Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
T he alarm woke Kathleen.
She lay curled on the end of the bed, still in her floral dress, the shawl she’d worn coiled over the armchair. She stared out the window, remembering last night’s date.
Ava should have been her perfect date. She smiled, she flirted, she talked about travel and sunlit beaches and failed yoga retreats in Mykonos. She even kissed her at the door, with a softness that should have made Kathleen’s heart skip.
It hadn’t. It had made her feel like an object. A polite, stiff statue.
She stood slowly, easing the kinks out of her neck as she wandered barefoot into the bathroom.
The floor was cold against her feet, and she welcomed it.
She turned the tap on and splashed her face without looking in the mirror.
She knew what she’d see—lips pinched, skin tired, mascara like black blotches around her eyes.
Her mouth tasted of sour wine and regret.
The problem wasn’t Ava. It was Veronica.
Kathleen couldn’t get the woman out of her head.
She tried not to dwell on her, because if she did, she’d have to acknowledge the strange ache in her chest that hadn't faded since that kiss. Something she couldn’t dismiss easily.
She’d have to admit she wanted to see her again.
Not as an escort, as herself.
S he arrived at the lab after nine, still slightly damp from the drizzle, her bag slung over one shoulder and her thermos, filled with coffee, gripped tightly in her right hand. The elevator had been crowded, and she’d spent the ride staring at the metal doors, trying to ignore the press of bodies.
Ted was already at his bench, hunched over a pile of readouts, typing something in his notebook. His usual assortment of mismatched pens stuck out of the breast pocket of his lab coat, and his hair looked like he’d dried it in a rush and forgotten to brush it.
“Morning,” he said, glancing up with a smile.
Kathleen nodded to him and crossed to her workstation. Her thermos hit the bench with a dull thud.
Ted hesitated, then said more carefully, “The conductivity readings from Tank Three were a little erratic overnight. I reran the sweep but thought you might want to take a look.”
She reached for the nearest terminal and pulled up the log. “What time?”
“Between two and three. It’d stabilised before I came in, but it’s a slight deviation from the baseline.”
Kathleen reviewed the curve without comment. A flicker, nothing more. Something she would normally file away as a routine anomaly, today she found herself staring at the data without really absorbing it.
“You don’t think it’s a sensor lag?” he prompted.
“It could be,” she said. “Or a transient microcurrent in the nutrient line. But no, it’s not serious, but still, thank you for flagging it.”
Ted seemed to sense she wasn’t feeling herself today and stepped back, fiddling with his pen as he returned to his seat.
Kathleen keyed in a fresh diagnostic and watched the soft blue pulses begin to sweep through the display. The plants drifted in their tank, slow and luminous, their fronds undisturbed by the world around them. Perfect specimens.
She envied them.
After a long pause, she asked without looking up, “How was the film?”
Ted perked up immediately. “Awesome. Like, gloriously awful. The Blob was oozing over diners and teenagers were shrieking with vintage overacting. The soundtrack was so dated it was genius. I think someone used a synthesiser made from a toaster.”
Kathleen smiled. “Sounds like a valuable cultural experience.”
“Absolutely,” he said, dead serious. “It wasn’t horror...it was a Jell-O metaphor. An essay on Cold War paranoia told through poorly lit ooze.”
She blinked at him. Sometimes, he was such a smart nerd.
He grinned. “Also... I met someone.”
That got her attention. She glanced over. “At the cinema?”
“She sat behind Simon and me and accidentally dumped Coke on my head.”
Kathleen blinked. “Really?”
“She apologised profusely and we started talking. Anyway, her name’s Cass and we ended up swopping clever, snide comments with her throughout the movie.
Afterwards, we went in the Irish pub over the road.
She’s—” He stopped, scratched the back of his neck.
“She’s funny. Like, sharp-funny. Knows science fiction, edits technical papers for work, and didn’t think I was weird for quoting Star Trek. ”
Kathleen felt a twinge of envy. “That’s...great,” she said.
Ted nodded, bubbling with enthusiasm. “We talked about everything—Dune, environmental systems, Isaac Asimov’s lesser-known essays. Cass even knew your name. Said she read one of your old papers on self-organising root networks and thought it was interesting.”
Kathleen looked down at her coffee. “She was probably being polite.”
“Nah,” Ted said with conviction. “Cass actually got it. No bullshitting. She asked about memory encoding in plants and the conductivity lag at root nodes. I mean—who even knows that stuff?”
Kathleen stared at him. “She actually knew that?”
“You bet.” Ted grinned. “I’m gonna see her after I get off work for coffee.”
“Good for you,” Kathleen murmured, happy for him.
He was clearly taken with the girl and she sounded perfect for him.
It was a yawning gulf between his story and her own that was depressing.
Ava had been dazzling—photogenic, polished, socially fluent.
She’d kissed Kathleen in a way that might have made other women invite her in. But not her.
She had gone inside like a frightened rabbit, feeling lonelier than when she left.
An hour later, not being able to concentrate, she stripped off her coat and gloves. “I’m going for a walk,” she announced.
Ted stared at her. “You never go out.”
“Well, I am today,’ she snapped and before any more questions, headed out the door.
The morning showers had cleared and it was a balmy day outside.
She stood on the edge of the curb, unsure where to go, then turned left in the direction of the library.
It was familiar; she’d been that route many times.
She walked with her hands in her pockets, staring slightly upward, past the traffic lights and the awning of the dry cleaner.
The air smelled like roasting chestnuts and faint car exhaust, and there was a florist on the corner she’d never looked at properly before.
She paused, eyeing a bucket of wrapped tulips on the pavement.
On a whim, she went in and ordered a large arrangement to be delivered at her house at five-thirty.
Further along, she reached a café she’d passed often but never entered. It was always too noisy, too cramped. The idea of standing at the counter while someone waited for her to choose filled her with a quiet dread.
Today, though, she stepped through the door.
The scents hit her first: strong espresso, warm pastries, and a whiff of someone’s perfume. The cafe was lined with timber shelves and a chalkboard menu above the counter. Two couples sat near the window, murmuring over half-eaten croissants.
The barista looked up and gave her a quick, pleasant nod.
Kathleen swallowed. “Flat white, please,” she said quietly, avoiding eye contact. “And a blueberry muffin.”
The woman typed in the price and she tapped her card.
Kathleen scanned the room as she waited. The round lights strung across the ceiling, and ferns draped around the walls were designed to make the customer feel relaxed.
When her name was called, she took the cup and muffin to a table by the window.
After taking a seat, she wrapped her hands around the cup, letting the heat sink into her palms. She stared at the foam of her drink.
It had swirled into an accidental spiral—imperfect, like someone had rushed the pour.
Normally, the lack of symmetry would bother her. The sloppiness. Now it felt human.
She sipped. It was nice, just how she liked it. She thought about Ted meeting someone who made him laugh. He talked about Cass like she was a small miracle wrapped in Coke and sci-fi trivia.
Different from her. She had gone home wondering if the person she wanted was simply the only one who’d ever made it easy.
After her coffee was finished, she sat there was a while longer before she headed back to work. When she returned to the lab, her mind was no clearer. Her hands still fidgeted in her pockets, but she didn’t feel like the silence around her was closing in.
She pulled on her gloves, adjusted the monitoring interface, and stared blankly at the calibration data. The numbers scrolled as they always did—fluid, obedient, endlessly rational.
She didn’t key in a single command, her mind elsewhere.
Not on Ava. She had come and gone like a bright falling star, sparkling in a burst but without substance to last.
Veronica… she lingered.
Kathleen sat down slowly, smoothing the crease in her lab coat and pressing the heels of her hands against her knees.
She didn’t want to ring the agency yet. Not so soon.
It felt desperate. She could still hear the pity in her mother’s voice if she ever found out: You paid someone to take you out?
I wish you would date like normal people, love. You have so much to offer someone.
As if she hadn’t tried.
As if she hadn’t been working her entire life to get to this point where she finally felt like herself around someone. Yes, the agency was expensive. Obscenely so. The kind of cost that made her feel vaguely guilty, like indulging in an expensive French champagne.
But then she dismissed the thought. She could afford it.
She had never spent her income on frivolities.
No designer clothes, no overseas trips, no spa retreats or renovated kitchens.
She lived in a sensible apartment, paid cash for everything, and forgot her own birthday most years.
She’d maxed out her retirement contributions by thirty, invested her grant money in cautious, diversified portfolios, and let it quietly compound.
Her net worth was frankly ridiculous for someone who still washed her own lab mugs.
She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to keep buying affection.
She wasn’t stupid, but she yearned for Veronica’s company again.
Her presence and that calm, centred way she looked at her, subtly listening.
The dignity of it. Veronica had made her feel like she wasn’t awkward, as if she wasn’t an academic exhibit behind glass.
This time, Kathleen thought, she would suggest something that felt more like herself . Not a boat cruise. Not small talk over truffled mousse and champagne flutes, but something real and grounded.
As she imagined the scene, her pulse steadied.
They could take a day trip outside the city.
Kayak on a freshwater lake out past the state park boundary.
She knew the perfect spot, near a marshland reserve with old trees lining the water and wild orchids hidden along the banks.
She could pack sandwiches and a thermos.
She could show Veronica what an epiphytic root structure looked like on a sun-bleached branch.
Talk about birdsongs, and microalgae colonies, and why the lakes had changed colour in the last two years.
It wouldn’t be glamorous, but it would be interesting.
If Veronica didn’t mind the silence too much, she could show her the things that made her heart beat faster—spores blooming on fallen bark, moss that glowed under UV light, dragonflies that zipped in tandem over silver-green water.
Perhaps Veronica would laugh. Maybe she wouldn’t.
But Kathleen wouldn’t have to pretend.
She rubbed her temple and made herself a silent promise: she would wait a few days. Let the awkwardness pass and then she would call.
Not to see Veronica again.
To ask if she might like to see her .