10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Christian

“Shit, shit, motherfucking shit ,” I hiss, sucking the blood off the pad of my index finger before I wrap it in one of the Band-Aids I keep at my sewing table. I pick up the pin I dropped. “Keep your pointy end to yourself.”

Luckily, the pin doesn’t stab me this time as I secure the pleat in place.

“Fucking better,” I mutter.

A flash of movement in my periphery has me turning my head. Emil is standing inside his bedroom, hand in the air. He stops waving and holds up two ties.

With a huff of laughter, I pick up my phone.

Me: The blue one. Why so spiffy?

Emil reads my text, shoots me a thumbs up, and then throws aside the red tie. He wraps the blue one around his neck, securing it in place before picking up his phone again.

Specs: We’re starting preliminary questionnaires for the research project. I need to look presentable.

Me: Well, you look like a hot professor I would’ve fucked if I’d gone to college, so I’d say mission accomplished.

Emil looks as if he snorts, but then he shakes his head.

Specs: No need to flatter.

I frown.

Me: It’s not flattery if it’s the truth. You look great, Specs. Knock ’ em dead.

He grimaces.

Specs: Christ. I hope not.

I’m not sure what to make of that response, but Emil gives a wave before turning and disappearing from sight. I get back to work, pinning the pleats I already ironed into place so I can sew them down.

The skirt I’m working on today is red and similar in style to the black one I’m wearing. I like the design—it’s fun and flirty and shows off my legs. The red will be a little more bold, but I’m sure I won’t have a problem finding an excuse to wear it.

I take a break midafternoon, making myself a late lunch as I bop around the kitchen to some eighties music. I suppose I have my mom to thank for that. We may have our differences, but our taste in music isn’t one of them.

The thought is accompanied by a pang. I haven’t spoken to my mom in years, and most of the time, I’m perfectly okay with that. But there are times, like now, where a nostalgic sense of what if? has me thinking of picking up the phone. What if we could get along? What if she could accept me?

What if she didn’t see me as a reminder of all she lost?

It’s fruitless wishing for something I know will never come to pass, but I suppose it doesn’t stop me from yearning for it all the same.

I don’t pick up my phone, instead heading back into my bedroom. My grandmother’s apartment— my apartment—isn’t huge, but the bedroom is a rather decent size in comparison. It’s why my sewing table is set up in here, providing me, serendipitously, a perfect view of Emil’s place.

I retake my seat in front of Bernie and spend the next couple hours finishing the skirt. I go slow, making sure each detail is perfect. The time passes quickly, though, and when I happen to catch movement, once again, at Emil’s, I realize it must be… Yep, five-thirty on the dot.

I grin and grab my phone.

Me: What class do you come from Monday afternoons?

I’ve never asked for specific details about his classes before, but now I don’t hesitate. Emil unravels his tie, setting it on the end of his bed before pulling his phone from his pocket.

Specs: Behavioral Neuroscience.

He continues to undress as I type out a response, and I get a little caught up in watching him. How this man can be so casually confident at times yet bashful at others is fascinating.

Refocusing, I send my message.

Me: What is that, Specs? Talk nerdy to me.

He plops onto the end of his bed, back hitting the mattress and phone held over his face. I have the sudden urge to be closer. Would it be weird if I just…went over there? Probably not, right? We’ve hung out a few times.

As Emil types his response, I slip my feet into shoes, lock up my apartment, and head next door. His lengthy reply comes through as I’m walking up the stairs inside his building.

Specs: It’s basically the science of why we do what we do. How our environment impacts our brains, which impacts our behavior. Humans so often feel as if we’re driven by our emotions and feelings more than logic, but it’s all the same thing. It’s all neural processes. And our brains are more adaptive than we realize. They change based on our individual experiences, and those changes then affect our future experiences, like a circuit. When we understand how and why those changes occur, we can help people break out of their cycle and reroute their neural processes into healthier thoughts and behaviors.

Holy shit.

Me: What’s it called when you’re attracted to intelligence?

Specs: Um… Sapiosexual?

Me: Hold that thought.

I knock on Emil’s door, and he appears a moment later, phone in hand. He blinks at me owlishly before swinging the door wide, apparently having accepted my random drop-ins, which is good news for me.

“I didn’t understand half of what you said,” I admit, stepping inside, “but that was hot as fuck, Specs. I like the way your brain works.”

He huffs a small laugh, nudging his glasses up his nose before closing the door. “I think it could use a bit of rerouting.”

I make an unhappy noise as I toe off my shoes. “No. You’re lovely. Now how do you reroute neural processes?”

Emil follows me into his bedroom, giving me an odd look as I jump onto his mattress. I don’t think it’s a look of displeasure. His forehead scrunches when he’s upset about something, like when he gets stuck on a problem for one of his classes. This is more like he’s trying to decode the situation. He had the same look on his face the first time I snuggled him to death while we watched TV.

“Specs?” I prompt.

He seems to shake himself loose, walking closer and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, uh. It’s like… You know streams?”

My lips quirk. “I’m familiar with them, yes.”

He rolls his eyes slightly, another behavior I’ve become accustomed to. He’s berating himself for the question. “Water follows the path of least resistance down a stream. If you want to change that path, you need to carve out a new one. So you take a stick…”

He looks around, hopping up to grab a pencil and then coming back to the bed. I scoot over as he smooths his hand over the comforter, flattening it. He uses his arm to press a large divot into the fabric, and then he drags the eraser side of the pencil off from that line, drawing a much thinner one.

“You use a stick to create a new path. But you need repetition,” he says, dragging the pencil along the thinner line again and again until it starts getting wider. “Repetitive conditioning reroutes the water, but not until the pathway has been carved out enough. The stream not only needs a big enough trough to support it, but it also needs an outlet at the end.”

“And what’s that?” I ask.

Emil blinks at me, the smallest of smiles curving his lips. “Hope.”

My heartbeat hitches and then races ahead as Emil runs his hand over the comforter, smoothing it back out. His hair is falling messily over his forehead, his glasses have the effect of making his eyes look even bigger than they are, and the fact that he doesn’t seem to realize how absolutely astounding that simple, one-word answer was has me shaking my head in disbelief.

“What is it you want to do with your degree?” I ask.

He looks at me in something akin to surprise. “Oh. Um, research.”

I nod, leaning back onto my elbows. Emil’s gaze drops to my stomach, his throat bobbing once before he looks away.

“The same kind of research you’re doing now?”

“Probably not the same exact topics, but yeah, same idea,” he answers, fidgeting with the pencil in his grip. “There’s so much to learn. So much to understand about behavior, psychology, the way our brains work. I just want to be a part of it.”

“I can see it,” I tell him.

“What?”

“You in a white lab coat. Those glasses on your nose. Making some grand discovery and shouting ‘eureka!’”

He huffs a laugh. “Maybe someday.”

“Definitely someday.”

Emil shifts, poking the comforter with the end of the pencil. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Another, you mean?”

He snorts. “Yes, another. Smartass.”

I shoot him a grin. “Go for it.”

“Why do you spend so much time in front of your window? Is that where your TV is or something?”

My lips quirk. “What, I can’t be sitting there simply because it has the best view in the house?”

It takes Emil a second to realize what I mean, and then he huffs, cheeks reddening. “Yeah, no. There’s another reason.” Before I can express my disapproval for the way he so easily dismissed himself, he takes another guess. “Is it your computer?”

“It’s a sewing machine,” I answer. “That’s what’s beside the window.”

“I…” He makes an aborted sound. “Seriously?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” I ask, amused by his apparent shock.

“It’s just…” His eyes trail over me almost absentmindedly. “I had it in my head that you were this eighty-year-old grandma. I guess I wasn’t that far off the mark.”

My mouth falls open slowly. “You thought I was eighty ? And you were doing the things you were doing in front of me? What if I had a heart attack, Specs?”

He barks a laugh, eyes twinkling. “Would’ve been a good way to go, I presume.”

I huff, shaking my head. “Okay, we’re gonna circle around to that later, but back up a second. What’s wrong with sewing? It’s not only for grandmas.”

“Sure,” he says with a shrug.

“Specs…”

“No, it’s a great hobby. Very…hip,” he finishes, voice choked.

I swing upright and crawl his way. “Hip?”

His eyes widen. “What are you…”

“I’ll have you know,” I say, grabbing his wrists and tugging until he lands flat on his back, “that this hip hobby is responsible for the miniskirt I’m wearing.”

Emil’s eyes ping down to said skirt. He swallows harshly. “You made that?”

“Mhm. And the white one. And a red one I finished today. Not to mention many, many others you haven’t even seen yet. So tell me again,” I say, leaning down until my face is hovering right above his, “how hip sewing is.”

His eyes dart between my own, his chest brushing mine as it rises and falls. “So hip,” he breathes, the tickle of air from his words making me realize exactly how close we are. Our mouths, inches apart. Our bodies, connected at multiple points. His pulse is feathering beneath my grip, and my own heart starts to race as Emil watches me steadily. For once, he doesn’t look away. As if he’s waiting. Waiting on me .

Sucking in a breath, I sit back, chuckling as I let Emil’s wrists go. “I can’t believe you thought I was eighty.”

He huffs a laugh, blinking as he sits up. His hand brushes my knee, and tingles race over my skin as his fingers skim up my thigh until he reaches the hem of my skirt. He pinches the fabric between his thumb and index finger, rolling it gently.

“It’s really good, Christian,” he says, voice soft. “Remarkable, really.”

“You think so?” I ask, smiling a little shakily.

“Yeah.” His eyes meet mine for an extended moment before he lets the fabric go. “Have you made anything else?”

I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. Shirts and some formalwear.”

He nods, quiet for a moment before he says, “I, uh… I have some studying to do.”

“Of course,” I say, making to scoot off the bed. “I’ll go.”

“You don’t have to,” he says immediately, a blush rising on his cheeks.

I pause. “I won’t distract you if I stay?”

His eyes slip down my body again, drifting over my legs, lingering on my skirt, and then skittering away. “Maybe a little. But it’s fine.”

I should go. I really should, but…

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” he says, sliding off the bed. He grabs a textbook and his laptop before returning, setting both in front of his pillow and lying flat on his stomach. Without a word, he sets to work.

After a moment, I lie down and pull out my phone. The sound of tapping keys is a steady presence next to me as the minutes pass, almost as soothing as the whir of my sewing machine.

I could get used to it.

The scary part is, there’s a little piece of me—one I long thought extinguished—that wants to.