Chapter 8 #2
We don’t talk about it for three days. Not the lab, not the memes, not the fact that half the campus now refers to the Pi Omega party as “the Great Deadpool Disaster.”
Aaron texts once: Thursday, usual spot?
I reply: sure
When I walk into the next lab session, the place is a war zone.
Someone’s knocked over a bottle of phenolphthalein, tinting every surface a sickly neon pink.
The TA is muttering under her breath about “the goddamn amateurs,” and Collins has posted a pop quiz on the overhead, daring anyone to try and cheat in the twenty seconds before he collects it.
The room buzzes with caffeine and panic.
Aaron is already at our station, prepping the glassware with a precision I haven’t seen from him since the first week.
He’s got the goggles on, his hair flattened by the band, and he’s chewing his lip so hard I can see the indentation from a foot away.
He doesn’t look up when I slide into the seat beside him, just says, “We need to be fast today. I got work after.”
I nod, even though I know he’s lying. His job at the gym doesn’t start until six.
But I’m not in the mood for a fight, so I just take the notebook and scan the protocol.
Today is a multi-step esterification, something so rote I could do it with my eyes closed.
I pour the first reagent, measure the volume twice, and hand it over.
We work like machines. In perfect, silent sync. By the time we’re heating the mixture over the Bunsen, most of the class is still debating step three. It’s almost a relief—just focus on the reaction, not on the way Aaron’s entire body vibrates with unspent energy.
When the TA comes by to check our progress, Aaron flashes a smile that’s so forced it’s almost painful. She signs our sheet, barely glancing at the results. As soon as she moves on, he lets the mask drop.
“Can I ask you something?” he says, voice so low it’s almost lost in the white noise.
I freeze, a test tube poised halfway to the rack. “Sure.”
He doesn’t look at me. Just keeps swirling the flask, watching the meniscus rise and fall with each rotation. “You ever meet someone and just… know it’s gonna wreck you?”
My heart skips. I set the tube down, careful not to let it clink. “I guess,” I say, but my voice sounds alien to my own ears.
He nods, slow and deliberate. “The girl from the party I keep looking for… I thought it was a joke at first, but then we were in the closet and—” He stops, clears his throat, starts again. “It wasn’t like any hookup I’ve had, you know? It felt… real. Even if it was just sixty seconds in the dark.”
I can’t look at him. I pretend to check the boiling point, but the numbers on the thermometer are a blur.
He keeps going, relentless. “She was gone before I could even ask her name. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.” He laughs, bitter. “And now everyone thinks I’m some kind of clown for posting about it, and there’s memes, and even my roommate won’t shut up.”
He finally turns to look at me, and I almost flinch at the honesty in his eyes. “I sound like an idiot, don’t I?”
I want to say no, but my mouth is dry. I settle for shaking my head.
He exhales, and the sound is so shaky it makes my hands go numb. “Anyway. Sorry. Didn’t mean to dump all that.”
I grab the flask from him, set it in the ice bath, and focus on the sensation—cold, sharp, real. “It’s fine,” I say, and then, before I can stop myself, I add, “It’s not like I’m judging you.”
He smiles, just a hint of it, and runs a hand through his hair, nearly knocking the goggles off. “Yeah, well. Guess I just needed to get it out.”
He stares at the flask, at the crystals forming in the bottom, and for a long moment neither of us moves.
Then, as if remembering his cue, he leans back and folds his arms, voice pitched even lower.
“You know what’s fucked? After the whole Natalie Greene ploy, my friends thought it would be hilarious to set me up with some random girl as a joke.
Had her wear the same dress, the same wig. Like I wouldn’t notice.”
I feel the heat rise up my neck, all the way to my ears. I grip the edge of the lab bench so hard my fingers go white.
He shakes his head. “I mean, I get it. It’s funny. But it just made it worse, you know? Like everyone thinks I’m desperate or stupid or both.”
He looks at me again, and this time he doesn’t look away. “I’m not, though. I just… I want to know who she was. I want to understand why it mattered.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He laughs, softer now. “You probably think I’m insane.”
“No,” I say, and it’s so quiet I can barely hear it myself.
He watches me for a second longer, then turns back to the experiment. “Sorry. I’ll shut up now.”
We finish the reaction in silence. But the whole time, I can feel the words circling, heavier than any chemical we could ever distill. When we’re done, I rinse the glassware three times, just to have something to do with my hands.
As we pack up, Aaron glances over. “Thanks for listening.”
I nod, throat tight. “Anytime.”
He grabs his backpack, hesitates, then adds: “You’re easy to talk to, Montgomery.”
He leaves, and I stand there, hands still wet, staring at the spot where he just was.
Easy to talk to. If only he knew.
I wipe down the bench, one swipe at a time, and wonder how much longer I can keep from breaking the silence.
—ΠΩ—
The next Thursday is a crucible. The temp outside has dropped twenty degrees, the radiators in the hallway hiss like pissed-off cobras, and inside the lab everyone is layered up in mismatched sweatshirts under their white coats.
My hands are numb, even with the gloves, and my mouth tastes like cheap instant coffee and dread.
Aaron is waiting for me, as always, but today he looks less composed. His foot taps an irregular Morse code under the counter. He’s already got the reagents lined up, but his setup is off—graduated cylinders out of order, pipettes uncapped, the balances flickering numbers with no one watching.
I try to say hi, but the word snags on my tongue.
I sit, pull out my notebook, and pretend to scan the protocol even though I’ve had it memorized since Tuesday.
For a minute, we work in parallel: weighing, pipetting, logging volumes and times.
The silence builds, thick as the mineral oil in our beaker.
It breaks when Aaron drops a stopper, the clatter ricocheting off the glass walls.
He swears, too loud, then looks at me with a raw, embarrassed face. “Sorry. Long week.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
He takes a deep breath, then lets it out. “Montgomery, can I ask you something, and you promise not to, like, judge or whatever?”
I freeze. “Yeah, of course.”
He hesitates, rolls a pipette between his palms. “You ever get the feeling you’re being lied to, but you kind of want to believe it anyway? Because the lie feels better than the truth?”
I stare at him, heart pounding. I want to tell him: you have no idea. But I just say, “Sometimes.”
He turns, finally, and the look in his eyes is dangerous—like if I say the wrong thing, I could knock the whole universe off axis.
He lowers his voice to a whisper. “You sure you don’t know anything about that girl from the party? The Jessica Rabbit one?”
The question detonates in my chest.
I look away, desperate for a distraction, but my hand fumbles the test tube I’m holding and it slips out of my grip. It spins, bounces off the edge of the bench, and would have gone straight to the floor if Aaron hadn’t caught it in a blur of motion.
For a second, we just stare at each other, the tube balanced between our four gloved fingers.
“I don’t know anything,” I blurt. My face is on fire. “Really.”
I hear someone snicker behind us—a pair of students at the next bench, probably reading the scene as high drama or sexual tension or both.
One of them, a guy with a patchy mustache and a hoodie that says “SCIENCE: It’s Like Magic But Real,” leans over and stage-whispers, “Bro, you gotta move on. Nobody gives a shit about your imaginary girlfriend.”
I snap, instant and involuntary. “Why don’t you mind your own fucking experiment?” My voice is so sharp it slices the room in half.
The mustache guy laughs, but it’s hollow. The lab goes dead silent for a beat, all heads swiveling in our direction. The only noise is the slow, deliberate hum of the fume hood. Then, as if nothing happened, everyone goes back to work, the bubble of attention bursting as quickly as it formed.
I want to apologize, but Aaron is looking at me like I’ve just solved an equation he’s been struggling with all semester.
He smiles, slow and genuine, and lets go of the tube. “Thanks, man.”
We finish the procedure in perfect silence, but the air between us has shifted. Every motion feels charged. Every accidental brush of hands or arms leaves a trail of electricity zinging up my spine.
When it’s time to clean up, I rinse the glassware with automatic precision. Aaron dries it, methodical, every gesture exact. We work as a unit, no wasted movement, as if we’ve been doing this for years instead of months.
He’s packing his bag when he pauses, looking at me sideways. “You’re a good guy, Montgomery,” he says. “Seriously. Most people would just roast me or ghost me.”
I shake my head, my voice coming out weird and high. “It’s not a big deal.”
He grins. “It is, though. You listen.”
He shoulders his backpack, then, just before leaving, says: “Hey, you want to grab coffee after this? No pressure, just—could use someone to talk to who’s not a complete dumbass.”
For a second I forget how to breathe.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure. That’d be cool.”
He nods, satisfied, and disappears into the hall, boots thudding against the tile.
I stay at the bench for a long time, replaying every word, every look. My hands won’t stop shaking, and the inside of my throat is raw.
I stare at the empty beaker in front of me, the residue swirling at the bottom, and think: Maybe there’s a way to neutralize this reaction after all.
Maybe there’s a chance.
I wipe down the bench, the same spot over and over, until the surface squeaks.
When I finally look up, Aaron is waiting outside the glass door, watching me.
I can’t help it—I smile. He grins back, crooked and a little bit wrecked.
We walk out together, and for the first time all semester, I don’t feel invisible.
Not even close.