Imperfect Chemistry, Page 26

“Where’s Doug?” I ask accusingly when we get in earshot. Not all of my brothers are here. Just Sam and Jon.

  Sam smiles at me from the driver’s seat of the truck, where the window is down. “Nice to see you, too, sis.”

  “Doug’s at home. We, uh, borrowed the plow,” Jon says. He’s standing on the porch, ostensibly because he was knocking on my door when we approached.

  There’s no changing them. Borrowed means stolen in their skewed vocabulary.

  There’s a lot of strange staring and exchanging of looks between Sam, Jon, and Jensen and then nearly simultaneously, all their gazes swing my way.

  I sigh. “This is Jensen.”

  “Jensen, huh?” Sam says, throwing me a cheeky grin.

  I shake my head at him in warning because I know exactly what he’s thinking.

  Jon comes down the steps and shakes Jensen’s hand and I can tell he does it with excessive force. Jon keeps his dark hair cut high and tight. He’s nearing forty, but he stays in good shape. He’s wearing a sweater that reads, “Not as lean, not as mean, but still a Marine.”

  “Where were you guys?” Jon crosses his arms over his chest and gives me a stern look and then gives the same look to Jensen and then back to me.

  “We went to the store for food,” I say. His tough guy attitude doesn’t fool me, I know him too well.

  Jensen dutifully holds up our bag of goods as evidence.

  “Well, we’re here to get you and take you home,” Sam says.

  “It was nice to meet you Jensen,” Jon says dismissively.

  Jensen turns away. He smiles at my brothers, but when he turns away from us, his shoulders slump slightly.

  “Wait,” I say. I shouldn’t do this. For all I know, Jensen is ecstatic to finally be away from me and will probably suffer numerous untold horrors at the hands of my family, but… “I have to get my stuff. And I’m not coming with you unless Jensen’s coming too.”

  “It’s okay,” Jensen says quickly, glancing from me to Jon and then back again. “You have your family stuff to do and I don’t want to intrude.”

  “It’s not okay,” I tell him. “The only problem will be if you don’t come with us.”

  Jon puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “We don’t have much room in the truck. It’s only a bench seat cab.”

  I stick out my chin. “Give me your phone,” I say to Jon.

  “Really?”

  I raise my eyebrows and he complies with a sigh.

  I call the house and when mom answers I tell her about Jensen being all alone with no power and how I’ve invited him over and he’s refused. Then I hand the phone over to Jensen.

  Five minutes later, we’re all in the plow. He wasn’t kidding, there’s just one bench seat and I’m stuffed in between Sam and Jon. Poor Jensen is between Jon and the window and I wonder if he regrets being forced into this situation. I can’t apologize or say anything to check on him, though, because Sam is making me shift for him at times since the stick is between my legs and we’re all crammed into the small space.

  “So. Jensen,” Sam says. He guns it while getting on the freeway, which has been mostly plowed already so he raises the scooper up front with the touch of a button on the dash. “What are you in school for?”

  “Law.”

  “A lawyer, huh?” Jon asks. “That’s what you want to do with your life?”

  “I’m studying civil rights,” Jensen says.

  “Oh.” There’s a moment of silence, punctuated by the rumble of the large truck.

  “What are your intentions with Lucy?” Sam asks, finally.

  “Sam!” I try to jab him in the side with my elbow, but he anticipates the move and blocks me with his arm.

  “You don’t have to answer that, Jensen,” I say.

  “I don’t mind,” he says. I can’t see him around Jon’s big head, but he sounds calm and fairly comfortable with the situation. As comfortable as one could, I suppose. “I don’t really have any intentions. Lucy is a smart, funny, kind person whom I enjoy spending time with. Anything else is up to her.”

  I smile at his response.

  It doesn’t stop. The entire drive—which takes nearly an hour—Sam and Jon relentlessly grill Jensen on various items of interest and torture. Past girlfriends, does he have a job, what’s his family like, why he’s letting his parents pay for his education and not being a real man and taking care of it himself, and on and on it goes. Jensen does a great job holding his own. When they get too personal or out of line, he tells them it’s none of their damn business. Which puts them off, for a minute. When we finally pull into the circular driveway, I can’t get out fast enough.

  Someone’s shoveled the drive, and it’s still a little slippery, but I make it into the house unscathed, the boys lagging a bit behind me.

  I brace myself before opening the door, ready for the chaos that awaits and I’m not disappointed. Immediately, a stream of at least six children somewhere between the ages of five and ten flash past me in the entry way, running from the dining room to the living room screaming and trailing a flood of apple juice, fruit snacks (and is that toilet paper?) behind them.

  “Wow,” Jensen says from behind me. “You weren’t kidding.”

  “You asked for it,” I respond before Sam and Jon come in behind us.

  Jon slams the door and Sam yells, “Honey, we’re home!”

  No one responds to our entrance. Jon and Sam skirt around us and head into the living room where I can hear football and my Dad yelling at the TV combined with other male voices, probably my Uncle Roger and my other brothers.

  I don’t wish to disturb the testosterone levels in there, so I head in the opposite direction. Jensen follows behind me as we head through the dining room and into the kitchen to meet my mom and find out where she wants us before I show him to his room.

  The kitchen is yellow and warm and it smells delicious. The room is packed with people sitting in the breakfast nook, at the bar and standing around the island. There’s food everywhere: nuts, crackers, cheese spreads, dips, little quiches, and dinner hasn’t even started yet. My mom is a whirling dervish of activity, alternately cleaning up and throwing things in one oven or the other while drinking a glass of wine.

  When she sees us she stops what she’s doing and comes over to give me a big hug.

  “This must be Jensen,” she says, all smiles and then she hugs him too.

  His eyes are a bit alarmed as they meet mine over her shoulder and I just shrug.

  “I’m so glad we convinced you to come!” she says as she pulls back, still holding on to his shoulders.

  “How could I refuse,” he says. I’m sure he means it. My mother is a force of nature when she wants something, and she always wants to take care of people.

  I can’t hear what else she says to him because suddenly I’m surrounded by family and friends all hugging and asking about school, something I definitely don’t want to talk about, so I evade the questions and turn the subject around to what they have going on. That always works. Once the family talk filters away from me, I move to ask Mom where she wants Jensen to sleep tonight, but she’s introducing him to everyone and I have to wait until she’s done.

  When things calm down, she tells me to put him in the den and I lead him up the stairs.

  I point out the bathroom and then his room down the hall.

  “I get my own room?” he asks, tossing his backpack onto the bed. The question is probably on his mind because of the mob of people downstairs. My parents couldn’t possibly be accommodating everyone.

  “Yes. My brothers all live nearby, with the exception of Ken. Most of the people here are staying with them. Only Grandma’s staying here tonight, besides us, and she has the guest room.”

  “Where are you sleeping?”

  I flush, the mention of sleeping reminds me of last night, and I’m suddenly inundated with images of waking up in his arms and what happened directly after.

  “In my old room.”


  His eyebrows lift. “Can I see it?”

  “Okay.”

  He follows me down the hall to my room. The house is fairly big, five bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms.

  My room is the last one on the left. I feel a little anxious bringing him in here, but I’m not sure why. I flick on the light and the lamp in the corner turns on and illuminates my old bedroom. Most of the stuff is as it was when I left, but now there’s an elliptical in the corner next to my telescope and some of my mom’s sewing stuff and books litter the dresser.

  He walks in and I follow him, taking my bag off and putting it on the bed. There’s a poster of Albert Einstein with his tongue sticking out on one of the walls and he stops to look at it.

  “A little more whimsical than I imagined you would like,” he says.

  I shrug, feeling awkward.

  I watch him as he rambles around a little bit more. He points at my bed and says, “That’s an interesting quilt.”

  It’s a colorful mess of different shapes and sizes of squares.

  “That’s my science quilt,” I say. “My mom made it based on this chart.” I lead him over by the window where the chart is hanging.

  “It’s part of a computation called ‘Capturing Phase Dynamics of Circadian Clocks.’ Mom thought it would make a perfect blanket since circadian rhythm is part of the sleep cycle.”

  He leans next to me to get a good look at the chart. We’re only about a foot apart when he turns and faces me.

  “Interesting.”

  There’s a pause where we just stare at each other. The light is dim with just the corner lamp on, and his eyes are dark and heavy.

  “I’m glad you mentioned the bed,” I say, finally.

  “Are you?” he asks with a small smile. His eyes drop to my mouth.

  I take a step away and yank the blankets and pillows off my bed, chucking them on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “Checking for things left behind from my brothers.”

  “Things?”

  “They like to play practical jokes. You should really check your room before you go to sleep because you never—here it is!” My thoughts halt as I pull out a rubber snake coiled under my pillow and throw it at Jensen.

  He seems a bit surprised, but he catches it in one hand. “That’s…very interesting,” he says, holding the offensive item up for inspection.

  I yank the sheet down and reach my hand in, pulling out a water balloon.

  “A balloon?”

  “Water balloon.” I shake it so he can hear the water sloshing inside. “With the hopes that I’ll lie on top of it and it’ll break and appear as if I’ve wet the bed.”

  “Oh, okay.” He nods in understanding.

  “We may be able to use this later,” I say, inspecting the balloon in my hand.

  “For what?”

  “Retribution,” I say. What other answer is there?

  “The snow down my shirt is starting to make sense now.”

  Just then, the door flies open and Sam lunges into the room. “A-HA!” he yells pointing towards me.

  Jensen and I stare at him.

  “Oh,” Sam says. His eyes roam from me, by the bed, to Jensen who is halfway across the room and he leans against the wall in a relaxed pose, as if he didn’t just jump into my room like he was expecting to interrupt something nefarious.

  “I see you found your offerings,” Sam says, nodding to the balloon I’m still holding.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m trying to determine how I can use this to my advantage.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Sam says with an evil grin.

  “What’s that?”

  He stands up straight and rubs his hands together with undisguised glee. “You know how Ken always passes out after dinner?”

  ***