Chapter Three #2
“The star?” His eyebrows rise. “Have you paid attention to our games? You mean Jake.” Jake plays small forward, and we all expect him to be sent off to college in the loving arms of D1 scouts.
“I wasn’t watching Jake during the games.”
His fingers pause around his coffee cup for half a second. “Good to know.”
My heart thuds. I don’t care much for the rest of the team, although it’s a tried-and-true fact that hot guys travel in packs.
If they were movies, then Jake Lancaster would be The Dark Knight—everyone’s default favorite, just like how everyone agrees Jake’s one great-looking dude.
Dylan Reyes, Sean’s other friend, with the buzz cut, tattoo, and habit of swearing every other sentence, is one of those cult films, like Pulp Fiction—dedicated fans, but not mass appeal.
I can’t tell what kind of movie Sean is yet, but he’d be the kind I never get tired of watching. Every time I replayed it, I’d notice something I didn’t before, and I’d always be at a loss for words when I tried to describe what was so special about it.
“Do you dream of playing pro someday?” I ask.
“Never. Basketball’s good exercise, and I like hanging out with my friends. I have other interests.”
“Such as?”
“Well,” he says as he picks at his cuticle with his index finger (so that’s how he gets that raw spot). “I like physics. I’m prepping for the USAPhO.”
“The what?”
“The United States Physics Olympiad.” He utters the name slowly, his voice growing quieter.
His eyes stay on the salt and pepper shakers on the table.
“It’s a physics competition. There are a series of exams to select the national representatives.
If I do well on the first test, I get invited to the semis, and then . . . Sorry, I’m boring you.”
“No, no. It’s fine. Physics is so useful.” I rack my brain for something intelligent to say. “Like in pool games, right? Something to do with Newton’s second law and collision and velocity?”
He nods as if he doesn’t just hear the dumbest take on physics ever. “I can predict where the balls are going, and in theory I can plan my shots, but I can’t actually make it happen.”
“Too bad.”
“I’m good at teaching people, though. Dylan has a pool table at his place. I can show you next time if you want.”
There’s a next time. He’s not tired of me yet. Like sinking into a warm bath, my body uncoils inch by inch. “I’d love that.”
“My grandad used to set up these science challenges for me when I was a kid. Stuff like building engines from scratch or launching a balloon rocket across the room. That’s what got me hooked on physics in the first place.”
“Out of all the projects you did with your grandad, what would you say was the most—” Complicated? No way, I wouldn’t understand a thing he says. “Fun?”
“Probably the Rube Goldberg machine.” He watches my reaction, then adds, “You know what it is, you just don’t realize that’s what it’s called. Ever seen one of those YouTube videos where a ball rolls down a ramp, knocks over dominoes, hits a lever, then starts a pulley that rings a doorbell?”
I do know what it is. “It’s doing something simple in the most roundabout, complicated way possible?” Like me flipping over backward to end up sitting across from you now, watching your lashes flutter.
“Exactly. I enjoy adjusting, fine-tuning, and eventually, the predictability of it—how everything falls into place after careful planning. My grandad taught at MIT before he retired, and I got to see some truly incredible machines there.”
“Is MIT your dream school?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. A light sparks in his eyes, and he stops picking at his cuticles.
“It’s what I’ve always known I wanted. That’s why I take so many AP and honors classes, like you pointed out—eight billion of them.
I started entering STEM competitions in middle school, participated in robotics camps, and I play varsity basketball.
I enjoy all of it, but I won’t lie, part of it is because it makes my application look better. ”
“The last time I heard someone talk like that, it was my mom,” I say.
“My parents work at a pharmaceutical company in Seattle. My dad’s the global marketing VP, and my mom just got promoted to senior VP.
She’s always talking about changing the world and improving patients’ lives.
And the way she plans her career—every move feels so intentional.
” I shake my head. “She makes it all look so easy.”
“Your mom sounds remarkable.”
Nearby, a family chats quietly, and a group of students tap away on their laptops. A comfortable silence settles between us as he finishes everything on the plates and I drain the last few drops of my chai latte.
“But they’re on business trips all the time,” I say. “They just launched a new cardiovascular drug, which is why no one was home last night.”
“I thought you had an older brother?”
“Yeah, Jeremy. He’s at Harvard now.”
Sean takes a sip of his coffee. Most people either envy my freedom or joke about throwing a party without parental supervision, but he asks, “Do you like being alone in the apartment all the time?”
“I get to do whatever I want, but if I could choose, I’d pick a family brunch over anything. I don’t care how lame that sounds.”
“No, I get it. I’m lucky, my dad cooks every night.”
“I wish my dad cooked. Or at least ate at home. We have a gigantic kitchen, but it only ever gets used to boil water.”
When was the last time I sat down and ate with my parents?
I can’t remember. Sometimes I try to conjure up an image of my mom’s face, but all I can picture are her scarves.
They’re always silk, soft and delicate, patterned with prancing horses or Parisian streets.
She often comes home, drapes one over the quartz countertop, and then forgets to take it with her on her next trip.
“Is that why you go to all those parties? Because you want to get out and see people?”
“Weekend parties are a must. I read somewhere that in parts of the country where there are no bars, the incidence of violent crimes more than doubles. People need to blow off steam, you know,” I ramble. “I got invited to a college bonfire tonight—”
That’s not the kind of thing to say to impress a guy like Sean. I add, “Oh god. I promise I’m not trying to hook up with some college guy or anything—”
That’s enough, Flora. Kindly shut up now.
Sean’s expression remains stoic.
“Would you like to go with me?” I suggest, in a feeble attempt to turn things around.
“Nah, hooking up with college guys really isn’t my thing.”
Okay, that’s some pretty dry humor, and I also want to die. My heart has sunk all the way past the table and onto the floor, flopping about like a fish out of water, when he adds, “But if you need a ride home, you can call me.”
My head snaps up. “Seriously?”
“Yes. But maybe don’t get drunk?”
Don’t get drunk. It’s not cute.
“You’re afraid I’ll puke in your car,” I can’t resist saying.
Sean puts down his coffee and lifts his eyes to meet mine. His gaze is simultaneously firm and tender, steady but not intrusive, allowing something soft to curl up inside me.
“No,” he says. “I’d be worried about you, friend.”
* * *
Seven hours later, I’m firmly planted in the passenger seat of Sean’s Honda Civic. Night has fallen as he sweeps me away from jazz music, a small patch of sandy beach, and grassy hills, where a bonfire is starting.
“I wasn’t expecting your call so early,” Sean says, eyes on the road ahead. His navy-blue bomber jacket creases slightly as he shifts, the cuffs snug against his wrists. Around us, the city wakes with lights. “It’s only nine thirty. What happened to the college bonfire thing?”
I sneak a peek at his profile. “I decided it’d be more fun to sit in your car instead.”
“Oh. The pressure is on.”
It’s the first time I’ve been alone with him in his car, and I savor every second.
I observe the way he checks his mirrors and flips the turn signal.
He puts both hands on the steering wheel, of course, and brakes well ahead of time.
Even the fake leather seats are endearing in their own way.
We’re so close, cut off from the rest of the moving world outside.
He stops at a red light and turns to me. “Want to do something together?”
I rack my brain for second date ideas:
1. Go somewhere for food. No, I’m too jittery.
2. See a movie. But we won’t be able to talk. Plus, he has questionable taste—he thinks The Avengers is a classic.
3. Wander the bookstore? Visit a gallery? Let’s not pretend to be someone else. No clue how late those places stay open anyway.
I take the bold way out. “My parents aren’t home. Want to come to my place?”
Sean doesn’t respond right away. Passing headlights illuminate his face, emphasizing his presence beside me, and I envision going back to my apartment, alone on a Saturday night.
The floor-to-ceiling windows are gorgeous when the sun filters through them, but in darkness, they turn to huge black holes.
“I’m not propositioning you. It’s nice to have someone in the apartment with me, that’s all.”
The traffic light turns green. “Sure.”
Two dates in one day. I’m too lucky. Time to donate to charity to keep my good karma flowing.
* * *
“Hi, Greg, how’s it going?” I greet our doorman as we enter. He not-so-discreetly checks out Sean before pushing the elevator button for us. We ride up, the elevator doors slide open to a hardwood double door, and I turn my key.
Sean halts and sucks in his breath.
Our great room gleams from the coffered ceiling to the marble floor.
A see-through fireplace sits on one side as a divider.
Behind it, a crystal pendant hangs over the dining area; its pieces set off a shadow of constellation along the wall.
Sean takes all this in, then casts his glance at the stainless steel kitchen appliance. “Your apartment is stunning. And huge.”