15. Binary Fission
BINARY FISSION
*Samantha*
N akita left when the movers arrived. They finished grabbing and loading everything in less than ten minutes. I knew they were used to working in the city because they’d double-parked, brazenly blocking the street rather than futilely hunting for a legitimate spot.
My decision to go to work had nothing at all to do with my desire to avoid seeing Andreas, but everything to do with my desire to avoid talking to Andreas.
The next time we spoke, I knew I’d have to put all my uncomfortable feelings out there, explain how I was attracted to him for reals, convince and assure him that mine was an unwilling and unwelcome attraction, and request we brainstorm how best to navigate this inconvenient situation moving forward.
For the record, I still hadn’t given up hope that once we lived together, and I was exposed to all his unpleasant habits, thoughts, and beliefs, I might be cured of this unwieldy attraction.
If I was lucky, maybe he would cite the manosphere to justify a belief of why all mRNA vaccines were dangerous, or quote Grok as a reliable source of information about literally anything. If so, I would be cured of my attraction at once.
Or, even better, perhaps Andreas was an avid follower of Jordan Peterson or Andrew Tate. My repulsion would likely register on the Richter scale and I’d immediately go from giving him googly eyes to side-eyes. Bing bang boom, shrivel my womb.
Or, more effective, it would be great if he pontificated to me—a geneticist—that there exist only two genders, completely ignoring the existence of Turner’s syndrome, androgen insensitivity syndrome, genetic steroid disorders, and science.
And then it would be great if he called science or human rights a “political issue.” That kind of thing would definitely do the trick. Don’t be cautious! Make me nauseous.
Yeah. Sigh. Any and all of that would be so, so great. Convenient. And tidy.
To my surprise, as soon as I left my building, I spotted Tara waiting for me in her black Mercedes. I’d almost forgotten about her acting as my bodyguard and driver.
“If you’re going to drive me everywhere from now on, I guess should join a gym.” I met her eyes in the rearview mirror after settling in the back seat. She hadn’t wanted me to sit in the front passenger seat, claiming the back seat was safer.
“Is walking to work the only exercise you get?” she asked, the corner of her mouth lifting.
“It is,” I confirmed with a beleaguered sigh.
“Not a fan of gyms?”
“Not a fan of exercising just for the sake of exercising,” I explained. “Makes me feel like a hamster. I played tennis in college, on scholarship. So, I don’t mind training for a purpose, but not for, you know, health.” I refrained from putting air quotes around the word health, but just barely.
I was the type of person who would spend all day cleaning a house without complaint, help an acquaintance move apartments, or walk a dog for hours, but couldn’t find the motivation to get up from their desk for a breather, to take a mental break, or to stretch during the workday.
After a silence lasting two blocks, Tara said, “If you want, you could join my gym.”
I stared at the back of her headrest and blurted stupidly, “You own a gym?”
Her eyes flickered back to me in the mirror, crinkling at the corners with a smile. “No. But I teach kickboxing at a gym. It’s closer to Mr. Kristiansen’s apartment than your previous address. Just let me know. You could try out a class. If you like it, join.”
I stroked my chin like I had a wizard beard. “Kickboxing, eh? That sounds like a useful skill. When are you teaching next?”
“I’ll text you a link to the schedule. Mr. Kristiansen sent me your number.”
“Excellent,” I murmured and tented my fingers, liking this notion more and more.
Andreas had warned me that his half brother Henrik preferred physical intimidation tactics over Tobias’s mind-and-life-fuckery approach. Just the thought of learning how to effectively—should the opportunity present itself—kick Henrik in the face—or balls ... or both! —brightened my mood.
Tara paused the Mercedes at the sidewalk next to my department building and, without cutting the engine, turned on her hazards.
She then walked me to the entrance while sending me the promised link to her kickboxing class schedule.
Before leaving me, Tara asked that I call or text ten minutes before I was ready to be picked up.
I saved her number in my phone and labeled her “Tara, Kickboxing Teacher.” It felt less Black Mirror or Twilight Zone than “Tara, My Doppelganger Bodyguard . ”
Depositing my bag and clothes in my locker, I changed, badged into my work area, and quickly lost myself in converting all valid citations to ANSI/NISO standard terminology. I was so absorbed that when my phone buzzed, announcing a call, I sucked in a startled breath and almost choked on my saliva.
Diya’s number flashed on my screen. I took a moment to gather my wits before answering, breathing out, then in, mostly to clear my airway. “Hello?”
“You’re engaged? And you moved out? Have I entered an alternate timeline? Who was elected president?”
“Yes to the first two questions. I can’t be certain regarding the last two questions.”
I heard my roommate—er, former roommate—exhale a loud breath. “I know better than to ask too many questions. So, can you answer two more for me?”
“I’ll do my best,” I hedged and sat back in my office chair, feeling like I needed to mentally prepare myself.
“First, when can I see you? I’d like to say a proper goodbye. I like you, Sam, and I’ll be honest”—she huffed a tired-sounding laugh—“I’m going to miss you?—”
“Awww—”
“—and all the shirtless guys you used to parade around the apartment.”
I snorted.
“CrossFit guy, we barely knew thee.” The lingering smile in her voice was unmistakable. “Seriously, though. When can we get together? Let me buy you lunch or something.”
My grin also persisted. “Absolutely. I’ll send you some dates after the holiday.” Spur of the moment, I suggested, “And we can try to make it a monthly thing. Sound good?” I wondered if I would later regret suggesting a standing lunch commitment, but I didn’t think so.
I liked Diya, too. And I would miss her. She was good people.
“Sounds great,” she said, the words almost obliterated by the sound of a siren from her side of the call.
I waited until the noise faded before asking, “What’s the second question?”
“Are you happy?” She’d lowered her voice to ask this and I detected a note of worry. “I mean, with Andreas. Does he make you happy? Do you actually want to marry him?”
For some reason, in that moment, I didn’t want to lie to Diya. I didn’t want to answer according to the plan just to get her off the phone. But I couldn’t explain the complexities of my feelings either.
Thus, I settled on a version of the truth, both to ease her mind and to reduce my guilt. “Honestly, there is no one else in the world I could see myself marrying other than Andreas.”
* * *
By the time I left the biology building, it was after 7:00 PM and my brain felt like a microwaved burrito: hot, overcooked, and liable to burst at the seams with one careless squeeze.
I called Tara from the women’s locker room just before changing back into my normal clothes.
Her black Mercedes idled at the curb when I exited the building, and I spotted her through the front windshield, brown hair pulled into a neat ponytail, the blue glow of her phone screen illuminating a face that looked enough like mine to make me do a double take.
She saw me and immediately killed the engine, opening the driver’s-side door and stepping out into the cold.
I waved, but before she could round the car, I opened the back door myself, tossed my backpack in, and then hesitated, half in and half out, caught by the friction of inertia.
If I’d had a more poetic soul, I’d have called it “resistance to change.” More accurately, it was the genetic legacy of a thousand generations of let’s-just-wait-and-see-if-the-bear-leaves caution.
Eventually, I got in.
Tara adjusted the rearview and met my gaze. “Ready?” Her voice was unreasonably chipper. Probably all those kickboxing endorphins.
I wanted to say, Define “ready. ”
Instead, I said, “Sally forth.”
She grinned, then pulled out into traffic. The silence between us was comfortable, like she understood that my primary need right now was mental preparation and recalibration.
I watched the city slide past, each streetlight blurring into the next. After three blocks of silence, I realized I’d been gripping my phone in my lap so tightly my hand had gone numb.
I turned the screen on: 7:14 PM. Zero new notifications. I was both relieved and irrationally disappointed that Andreas hadn’t texted me since this morning.
Perhaps he hadn’t texted because he knew where I was. Tara, as my shadow, had likely filled him in. I considered this, that Tara and any other bodyguard assigned to me would probably be reporting my movements to Andreas.
This thought didn’t make me resent Tara. It didn’t even make me resent Andreas. It made me resent Oskar, Tobias, and Henrik for being societal sepsis. If only Oskar hadn’t been an evil, greedy little virus of a humanoid, perhaps?—
Perhaps Andreas and I would be getting engaged for real ... ?
I rolled my eyes at myself and shook my head. Alternate universe, indeed.
After I’d finished working on the citations, I’d spent an hour helping Dmitry troubleshoot a genetics pipeline issue he’d emailed me about last week but I’d been too deep in my own drama to reply.
There was also a backlog of Hauser’s undergrad lab reports to grade, which was not technically my job anymore but felt like an anchor to the world I was rapidly losing.