Confusion

  (a love story)

  Catherine Curtis

  Copyright © CC Publishing, 2016

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  Confusion (a love story) is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to events, locations, or persons, living or dead is completely coincidental.

  * This book contains swearing and strong sexual content and is suited for mature readers only. *

  To my very own God of Confusion

  Thank you.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  2 new fellows today. Can you be here by 7?

  I wake to the sound of my text alert and reluctantly roll over to look at the time. 5AM. I know who it is before I even pick up the phone. Dr. Elizabeth Sandling hired me as a temporary research assistant two years ago and what began as a stint doing data entry has grown and evolved into a position as her lab manager. She is one of the world’s brightest minds in nanotechnology and runs an interdisciplinary team of physicists, mathematicians, chemists, molecular biologists, and engineers. I’m pretty sure she keeps me around for my obsessive organizational skills, my ability to deal with the constant flow of visiting fellows, and the fact that I am rarely late.

  I know that if I want to keep that reputation then I will somehow need to gather the willpower to peal myself out from under the warm bliss of my down comforter and stumble into the shower. This is a difficult task most mornings as I am a true night owl at heart, but today is particularly rough. I’m still reeling from the memory of last night’s dinner with my fiancé and am baffled about what happened. I pull the comforter a little further up my shoulders and stare at the knots in the wood ceiling as if they will give me the answers.

  It started as a normal dinner out with friends. Christopher was talking about how things were going with his company when someone asked about my plans for after graduation. I talked about my applications for graduate school in physics, how competitive it is, and how I would likely be at the mercy of whatever program would take me. The fact that his friends were watching Christopher as I was talking did not escape me so on the drive home from the restaurant I asked about it.

  “You seemed kinda tense when we were talking about graduate school. Are you unhappy about something?”

  It seemed like a fairly straight forward question. I’m not exactly sure what I expected him to say next. Maybe he wanted me to talk to him more about where I was applying? Maybe he was worried that I am not going to get in? Whatever I was expecting, the long pause in the conversation felt like a warning.

  “Isabella, I know you are doing amazing work but have you thought about the stress and hours you are going to have to deal with in graduate school? Already you spend far more hours in that lab than you do with your actual coursework. I just don’t want you to feel overwhelmed.”

  Sometimes when I am startled or concerned I get very quiet and just wait to see what happens next. Last night was one of those times. I sat there very still, hoping that the next words out of his mouth would make sense. Unfortunately, they didn’t.

  “I’m sure you know it’s not good for you. And we are getting married. We have our life to build together. I’ve always assumed that my wife would be at home.”

  The knots on the ceiling don’t understand what happened any more than I do so I drag myself out of bed and head for the comfort of a hot shower. After losing track of passing minutes and my own thoughts a few times I finally remind myself to wash my hair and climb out. My head feels a little cloudy and if I didn’t know better I would think I am getting sick. Hopefully things will clear because I have a full day ahead of me.

  It only takes a second to towel off and shimmy into my grey silk blouse and a pair of black slacks. While I’d be happier in a tank top and pair of jeans, I’ve found that the new fellows take me more seriously if I look more like one of them than the college senior that I am. The fellows are basically just visiting researchers and they come to work with Dr. Sandling or use our equipment for everything from a month to five years at a time. The summer is especially busy because it is an easy time for academics to sneak away from their home facility. Some are very nice; some are incredibly self-important.

  I would usually take the time to dry my long blond hair but I know that when Dr. Sandling says 7 she will be waiting impatiently by 6:30 so I throw on some lip gloss and pull my hair back into a pony tail and hope that today’s visitors are more friendly geek than pompous academic.

  Coffee and satchel in hand, I reach the front door just as Christopher comes in from his run. I’m not surprised to see him. He always runs after we argue. It’s a coping mechanism I envy. He runs, I bake gooey chocolate chip cookies and eat them in the bath. Our coping techniques betray us. He: practical, strong, and efficient. Everyone knows that exercise is good for stress, he runs every day anyway, so why bother with other outlets. I: well, I’ll just acknowledge that the cookies and bath approach may not be as beneficial for my ass.

  Christopher looks amazing as always. His 6’1’’ frame is long and lean and his running shirt is just tight enough to show hints of the definition across his chest and stomach. I love him like this: a little out of breath, totally relaxed, and fully present. Without thinking, I reach out to place my hand on his chest. He places his hand on mine and looks down at me as a lock of his blond hair falls forward and adds to his air of casual ease. He gives me a curious look and I can tell that he is wondering why I am up so early. I lift my phone and he knows immediately what’s up. He takes his hand off mine and runs his fingers through his hair and I can easily see in his eyes the hurt and anger. The air between us is suddenly cold and I remove my hand as reflex. I lower my eyes to the floor and move quickly past him and out the door.

  As I drive in I am struck that in a few wordless moments we can so completely replay the events of last night. He is truly upset about my work and is pulling away because of it. The part that confuses me is that I have no idea where that is coming from. I love what I do and have always been clear about my plans for graduate school. He has never talked about wanting me to leave it behind. Has he always felt this way or has something happened to change him mind? And does he really think I could be happy with that? I can’t shake the feeling that the man who I am nine months from marrying may truly have no idea who I am.

  The shock of that thought clings to me as I climb out of my car and walk toward the building. I remind myself to breathe and stay focused on the tasks of today. It’s partially because I’m bewildered by the sudden change in my fiancé, but partially because I don’t want to be distracted in front of Dr. Sandling.

  As the meeting begins I find myself taking quick notes on the agenda for the day and any tasks th
at need to be accomplished before tonight’s reception. Dr. Sandling is a petite woman with copper red hair that she keeps cut in a tapered bob. She is nearly always dressed in a tailored, brightly colored suit that accentuates her small stature but gives a hint of the strong personality inside. She has a striking, classic beauty that is highlighted by her bright green eyes. The combination of her looks and thoughtful quietness lead many to underestimate her.

  I, however, know that she wakes each morning at 4 to go for a 10 mile run, is in the office at 6, works incredibly hard, can read people amazingly well, and has little patience for pretense. She is not a woman I would ever want to cross and I am constantly honored to be in her inner circle. Her brilliance is widely known (she did receive a MacArthur Genius grant after all) and she has built one of the world’s most respected centers for nanotech from her little office at Dartmouth College.

  As she moves on to the new fellows, I send myself a text with their flight information. It is my job to pick them up from the airport and orient them to their workspace and lab procedures. A few of my friends have suggested that I should be offended that she sends me as a chauffeur to the airport but I actually like it. It gives me a chance to meet all the new people and to get to know them before they are performing under Dr. Sandling’s attention. People are often a little more real with me because they think I am just an insignificant assistant and I take advantage of their assumptions to find out what we are getting in terms of personalities.

  I imagine people would be a little nicer if they knew how much weight my first impression carries with Dr. Sandling. Granted, usually my comments are along the lines of, “Seems nice. Seems smart. Seems nervous.”, but every once in a while, I tell her that someone is going to be a problem. The problems range from being an outright jerk to not seeming very honest but so far my impressions have always been right. Today there are two new people who will be put to the test: Nathan Graham and James Thorley.

  Dr. Sandling explains that one has finished his Ph.D. in experimental physics and is spending the summer with us before heading out to a position with the Center for Nanotechnologies in Seattle. The other is a master’s level molecular biologist who she describes as well published, very smart, and hard working. She goes on to describe them so that I can find them in the airport. One is, “a bit older with grey hair and a beard.” The other she describes as, “young, with black hair, and...”

  Her pause catches my attention and I look up to find that her gaze has narrowed toward me. Her mind moves so quickly that she is prone to distractibility and fits of apparent dissociation, but I am unnerved to find that she is not distracted now. She is thinking very seriously about me in this moment and I can’t really figure out why.

  “... an impressive specimen of man.”

  An impressive specimen of man? What an odd comment. How is that supposed to help me find him at the airport?

  But before I can think too much about what she said, her next question hits me in the stomach. “How’s Christopher, Isabella?”

  So that is why she is staring at me. I thought I was fairly present but she must sense that there is something off. I look up again and try to formulate an answer that is true but not overly dramatic. Dr. Sandling is a mentor and I trust her but I prefer that she see me as a strong professional rather than some silly girl with boy troubles. The last thing I need right now is another person I trust telling me that I should take care of myself by focusing on my personal life rather than my work.

  “Tremendously thoughtful.” I reply.

  For a moment I am pleased with the accuracy of my response. It’s true that Christopher has given a lot of thought as to what is good for me. After all, he talks about being worried about my stress and health and simply wanting me to be happy. The problem again is that I actually like my work. It has never crossed my mind that liking my work is a problem. I have never done anything to indicate that I am overwhelmed. I have never imagined myself as a woman who would give up her career because she is getting married. What did I do to make him think that is who I am?

  My runaway thoughts are stopped when I see the look on Dr. Sandling’s face. She is not impressed by my answer.

  I glance down at my phone and realize that it is 8:00. If I want to get to the airport in time to park and stand outside the gate I need to leave quickly. Thankful for the excuse, I tell Dr. Sandling that I will be back shortly.

  I find myself, for the second time in one day, lowering my eyes to the ground and sneaking out the door. It’s only 8AM. This is going to be a long day.

  Chapter 2

  Flight 1090 from Boston 8:36 AM/ Flight (#?) 11:20am. Younger, black hair, “impressive?”/ Older, grey hair, beard.

  I like to pick up the new fellows as they exit the gate. I always print a sign with their name on it and our lab logo at the bottom and stand near the center of the terminal so that they are sure to see me. Some people give me a hard time for the fancy sign but I can’t help it. I remember watching the men holding signs in airports when I traveled as a child and always thinking that the people they are waiting for must be very important. I’ve always wanted to have someone waiting for me to sweep me off to some important meeting or luxurious hotel, so I do it now for our visiting fellows on the off chance that it makes them feels as important and welcome as I hope.

  I’m standing now with a sign that says James Thorley in bold black letters. I scan the exiting crowd for a young, black haired guy and my mind is busy thinking through what it must mean to Dr. Sandling to be an impressive specimen of man. In a few moments, someone quietly joins my side and lingers long enough for me to look up. Standing beside me is Anderson Cooper. No, not Anderson Cooper, maybe his brother or long lost cousin. Plus a beard. My co-worker Kara is going to be extremely jealous when she hears about this. She has a serious crush on Anderson Cooper.

  “Hey,” he says, “I think you are looking for me.” And he breaks into a fabulous smile that not only shows happiness but actually imparts joy on anyone who sees it. It appears I was looking for the wrong fellow.

  I can’t help it; I break into my own goofy oversized grin and introduce myself.

  He replies with a warm, “Nice to meet you Ms. Scott.” He is wearing the dark jeans and black t-shirt that are my free time uniform but his version just screams sexy and fun. And his eyes: startling ice blue. I consider texting Kara so she can be the one to give him the tour when we get back. I’m pretty sure she would love me forever.

  “I’ve never been picked up at the airport with a special sign,” he continues, “I suddenly feel very important.”

  “Let’s grab your bags,” I laugh, “and I’ll get you settled in at Dr. Sandling's.”

  As we navigate through baggage claim and head out to the car he catches me up on what brings him to our lab. We talk about his research and what he hopes to accomplish for the summer. I get a general sketch of his life story. It turns out that this is his second career. For the first he was a corporate defense attorney. He soon grew tired of making millions defending others who misused millions so he decided to do something different. You can’t get much different than molecular biology.

  He must have been an amazing attorney at trial. I imagine him in a three-piece suit, pacing back and forth, looking distinguished and using that brilliant smile as a weapon. The jury would have liked him so easily that they surely would have acquitted whatever dirt bag he was representing.

  The grey Dr. Sandling mentioned is actually early silvering and he is a very fit 43. I learn along the drive that he is an ultra-marathoner. He is kind enough to laugh when I decline his invitation to join him for morning runs.

  “Sorry, I don’t run unless I’m chasing something or something is chasing me.”

  By the time I show him to his desk and give him his computer passwords I feel like we have known each other for years. I stop by Dr. Sandling's office to let her know he is settled and available to meet and to give her my appraisal.

  “He’s super smart, c
razy funny, and the lab is going to love him. Oh- and that’s silver not grey.” She laughs and shakes her head as I head out for my second pickup.

  I arrive at the airport at around 11:10 and go inside to wait for the flight. Somehow Dr. Sandling forgot to give me the fight number but there aren’t very many flights into Lebanon NH so I figure that the time of 11:20 will tell me enough. The arrivals board shows a flight from Boston that landed at 11:00 and I am suddenly worried that I am too late. I move to my place in the terminal and hold up my Dr. Nathan Graham sign for all to see. I’m passed by several dark haired men and a few even give me a hopeful smile, but no one stops in earnest. I am about to give up and call Dr. Sandling to see if he caught a cab when he rounds the corner.

  My first thought is that that poor guy is lost. He has to be a few inches over 6 feet and even fully clothed you can see that he has strong shoulders and a muscular frame. He’s wearing what is clearly an expensive and well-tailored suit and he is carrying a brief case that places him at the head of a boardroom in Manhattan not a tiny airport in New Hampshire. His black hair is stylishly tousled and a few loose strands fall across his forehead.

  He moves with confident grace and I revise my story to place him someplace more exotic. Venice maybe, or Rome. An eccentric Italian Billionaire that summers at Lake Mascoma, I laugh to myself. As he moves closer his eyes come into play. They are a deep blue and convey fierceness despite the slight amusement I catch at the corners. I revise my story again. Clearly he is a Roman god who was banished for some slight and forced to live amongst the mortals of New Hampshire.

  I’m so amused by my ridiculous theories that I fail to notice that his pace has slowed and he is looking intently at me. When he stops in front of me I flush from embarrassment at my own thoughts and my new found proximity to the god in front of me. He gives me an amused wry smile and simply says, “Yes?”