Chapter Thirteen
Minerva
For the last three days, Tristan has left exactly two cups of coffee in the pot. Next to the pot, my favorite mug and favorite spoon are left in the exact same positions, freshly washed and arranged exactly as I like. It feels intentional. Considerate. He’s… anticipating me. I’m not used to that.
I sip my coffee as I examine the giant whiteboard, now attached to the wall of the dining area.
The expansive range of marker colors makes my fingers itch to try them all, but for now, I’m keeping things simple.
Things I like are written in green. Things I dislike are written in red.
Things I want to try are written in yellow, except that the yellow is really hard to read against the white, so I’ve had to go over them with orange, despite my aesthetic dislike with the breakdown in the system.
The only other color I’ve used is purple, which currently represents things that are situationally dependent.
At the moment, the tally reads thus—
Green: cheese, crackers, granola bars, fresh fruit, big sweatshirts, grippy socks, weekly task routine, Kepler.
Red: wet socks, loud noises, the big living room light, surprise touches.
Yellow (slash orange): time-controlled lightbulb, weighted blanket, blowjobs??
Purple: hugs, kissing, bubble bath, tomatoes.
Part of me wants to put Tristan on the board, but I think he’d be offended if I wrote his name in purple. It’s not that I only like him sometimes, but the comfort that I glean from his presence depends on the situation and how I feel at the time.
When I’m already feeling good, spending time with him adds to my happiness.
When I’m having a rough day, being around him makes me feel better.
But when I’m having a meltdown, or when I’m having the kind of no-bones day that makes showering or putting on real pants seem like an impossible task, I wish I could get away from him.
I don’t want him to see the worst sides of me.
So far, he’s managed to convince himself that I’m someone worth spending time with.
That I’m attractive. If he realizes that I’m just…
me, he’ll get bored. That’s one reason that I’m still secretly scrolling through apartment listings.
If I move out, I have a better chance of hiding my flaws and keeping this job, and Tristan might find me sufficiently mysterious to hold his interest. If I stay, and he discovers that I’m sometimes incapable of basic hygiene, or that I sometimes get so depressed that I can barely move, he’ll kick me out anyway.
Better to get ahead of the curve and eject myself before that happens.
But would Tristan really do that? Answer: I don’t know. I don’t think so, but what if I’m wrong? What secrets is he hiding from me, the way I’m hiding the disappointing parts of myself from him?
I didn’t realize I’d zoned out until Kepler chirps and hops up into my lap. He headbutts my arm so hard that I almost slop tepid coffee over the rim of the cup.
“Excuse you!” I make a face at him. Kepler chirps again as he clambers into the front of my sweatshirt for a cuddle. Unlike people, who are flawed, Kepler is perfect, so I let him get comfortable. I have a little more research to do before I start this morning’s project, anyway.
* * *
“Okay,” I tell Kepler, “here’s the plan.” I point to the semiliquid layer of sealant, still in its jar. “I think that, with careful application, I can create a moisture-wicking layer on the outside of the mattress, with no toxic chemicals or fumes to worry about.”
I’ve noticed that Tristan runs hot and tends to sweat at night, which affects his REM sleep—not to mention any other bodily secretions that could seep into his mattress. It’s easy enough to wash the sheets, but the mattress is another matter.
Rather than experimenting with Tristan’s bed, however, I’ve decided to start with mine. The guest bedroom mattress is cheaper, for one thing.
I put on a podcast about sports medicine and get to work. The liquid sealer is a little hard to work with, since it doesn’t go on smoothly, but if I’m careful and take my time, I can work in layers.
I’m about halfway through when someone outside honks their car horn. I’m pretty sure that it’s nothing, but Kepler doesn’t know that. He bursts out of his bed, startled out of his sleep, and bolts.
Right into the container of sealant.
My stomach drops. Of course. Of course, it goes wrong the one time I try to do something helpful.
“Kepler, no!” I shriek, but it’s already too late. The sealant is already seeping into the fabric. His little feet are completely covered in the stuff.
I’m confident that the material isn’t toxic toward humans, but I’m not going to risk Kepler’s safety. What if he licks it while he’s grooming and it gives him an intestinal block? Or something worse?
“Come here,” I coo, cradling the little guy in my arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I’ve never been able to figure out if Kepler loves or hates baths. What I do know is that they give him the zoomies. I could really use an extra pair of hands to hold him still while I use Dawn to clean his back, his tail, and in between his adorable little toes.
He squeaks and squirms and thrashes like an eel, right up until the moment when I start to towel him off. As soon as he can get away from me, he explodes out of my arms, fur standing on end as he runs up and down through the hallway in an endless figure-eight.
I’m glad that he’s having fun. That makes one of us.
After returning to the bedroom, my stomach plummets.
“No, no, no.” I poke at the part of the mattress that’s soaked through.
Good news: it’s no longer wet. Bad news: it’s ruined.
The sealant, which is flexible in thin enough layers, becomes a weirdly hard, spiky blob when spilled in large quantities.
I groan and flop over on the dry portion. I want to cry, not because it’s ruined, but because I can already hear the voice in my head telling me I should’ve known better. It’s a good thing that Tristan pays me as much as he does, since I’m going to need a new mattress after this.
Frustrated with my failure, I shove the mattress off the box spring. I manage to tip it on one side, but I can’t make it through the door on my own. The angle is weird, it’s surprisingly heavy, and thin enough that it keeps flopping whenever I try to drag it.
Which is why, when Tristan gets home fifteen minutes later, I’m crying in the hallway.
“Whoa, what happened?” He rushes to my side and kneels so that we’re more or less at eye level. His hands hover around me, unsure of where to land.
I wipe my eyes on my hoodie sleeve and sniffle. “Science.”
Tristan takes a moment to absorb this. “Oh…kay. Are you hurt?”
“Only my pride.”
“Would you like a hug?”
“Please.” I collapse into his arms. I almost always want hugs from Tristan, but the fact that he asked first makes the tears dry up.
If my mother had found me this way, her question would have been, “What did you do?” Tristan cares about me.
He wants me to feel safe. That’s worth more than any failed experiment or stupid floppy mattress.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asks.
I explain my failed experiment. Tristan’s expression suggests that he finds this amusing, but he doesn’t laugh outright.
“Were you trying to move the mattress out on your own?” he asks.
“Um.” I sniff again. “Yeah.”
“Were you going to tell me what happened?”
“...no? I mean, I was going to handle it.”
This time, Tristan pulls back. He places his hands on my shoulders to hold me at arm’s length. “Did you think I’d be mad?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
He takes a deep breath. “Am I in the habit of getting mad at you?”
“No.” The answer comes easily.
“But other people are.” The weary way he says this makes it clear that it’s not a question. “Okay. Next question: what would you have done if you couldn’t get a fresh mattress in here before tonight?”
I don’t have to think about this, either, because I’d already decided on my plan earlier. “Sleep on the floor.”
“Because you’d rather be uncomfortable than admit that you made a mistake?”
Floors can’t be ruined. Floors can’t disappoint anyone.
I bite my bottom lip. If I made a mistake at home, my parents blamed me, but for this, they’d have been furious with Kepler. They might have told me that I had to get rid of him, even if this mistake was my fault, not his. I’m the human. I should have put him in his crate before I started working.
What if Tristan got mad at me and told me that Kepler couldn’t stay here anymore?
“I didn’t want you to…” My face betrays me before I can get the words out. I can feel it crinkling up like old paper; my lips tug downward against my will. “To punish me. I’m sorry, that’s stupid, you would never—”
“You’re not stupid, Min.” Tristan rubs my back.
“I was stupid enough to ruin a mattress!”
He licks his lips. “Was Ada Lovelace stupid?”
“What? No!” I lean back. “She was a genius ahead of her time!”
“Did she ever make mistakes?”
“I…”
“Marie Curie died from giving herself radiation poisoning. You accidentally messed up a mattress. On balance, I think you’re doing pretty well.” He kisses my forehead. “I love your big brain. Some of the ideas in there are going to work out, and some aren’t. That’s okay.”
“How dare you use my own scientific heroes against me!” I burrow into his embrace. It occurs to me that I’m seeking the comfort and safety of his touch the same way Kepler snuggles up to me. Kepler trusts me. I trust Tristan. Tristan accepts me.
For all that to be true, I must be doing something right.
“‘All creative people want to do the unexpected,’” Tristan adds.
“Did you just quote Hedy Lamarr at me?”
“I did.”
I moan into his shirt. “Why is that the hottest thing you’ve ever done?”
“I hate to think I’ve peaked. Come on, let me help you get this mattress outside, and we’ll see about ordering you a new one. You can sleep in my bed tonight.”