11. Genetic Variation
GENETIC VARIATION
*Samantha*
T he biology building felt extra haunted after dark. Tonight, being the Friday night before Thanksgiving week, it was all but abandoned.
The most personal statement Dr. Nieminen made thus far was, “I’m told the venue is cold, so bring a sweater.
” I even caught myself letting my guard down toward the end of my presentation.
My notes from the meeting—mostly reminders to email the poster draft to the co-authors, asking for their citation lists and preferred schedule for presentation times—were scrawled with my normal legible handwriting, not the aggravated micro-script I used when forcing myself to concentrate.
Dr. Nieminen’s entire agenda this evening had centered on the conference next month in Boston. So, an actual agenda. And one I was prepared for because I’d drafted a presentation last month just in case Dr. Hauser had wanted me to attend and present.
Presently, eyes still on his laptop, he said, “Your presentation is fine, but I want it in abstract format. For the poster, we’ll need to unify our graphics, make sure everyone’s using the latest template, fonts, and so forth.”
I nodded.
“And I’ll rely on you to check everyone’s citations, make sure they’re not taking any shortcuts. Oh! And Dr. Merkle is extremely anal about kerning, especially for titles and diagrams. Sorry.”
“Understood.” I scribbled another note, Check letter spacing.
“I want to thank you, Sam, for how quickly you’ve adapted to the change in circumstance.
” Dr. Nieminen finished whatever he was typing, snapped his laptop closed, and smiled at me, that confident, square-jawed American smile he used in all his lab group photos.
“I was worried you’d need more time to adjust, but you’re approaching your new duties with such, ah—” He paused, as if consulting an internal thesaurus. “Enthusiasm. It is admirable.”
I gave him a tight smile, my stomach tense, not because there was anything wrong with the compliment, but because there was nothing wrong with the compliment . I genuinely couldn’t process the lack of an ulterior motive.
“Thanks,” I managed, twisting my pen between my fingers. “It’s all pretty similar to what I was doing for Hauser as her research assistant, just with more, you know, product.”
He laughed. “You mean more work.”
I offered a slightly wider smile. “But more work means more experience, so I’m not complaining.”
Dr. Nieminen stacked his laptop, his notebook, and his phone into a tidy, rectangular pile.
He then stood, slinging a backpack over his shoulder.
“You say that now, but just wait until you see what international peer review is like. It’s nothing but stress and disappointment.
” His tone was dry, but not unkind. “Anything else before we go?”
“No, I think I have everything for now. I’ll let you know if the conference organizers need anything else from our end.
” I almost added, Thank you for taking me on, for helping me keep some funding at the university , but caution won out and I decided against vocalizing any gratitude.
I didn’t trust that his motives were altruistic yet, despite how straightforward and professional he’d been during this meeting.
“Excellent.” Dr. Nieminen picked up his stack of items and gripped them to his chest. “What do you think about making our usual meeting time six on Fridays? It seems like the only time the conference rooms are available. Are you free Friday evenings?”
“Usually, yes. That works for me.”
“Great. Then I’ll see you later.” His grin was pleased. “I won’t be here next week, visiting my parents for the holiday. Oh yeah. Happy Thanksgiving by the way.”
“Thank you. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Any plans?” His head tilted slightly to one side.
“Nothing major,” was all I felt comfortable admitting even though I planned to come in every day and take advantage of the empty lab over the holiday. Dr. Nieminen and I weren’t friends. Even if we were, I tended to err on the side of caution when sharing details with anyone other than Kaitlyn.
Yeah, yeah. I know. I have trust issues.
With a quick smile and friendly wave, he left.
Meanwhile, I was left frowning at his departing form, feeling slightly adrift. And muddled. But also relieved he hadn’t done or said anything that made me uncomfortable. Maybe I’ve been unkind. Maybe he’s not ... so bad.
Eventually, I turned to gather my things, surprised by the direction of my thoughts. This whole situation with Andreas, his brothers, and the addendum to Oskar Kristiansen’s will left me twisted in knots.
Last night, Andreas walked me all the way up to the door of my apartment.
I told myself it was for appearances, for the benefit of anyone Tobias had sent to follow or photograph us.
However, no one was photographing us inside the stairwell of my apartment building, and yet I’d held his hand the whole time.
His fingers were warm, and his palm was large and it fit mine so perfectly that letting go had been quite difficult.
Which was why, when I saw him tonight for our late dinner, I was going to insist on a list of acceptable public displays of affection and have them all written down and signed off on.
But not notarized. Notarizing that kind of list would be weird.
However, I wasn’t about to get blindsided again by random hand holding.
Thus, and in retrospect, perhaps I’d overreacted about or misunderstood Dr. Nieminen’s hand on my thigh yesterday. Maybe he’s just a touchy-feely guy ... ?
I rolled my eyes at myself. He wasn’t just a touchy-feely guy.
James Nieminen had been interested in me for a while, that was no secret.
But perhaps he’d finally taken the hint and decided to back off now that he was my boss and signed off on my paychecks.
It seemed possible I was the problem and saw villains where none existed.
Fine. As long as Dr. Nieminen continued to be professional—like today—I would do my work diligently and we would have no problems. But if he crossed the line again, I’d add his name to my People I’m Going to Ruin list, right below Tobias Kristiansen’s.
* * *
I’d always considered myself an exceptionally pragmatic person, even when I was a child and the other kids on my block wanted to play “wedding” or “FBI” or whatever.
I preferred more constructive games, like researching all the pharmaceuticals in my parents’ medicine cabinet, or creating elaborate natural disaster scenarios for my Barbie dolls to understand concepts like lava flow, structural integrity of buildings during earthquakes, or the impact of hurricane-force winds on an elaborate hairstyle.
The only time I ever did anything truly irrational was when I let myself believe, for a six-month period in middle school, that if I were simply attractive enough, if I wore cute enough clothes and did my hair and wore makeup, I’d feel happy and all my problems would be solved.
That delusion had returned with a vengeance tonight.
After I quickly showered, I blow-dried my hair upside down to maximize volume, then flat-ironed it in sections so that it fell, glossy and heavy, over my left shoulder.
Then I did my makeup—full, maximalist mode, with shimmery eyeshadow and a perfect, lethal cat eye.
I even did the thing with the contour and highlighter, which I’d watched an online tutorial for back in undergrad and practiced until I’d perfected it.
The dress itself was a slinky, bloodred silk that looked like it should be on a Bond girl. It had been a gift from Andreas. Well, not really a “gift,” but a mission-critical apparatus. It arrived by courier in a box with a typed note that read: Wear tonight. I will match. —A
The color, a deep burgundy, made my skin appear even paler than usual. I couldn’t decide whether the paleness looked good or bad. Either way, the contrast of colors was definitely dramatic.
The cut of the dress was both elegant and indecent in the way that only ultraexpensive things can be. The hem stopped mid-thigh, the neckline was low but not slutty—sadly—and when I zipped myself in, I could feel the silky fabric hugging the curve of my hips and thighs like a second skin.
I put on the same black stilettos I’d worn last night, mostly because I was broke and couldn’t justify new shoes. Underneath, I wore the nicest underwear set I owned, the bra so delicate and lacy that it should’ve been classified as “wishful thinking” rather than an actual undergarment.
As I got dressed, I thought about the fact that tomorrow I’d wake up and it would all be the same.
I’d still be broke, still fighting to keep my place in the program, still obsessing about how to make the Kristiansens suffer.
But tonight, with the clock ticking down to the first of potentially many public dinners with Andreas, my lips painted to match the dark red of my dress, I was going to enjoy myself.
I deserved a break, a treat (that wasn’t ice cream) to celebrate the fact that I’d fully embraced my revenge era.
Rather, a treat that didn’t involve *just* ice cream.
By the time I finished, I felt good. Energized. Ready.
Slipping on my black coat, I grabbed the envelope with the finalized adoption contract.
Martin had been kind enough to send his lawyer over for a breakfast meeting with me this morning and we’d completed all the details over coffee at the fake-foliage café across the street.
Checking the screen of my phone, I saw it was 7:25 PM.
I had enough time to get to the curb and collect my wits before Andreas’s car arrived.