3. Cell Interior and Function
CELL INTERIOR AND FUNCTION
*Samantha*
W e sat across from each other, a table’s width and fifteen years of silence between us. I picked at the sleeve of my cardigan, which had sprouted a new hole at the elbow I hadn’t noticed until now, and wished I’d insisted on meeting somewhere less ... sterile.
Cafés were supposed to be neutral ground, but this one had only fake plants. Who can trust a café where every plant is fake? What else is fake? The beans? The tea leaves? The milk? Is the barista made of cake?
I’m just saying.
Andreas looked even more beautiful with prolonged exposure, in the uncanny way that only comes from a ruthless culling of childhood awkwardness.
His features had all grown into themselves.
The nose was still prominent, but now it belonged on a man instead of a scrawny middle school student.
The jawline could cut diamonds, and the chocolate-brown hair, which had once lived in perpetual revolt, was mostly tamed and combed with a kind of clinical precision that made my scalp itch with sympathy.
The only thing unchanged was his eyes. Large, round, olive green, and weirdly soulful for a twenty-six-year-old nepo baby.
When I initially spotted him earlier, I’d thought that his eyes were rather large, yet he must’ve been tired or bored or something similar because his eyelids were lowered, at half-mast. But now I recalled this quality to his gaze—the appearance of drooping eyelids, as though he were unimpressed with everything—was just part of his eyes’ natural shape.
Presently, Andreas stared at me, silent and perfectly still, save for the gentle motion of one foot, which tapped against the marble tile in some intricate tempo I couldn’t decipher.
I was immediately viscerally annoyed.
“So,” I said, after exactly enough time had passed for the silence to become an entity with its own mortgage, “are you going to say something, or is this some kind of strategic interrogation?”
Andreas blinked, startled out of whatever he’d been thinking. “I haven’t seen you in fifteen years. I’m curious.”
“Curious?” I repeated, incredulous. “Did your family hope I’d be in a ditch somewhere? Preferably not breathing, I suppose.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t dignify that with a response, instead continuing to stare at me with a level of focus that left me unsettled. I wondered when and why his family had decided to use him to make contact. I wondered, not for the first time, why I’d agreed to this.
But I also wondered if he still wept for baby birds; I wondered if he still built pillow forts; and I wondered whose bed he slept in when he had nightmares.
Summers when we were young, he used to climb in my bed whenever he had a bad dream. This was almost every night. We’d stay together until early morning, then he’d leave silently so as not to be found out.
But that was a long time ago.
My attention wandered, eventually moving to the espresso machine behind the counter as I longed for the nutty, robust taste of the coffee I’d finished earlier.
The server—an androgynous twentysomething with sleeve tattoos and a septum ring—caught my eye and smirked.
Andreas had ordered us two cappuccinos when we’d entered.
I raised my eyebrows at the server and didn’t smile, in the universal expression for “please save me from this torture,” and they nodded, presumably recognizing my desperation.
After too many seconds to count, during which Andreas continued to stare and I felt increasingly like something under a microscope, I snapped, “What is it?” If I didn’t take control, Andreas was going to benzodiazepine me into a coma.
“You asked for half an hour. That’s two percent of my day if I round for scientific digits and don’t count leap seconds. I need a return on my investment.”
As though deciding something, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands folded with priestly solemnity. “I did not want to meet you in person like this, not in public. But you left me with no other choice.”
“Why? What? Are you still mad at me for hiding that puzzle piece when we were little?” I looked him down, then up. “Are you going to throw a pie in my face? Is it humble? Will I be expected to eat it?”
“I want to marry you.”
I choked so hard that I fleetingly worried I would aspirate on my own tongue. “Excuse me?” I finally croaked out.
He didn’t blink. “The offer is sincere.”
“I—” For the second time in less than twelve hours, I looked around to see if there was a hidden camera, but no one jumped out of the faux foliage. “Andreas, I haven’t seen you since we were both preteens. You can’t just—What is wrong with you?”
He seemed unbothered by the fact that he’d just detonated the world’s most awkward and inappropriate proposal. “You asked what I wanted. I told you. I want to marry you.”
Before I could formulate a reply, the server arrived with two cappuccinos, each topped with a foamy heart. I was ninety percent sure this was not a standard design, and ten percent sure the barista was flirting with Andreas.
Yes. Please. Take him off my hands.
But I only said, “Thank you.”
After a brief exchange during which the server confirmed we were all set, they left. Andreas, meanwhile, didn’t even nod or otherwise acknowledge the café employee. He simply kept looking at me.
I waited until the server was out of earshot before continuing. “Did your family put you up to this? Is this damage control for the sake of shareholders before something new about my father comes out?”
Andreas shook his head. “I don’t associate with my family. I haven’t since I turned eighteen.”
“Then you’re here on your own.” I side-eyed him, deciding that if he said so, I would believe him. Maybe that made me stupid, but I didn’t think so.
Andreas’s childhood hadn’t been easy, and I got a sense that it had continued to be difficult after I’d disappeared from his life.
Confirming my statement, he nodded. “This is something I want. They do not know I am here, and if they did, they definitely would not approve.”
I stared at his beautiful face for several seconds, trying to wrap my mind around what he might be thinking with this random, out-of-the-blue proposal after fifteen years of no contact.
Eventually, I huffed. “Seriously, is this some kind of performance art? Do you need a green card? Is there a reality show I’m not aware of for world’s most uncomfortable reunions? Why are you doing this to me?”
The faintest hint of a smile barely curved his lips. “You have not changed,” he said, the words sounding tender.
My adrenaline spiked and I sipped the cappuccino just to have something to do. It was good. Not great, but a credible effort.
“Okay, so—why—” I floundered, unsure why I hadn’t picked up my bag and coat and left already. Old time’s sake, maybe? “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I don’t immediately tell you to get lost. Why would you want to marry me?”
Eyes narrowing, he tugged at the fingertips of his gloves—first the right, then the left—proceeding to pull the black leather from his hands, revealing long, thick fingers and finely formed knuckles, everything strong, veiny, smooth, and perfectly proportioned.
I squirmed, viscerally annoyed once more. Andreas had one of the finest sets of man-hands I’d ever seen in my life. Infuriating.
Rather than roll my eyes, I frowned. I definitely needed to get out more, go to a bar, find a nice set of hands for a night.
At the very least, I needed some time off work and my dissertation when I wasn’t exhausted, time to take care of my dearth in sexy-times business myself.
Things must’ve been desperate if I was noticing my sworn enemy’s hands.
He is not your enemy. He never has been.
That said, this—sitting across from him now—was hard. Just seeing him was difficult. Talking to him brought back too many memories.
My mother, when I was little, before she’d died, had said that Andreas preferred me over his own family and she’d always felt a little guilty at the end of every summer when we’d have to part—him for Norway, then almost immediately for school in Switzerland, and me for school in Connecticut.
He’d cry like he’d never see me again and I’d feel melancholy for weeks.
At my father’s funeral, Andreas had refused to let me go, requiring four grown men to untangle his arms from my body and forcibly carry him away.
I would never forget his tearstained face and how his hands reached for me.
At thirteen, I’d been in no state to console him, since my dad had—you know—just died right after declaring bankruptcy.
I had no home, and my mother had been a shell, and every day was a struggle.
Over the years, every time I thought about reaching out to Andreas, some new hellish event stopped me: my mother’s death, my grandparents’ divorce, my grandmother’s death.
When I looked Andreas up ten years ago, just before starting college, he was the best chess player in the world and seemed to be doing just fine. And so, I’d let go of my childhood friend once and for all. It had brought me closure. I’d never regretted it.
But looking at him now and his bonkers offer, maybe he hadn’t let go of me ... ?
That’s nuts. It’s been fifteen years.
Ignorant as to the direction of my thoughts, Andreas reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a document. He slid it across the table with the same gravity one uses to reveal a murder weapon in a game of Clue.
I glanced at it, then at him. “What is this?”
“Just read it.”
Careful to avoid touching his perfect fingers, I picked up the page.
It was a photocopy, not an original, and the English was so precisely translated that it felt unnatural.
The letterhead said Genetix, Inc., and the footer was dated approximately one month ago.
The rest was legalese, but the gist was unmistakable.