Chapter 18
Jacob slumps in the chair next to me and starts laying out his pencils and notebooks.
“Is Neil coming?” I ask, bypassing a greeting. We’re well past that point, the entanglement of our days growing tighter and tighter as our second semester starts. We’re both in the mechanical and aerospace engineering programs, so half of our classes are together.
“No, he’s got a date or something,” he sighs.
It sounds like he’s jealous, almost. Neil and Cory have been making eyes at each other, both guys blushing furiously every time their eyes meet.
I wonder if Neil finally got the courage to ask him out.
Is Jacob jealous of Neil or Cory? Or that anyone has time to date between studying and working?
“Who would want to go on a date over going to community build night?” I lament jokingly.
Apparently, many people this evening. Samantha, Jonah, and Patrick aren’t here either.
The room is pretty empty, which is unusual, but they moved the date of this event last minute.
The Twin Cities Robotics Society hosts community events a couple times a month where people can work together, use equipment they might not otherwise have access to, and build camaraderie.
Even as chaotic as everything is at home, I always find time to come, even if I have to bring the baby—who is now well into being a toddler and currently fast asleep in the stroller next to me.
Jacob has a wry tilt to his lips as his single dimple appears.
“Not me.” His knee rests against mine. Without Neil here, the chair across from me is open, meaning Jacob didn’t have to sit next to me but here he is.
I try not to do a happy dance, but my shoulders do a little shimmy of their own accord.
“What are you working on tonight?” I ask as he settles into his workspace.
“I want to build a new hobbyweight bot. Figured I’d start sketching out designs,” he says, staring at his open notebook like if he searches the blank page long enough, a hidden treasure will appear.
“How’s that working out for you?” I ask.
He groans before putting his forehead on the table. “I’ve run out of ideas,” he says, muffled.
I run a soothing hand over his back. It’s not like him to get frustrated, but he’s been antsy lately.
He lost the fall championship (so did I, unfortunately).
He’s bored in class. Most of the classes have been easy for both of us.
I’m content to breeze through with everything going on, but I can tell it frustrates him.
I’ve kept steady grades, and so has he, but I overheard our advisor telling him that his work “could be better if only he applied himself.” I find that astounding because he got straight A’s last semester.
“Do you ever feel like people only care about you when you’re doing well?” he asks, picking his head up. His hair is slightly mussed, and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to reach out and smooth it.
I like to win, but mostly I like to do a good job. Winning is a byproduct of that, but we all have to lose sometime. People only liking me when I’m doing well physically is another story, but I’d rather not spiral about that in front of Jacob, so I quash it down to cry about later.
I shrug. “It’s nice to know when people are happy with my work, but I work until I’m happy with it.
As long as I’m doing things in a way that feels good to me, that’s all I care about.
I have other things to worry about.” Like bills, getting the baby to daycare on time, and keeping my grades up to keep as many scholarships as possible—not to mention how my backpack keeps pushing my shoulder out of place.
He looks at me like I’m an alien as I speak, like the thought never occurred to him.
“Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy winning. I want to win; I want to get good grades; I want people to respect me.
I work hard, but ….” I shrug again. “I don’t know.
I only care about how it makes me feel at the end of the day.
If I did my best, and I did it my way, that’s winning. ”
I can practically see the gears turning in his head under the slight squint of his eyes, trying to make sense of what I said.
For an overachiever like Jacob, the thought of anything less than perfection is foreign.
I’ve only watched him get more obsessed over the past year.
Even though his grades are good, he’s always studying.
His bots are solid, but he’s always tweaking and testing them.
He looks lost, like he’s trying to read a map in a different language.
I hate it. “Jacob,” I say, “the people that matter don’t care about your ability to do or not do something.
People don’t stop liking you because you aren’t the best at something.
” People still love you, I want to say, but nothing that close to the truth can pass my lips.
“I lost that match horrifically last week,” I add.
It was embarrassingly bad. My battery shorted out before I even made it out of the box.
I didn’t even manage to hit the tap-out button before the other guy ripped my front wedge off, thanks to a brain-fog processing delay.
“You’re still sitting here with me, so I assume you still like me.
” I press my knee against his more firmly and smile.
“Of course I like you,” he says urgently. “I—it doesn’t matter to me if you win or lose,” he adds. “I’ve been—” He pauses. “—distracted.” He goes back to staring at his notebook. “I need to focus more. Stop messing around and dial in.”
He doesn’t believe a word I said, but I don’t want to spend all night arguing with him. Not when we have less and less time together. “Yeah,” I say, not quite agreeing. Maybe he needs to have more fun instead.
“What are you working on?” he asks, leaning over to see the guts of my robot, his firm arm pressing into my soft one. He’s warm and solid, and I forget everything but him for a second.
I explain the fixes and modifications I’m making after last week.
He helps me figure out a better battery mount.
I help him figure out a new wedge design for the front of his next robot and decide what to name it: Kilojoule.
Our brains work in sync in a way that’s hard to find with anyone else.
Even when we fall into silence, as we often do while focusing, it’s comfortable.
He passes me a marker from his pile without me having to ask.
It’s easy. It’s the easiest, calmest part of my week.
He walks me to my car when it’s time to go, opening the driver’s side door for me after I transfer my sleeping sibling to the car seat in the back.
His expression is tender as he gazes down at me, melting whatever ice was encrusting my heart this week. I wish I had the nerve to stand back up and kiss him. He looks like he wants to say something. The micro-movements of his jaw as he thinks are amplified by the shadows of the parking lot lights.
“Drive safe,” he says after a moment.
I nod, hopes I can’t even articulate dashed by the simple, well-meaning words. “You, too.” He closes my door and walks away into the night.