some went into my mouth!

But this is Jonathan asking, my archnemesis, so I answer with, “Yes, fine.”

Jonathan helps pull me to shore, and I shuck off the waders, holding them upside down to drain the water out. When I look up again, Jonathan’s frozen in place, staring at me with a dumbfounded expression.

“What?” I demand, removing my glasses and fruitlessly trying to dry them on the hem of my shirt.

He clears his throat. “You’re soaked.”

I roll my eyes. No kidding.

“What happened?” he asks.

“What happened was I tripped in your giant clown boots because apparently you have feet the size of tugboats."

Jonathan’s eyes twinkle. “I have towels in the truck.” He hesitates. “Do you have a change of clothes?”

Oh, heck no. I told him I wasn’t prepared, but he bullied me into coming anyway. Is it my fault I forgot that Dr. Gantt told me I’d be starting fieldwork today? Well, yes. But still, he has the nerve to ask this? “Do I have a change of clothes? Do I have a change of clothes? ”

“Right. Stupid question. Sorry.”

He assesses me, and it suddenly dawns on me that my clothes are sticking to me . I quickly move the waders in front of my chest. I swear I see Jonathan blush before he ducks his head.

“I have extra clothes in the truck you can change into.”

Great. More oversized clothes made for giants.

At the truck, Jonathan pulls a thick towel from the back seat and hands it to me. I wrap it around my shoulders and snuggle into it. It’s warm from sitting in the truck and smells subtly of laundry detergent.

As I run the towel across my arms and legs, Jonathan rummages through a duffel bag and produces gray joggers and a red T-shirt.

I look around. We’re on the side of the road, no buildings in any direction as far as I can see. “Where am I going to change?”

He nods toward the backseat of the truck.

My mouth drops open. “I don’t think so.”

“There’s nowhere else. I’ll wait out here.”

“Facing away from the truck.” I glare at him.

“Yes, ma’am. Of course.”

After much wiggling and contorting in the humid truck cab, I manage to peel off my wet clothes and don Jonathan’s dry ones.

They have the same fresh laundry smell as the towel, but stale, like they’ve been sitting in his gym bag for a while.

Maybe because they have been, they feel warm against my skin.

I keep peeking out the window, and true to his word, Jonathan is turned away from the truck each time I look. I pull the drawstring on the joggers as tight as it will go and tie the ends in a double knot, just in case. I wrap the towel around my wet hair to squeeze it dry.

My shoes are soaked, so I leave them off and climb into the front passenger seat.

“Okay!” I call out the window to Jonathan.

He turns around and, without a glance in my direction, finishes putting the gear away. When he gets everything stowed, he joins me in the truck. He meets my eyes. “We should call it a day. What do you think?”

“I never wanted to come in the first place.”

“Right. Of course.”

My damp hair is starting to irritate me. It clings to my neck and ears, sticky in the humidity. I pull it off my neck with my hand, gathering it together, and then groan in frustration.

“What’s wrong?” Jonathan asks.

“I don’t have a hair tie.”

He looks around the truck. “Would a rubber band work?”

I scowl. “Only if I want knots in my hair.”

Jonathan holds his hands up in apology. He clears his throat. “How about lunch before we go back to the lab?”

“My lunch is in the refrigerator at the lab.”

“We could stop somewhere.”

I pointedly look down at my clothes, which are his clothes, and my bare feet.

He beams. “I know a drive-in place near here. Come on, I’m starving. Aren’t you hungry?”

“No,” I say, and my stomach gurgles loudly.

He chuckles. “I think you are. Come on, please?”

Instead of answering, I turn my head toward the window.

“I’ll take that as a reluctant yes. You’ll love this place. Their hot wings are incredible.” He starts the engine, so I buckle my seat belt.

He’ll do what he wants whether I agree or not. I just hope this restaurant has something on the menu I can eat.

The truck is quiet as Jonathan drives us to the restaurant. Now that I’m mostly dry except for my hair, which still feels uncomfortable against my neck, and I’m wearing reasonably cozy clothes, I feel more regulated. I’ve been overstimulated all day.

I have ADHD, and one of the ways that shows up for me is with sensory processing issues. The simplest explanation is that my brain gets overloaded, my nervous system thinks there’s a threat, and my body goes into fight, flight, or freeze mode. Today, I’ve been choosing fight an awful lot.

My ADHD also looks like losing focus easily, interspersed with long bouts of hyperfocus.

Forgetting things, like my phone at the lab or the fact that Dr. Gantt said fieldwork would start today.

Disorganization, if I’m not super proactive.

And pickiness about food, which is also tied to my sensory challenges.

Years ago, I developed a set of rules designed to minimize the effects of my ADHD and help me appear totally normal.

First, stay in the lab. It’s a predictable, fairly low-distraction environment where I can, usually, control the variables.

Second, keep a rigid schedule. If each day has the same cadence, it’s easier for me to keep track of what comes next.

Third, focus on work. No dating, friends, or other distractions. My sisters are my best friends, and they’re all I need.

These rules have worked well for me. I got into my first choice masters and doctorate programs, where I was top of my class (well, I tied with Jonathan).

I had my pick of postdoc research teams to join and contributed meaningfully once I got there.

Aside from publications related to my PhD research, I’ve been a third or fourth author on five publications and have presented at six conferences.

Not bad for a scientist who hasn’t yet turned thirty, especially a woman in a male-dominated field.

At least, everything’s been fine until recently.

Until the principal investigator of my lab, a woman I deeply admire, decided I’m not being creative enough in my work.

It’s a blow to my confidence, for sure. I know I do good work.

I also recognize that Dr. Gantt, our PI, understands better than I do what it takes to find success in this field because it’s something she’s fought for herself despite the challenges.

I only wish she had designed a way to stimulate me that didn’t involve fieldwork. Or Jonathan.

It’s not Jonathan’s fault. Not really. He’s actually been pretty great today, which I can’t believe I’m thinking. I’ve been the difficult one.

My stomach growls, and I pat my midsection.

Hopefully that growl was an internal sound and not something Jonathan could hear.

I glance over at him, but he’s focused on the road.

I often don’t notice my body’s signals until they’re extreme—I don’t realize I need to pee until I’m bursting; I don’t pay attention to how tired I am until I crash.

Likewise, I usually don’t notice I’m hungry until I’m past hungry, until I’m hangry .

Fortunately, we pull into the parking lot of a local dive restaurant called The Saucy Wing. Jonathan parks the truck in front of a large menu board posted on a wall near the order and pickup windows.

He turns to me. “Let me know what you want, and I’ll go place the order and bring it back when it’s ready. You won’t have to get out of the truck.”

I study the menu. It’s limited; this place is mostly a wing joint.

I can’t stand eating anything that has bones in it.

I don’t like foods that are creamy. Most dairy makes me gag.

I can’t get near any foods that have strong smells like seafood or garlic.

Fruits and vegetables are hit or miss. I can eat one grape and it’s amazing, crisp and juicy, and then I eat another grape from the very same bunch and it’s squishy and sour.

“I’ll have the boneless barbecue wings,” I tell Jonathan. “With fries. And just water to drink.”

Jonathan opens the truck door to go place the order.

“Wait!” I call. “I don’t have my wallet with me.”

He turns his face back toward me and smiles. “My treat. It’s the least I can do after everything I’ve put you through today.”

I start to protest, but my stomach growls again, and I can tell by Jonathan’s smug expression that it definitely wasn’t just an internal noise this time.

“Fine. Thank you. I’ll pay you back.”

I watch through the windshield as Jonathan talks to the guy at the order window.

I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’re both smiling and laughing.

I may need to come to terms with the fact that if everyone likes Jonathan except for me—and it really seems that way—maybe it’s not him that’s the problem.

Or , I think as he tosses his curly hair out of his eyes and slides his hands into the pockets of his pants, making the muscles in his forearms pop, he masks his evilness with looks and charm, and I’m the only one who sees past the ruse. Yep, that’s it.