My colleagues are mostly a group of pompous windbags. None of them have research experience I consider noteworthy. Which I guess is to be expected at a small liberal arts college. The problem is I really need guidance to get started applying for funding. I don’t even know which direction to begin—should I be looking to stay at this school and fund research here? Should I be exploring venture capitalists to invest in my research to later sell to industry? I went straight from my PhD program to the space program when they recruited me. Everything I did there was paid for by the agency.
I know that the solution to my problem lies in reaching out to others, but the thought of asking for help just pisses me off. I hate that I have to do this, that all my plans were thwarted. My stomach growls as I leave my second lecture, and I realize I forgot to pack my food today. “Damn,” I mutter, changing course and walking to the cafeteria.
I fill my tray with a passable salad and bland chicken. I’m about to carry it all back to my office to eat alone when someone yells, “Oy! Crawford!”
I turn to see Andy Moorley waving at me. I raise my eyebrows, and he shouts, “Come sit, mate. I want to pick your brain.” Morley is a transplant from the UK, head of the computer science department. He once had a hot job with a famous tech company, but my mother seemed to indicate he, too, has fallen from grace.
I sit across the table from him and nod. “Moorley.”
“The prodigal son returns,” he says, talking with his mouth full. I grunt in reply. I regret sitting here. “But really, I wanted to talk to you about a computational biology course this spring.”
“That’s unexpected.” I set down my fork. “Do we do computational biology here?” My masters in that specialty was part of what helped me stand out to the space agency. I suppose it was bound to become more common, but it was cutting edge when I was in my first graduate program.
He shakes his head. “Not yet we don’t. But I also know your mum has been bringing in some big name industries lately. With deep pockets.” Moorley goes on to tell me about his vision of partnering with big pharma or maybe the military to support his computer science research here and increase funding at the college. I find him to be crass, but I am actually glad I am having this conversation with him.
Until I see Abigail Baker with another man.
They enter the cafeteria together and sit, leaning close together over some documents. I recognize Mark as a high-up employee in the provost office. This meeting is most likely something to do with Abigail’s professional work, but I feel my pulse racing and my stomach starts to churn at the sight of them together. This is a working lunch, that’s all, I tell myself. But I can’t look away. She is intently focused on her work, studying the documents and gesturing as she talks.
The longer I stare, the more certain I become that Mark is thinking more about Abigail’s biologically perfect features than her words. I grimace as I see him notice her breasts in the conservative blouse she’s chosen for work today.
Moorely punches me in the shoulder lightly, and I realize he must have been continuing his conversation about computational biology. “I apologize,” I mutter. “Please forgive me.”
He turns to look over his shoulder, following my gaze. “Ah,” he says. “Mate, do you fancy the bird in the blue blouse?”
“She’s my neighbor,” I offer, hoping we can return to our discussion. Mark lets his hand linger on Abigail’s as they shuffle the documents on their table and I feel an unfamiliar sensation in my chest. What is this feeling? Abigail smiles at Mark, and I decide that she is breathtakingly beautiful, her brown hair the perfect complement to her dark eyes and peach-toned skin. She is also smiling at another man, and I realize the burning sensation in my lungs must be jealousy.
Moorely laughs. “You better make a move with your neighbor soon, then, or someone else is going to.”
My eyes snap to Moorely’s. “You see it, too? He is attracted to Abigail?”
He laughs at me, causing me to growl in frustration. “Crawford,” he says. “Every bloke in this room is attracted to her.”
I stand up, abruptly, unsure what to do, but feeling drawn over to Abigail. I walk across the room to where she is sitting and, standing next to their table, I clear my throat.
Mark looks up at me with disdain, but I ignore him. I can see only Abigail, whose face breaks into a smile. She’s pleased to see me. The smile reaches her eyes, and I feel warmth spread through me.
“Hunter,” she says, still smiling. “I’m glad to see you. I wanted to apologize again about the broom…”
“Oh,” I say, shaking my head. “Please don’t worry about that.” And then I run out of ideas for what to say. It seems like I should not tell her not to get involved with Mark. It seems like a poor idea for me to bring up seeing her in her underwear. Instead I just stand there, studying her face. Trying to learn the lines of her, to see how each facial element shifts with her emotions.
“Maybe we could try again sometime,” she says, her voice once again tilting up, questioning.
I start to sweat, and I look over at Moorely, who gives me a thumbs up, staring intently.
“Yes,” I say. And then, again, I don’t know what to say. So I rap my knuckles on the table.
I note the time and excuse myself, needing to get away and think about what has happened. This is all very uncomfortable and unfamiliar.
I meet with several students panicking about their midterm exam that I haven’t even written yet, let alone scheduled, and close my door in relief at the end of the day. I’m off my diet, I’ve had to interact with new people, I’ve had confusing feelings about Abigail, and I’m exhausted from all of it.
My office phone rings, and before I finish saying hello, my mother takes off at full clip.
“Hunter, I’m glad I finally got through. Your phone goes right to voicemail. I hope that means you were with students. I’m glad you give your students your full attention, sweetheart.”
“Ma,” I interject. “Was there something you needed?”
“Yes! Of course!” She sighs. “Your father is grilling tonight. He harvested the whole garden, he told me to say, and everyone is coming to dinner. It’s not optional. I’ll see you at 6.”
Mom hangs up before I can protest. I look up to see it’s almost 5. No workout for me today, either, apparently.
I walk directly to my parents’ house from work, thinking about my day. Nothing seems to make any sense since I left the space station. I find I crave the routine of each day up there, the predictable schedule and limited social interactions. Here, everything is a challenge. And not the exciting challenge of my research.
I’m deep in thought when I open the back door and am taken aback to see Abigail sitting on a stool at the counter, chatting with my mother.
“Abigail,” I say, frowning. “Why are you here?”
She laughs uncomfortably. “I’m having dinner with my boss…why are you here?”
My family stares at us in silence. I spit out, “this is my family’s house. Didn’t you know Rose Mitchell is my mother?”
My parents laugh and apologize for not mapping it all out for Abigail, and my father immediately returns to his explanation of his harvest. “Diana’s been helping me with fertilizer,” he says, holding up a zucchini the size of my forearm.
I had thought I’d just be among my family, who doesn’t ask me to say much and doesn’t drain my energy as much as outsiders. With my family, I don’t get unexpected reactions to my observations or comments. I certainly don’t feel jealousy like I did earlier today when Abigail was merely sitting with a colleague.
My family tells me directly if I’ve damaged their feelings or said something unkind. Now, with Abigail present, I’ll have to think about my words and study everyone’s facial expressions to get a read on everyone’s mood.
I sigh and step closer to the stool beside her and catch a whiff of her scent. Floating over the basil my father just picked is the very specific essence of Abigail. She smells like the September afternoon. Like fabric softener and the bell peppers she munches.
I decide I don’t mind so much if I have to work harder to make conversation with Abigail. I find her…intriguing. This is new.
“Ma kept her name when she married my father,” I say. Abigail turns to look at me. “Dad is Daniel Crawford.” I point at him and he smiles.
She grins. “This town is so quirky. Now I know to ask who all is related.”
Archer and Diana enter through the back door holding a bucket of corn, arguing over something while they sit down to shuck it.
My mother dances across the kitchen to the music on the stereo, and swoops over when she sees them. “Oh good,” she shouts. “Everyone is here for the harvest. Diana, did you see the tomato plants? Your father said you helped him keep away all the weevils this year.”
Diana waves a beer at me, and I accept it while Archer looks at me suspiciously. I surmise that he’s unhappy with me for some reason.
Diana snatches the shucked corn from him and drops it in the giant blue pot beside her. “Arch, did you know Abigail smacked Hunter in the nuts with a broom stick the other day?”
“That is not remotely what happened, Diana.” I glare at her, trying to work out whether she’s joking. I don’t want her to make Abigail feel bad. “The broom bumped my stomach. No harm done.”
Diana snorts. “Unlike when you fell and pulled down half the ceiling.” She ignores my point and puts a hand over my mouth. “Ma, Dad, did you know your son has no furniture?”