Chapter 7 #2
I began orientation. I spoke about the project in broad terms first. Cellular repair pathways.
Stress response. Tissue models. Repetition.
Patience. Contamination risk. The fact that good science was not dramatic, no matter how much undergraduates wished it to be.
Céline kept her eyes on the packet. She took notes.
Not many, but just enough to appear engaged.
When I described the central hypothesis of her proposal, her pen stopped moving.
“Repeated environmental stress does not merely damage epithelial systems,” I said, walking slowly along the edge of the table.
“Under certain conditions, cells adapt their repair behaviors around survival rather than restoration. They do not return to what they were. They become organized around what harmed them.”
Her gaze lifted. For a second, the room seemed to narrow while she stared at me tensely. Then Julian raised his hand and asked a boring question about graduate school recommendation letters. I answered it, and Céline was back to feigning interest in her notes.
At the end of orientation, I assigned preliminary roles. Wendy to protein expression analysis. Elias to data modelling. Christina to imaging. Julian to sample preparation.
Céline, I left until last. She sat very still.
“Miss Martin,” I said, “you will work directly with me on proposal refinement and experimental design.”
“Professor,” she said carefully, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“No?”
“I’m sure I can start with something more basic.”
“I am sure you can.”
“Then maybe I should.”
“That would waste time for such a brilliant brain.”
Her face stayed composed, but colour touched the high line of her cheekbones. I turned back to the group. “Any questions?”
There were none. None of the students looked happy with their role after I offered Céline the highest one. They left slowly, gathering packets and bags, already beginning to understand that the lab was not going to be fair.
Céline remained seated. When the door closed behind the last student, she stood.
“You did that on purpose.”
“Yes.”
Her hand tightened around the strap of her bag. “They’re going to hate me.”
“Some of them.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“No, not at all.”
“Well, it bothers me.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I said. “Not as much as you want it to.”
Her eyes flashed. “Stop doing that.”
“What?”
“Acting like you know what I feel.”
I moved to the conference table and began collecting the extra packets. “I don’t know what you feel, but I know what you show. I can usually infer based on that.”
She watched me for a moment, breathing carefully through her nose. “You are making this harder for me.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
I looked at her then. “Because easy things have made you lazy.”
The words struck. I saw it immediately. She wasn’t offended, but some part of her believed me.
“Get out of my life,” she said softly. Almost calmly.
A lesser man would have heard hatred. I heard her fear.
“No.”
Her lips parted. “No?”
“No.”
“You really are insane.”
“You said that already.”
“And you’re still proving me right.”
I smiled. “Then perhaps you should be more careful around me.”
She stepped closer to the table. “I have a boyfriend. Thad.”
“Temporarily.”
Her laugh was sharper this time. “I’m not breaking up with him because you dislike him.”
“No. You’ll break up with him because one day you’ll realize he is a locked door painted to look like an exit.”
“And you think you’re the exit?”
“No, Céline.” I set the packets aside. “I am the room itself.”
For the first time since I had met her, she looked at me without arranging her face around the looking.
No grief. No charm. No practiced poise. Just anger, exhaustion, and something raw beneath both.
It was the most honest expression she had given me so far.
I wanted to keep it. Instead, I let her have the silence.
After a moment, she shook her head once, as if waking herself.
“I’m going to dinner with Thad tonight.”
“Of course you are.”
“And after that, I’m going to his apartment.”
I looked at her bracelet. Then at her mouth. She wanted the words to land. They did. Not as she intended, but they landed.
“How domestic,” I said.
“You don’t get to be jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“No?”
“No.” I stepped closer, slowly enough that she could move away. She did not. “Jealousy implies uncertainty. He won’t have the privilege to take you to dinners soon, I’m sure of that.”
Her breath changed slightly.
“Goodnight, Professor.”
“Goodnight, Miss Martin.”
She walked to the door.
Before she opened it, I said, “Selena.”
She stopped despite herself.
“Lock his door tonight.”
She turned back. For a second, something like unease crossed her face. “What?”
I smiled warmly. The way people usually expect me to.
“Blackwater is not as safe as people pretend.”
She stared at me a moment longer, then left. The door clicked shut behind her.
I stood in the empty lab and looked out at the cliffs through the glass.
The ocean hurled itself against the rocks below again and again, tireless in its own destruction.
On the table, Céline had forgotten her pen.
Slim. Black. Expensive. I picked it up and turned it between my fingers. Then I slipped it into my pocket.