Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Four months, two weeks ago

I look out of the window, trying to use my engineering degree to approximate how many meters of snow fell overnight. One? Seventeen? Sadly, there was no Ballpark How Snowbound You Are 101 in my grad school curriculum, so I give up to glance down at my phone.

There’s no way I can make it to work, and my entire team at the EPA is in the same situation. Sean’s car is stuck in his driveway. Alec, Josh, and Evan can’t even make it to their driveway. Ted is on his fifth joke about extreme weather events. The Slack channel pings with a few more messages cursing all forms of precipitation, and then Sean makes the call that we all should just work from home. Accessing the secure server from our EPA-issued laptops. Which for me is a bit of a problem.

So I text Sean:

Mara:Sean, I don’t have my EPA-issued laptop at home with me.

Sean:Why?

Mara:You haven’t issued me one yet.

Sean:I see.

Sean:Well, you can just take the day to answer emails and stuff like that, then. We’re just going to try to fix the electrostatic sprayer issue today, so we don’t really need you.

Sean:And next time make sure to remind me that you don’t have a laptop yet.

How passive-aggressive would it be to forward to Sean the reminder email I sent him two days ago? Very, I imagine.

I sigh, text a quick Will do, and try not to grind my teeth over the fact that I’d love to give my input on the electrostatic sprayer issue. It’s actually closely related to my graduate work, but who am I kidding? Even if I were present, Sean would act like he always does: politely hum at my contributions, find a trivial reason to discard them, and fifteen minutes later paraphrase and restate them as his own ideas. Ted, my closest ally in the team, tells me not to take it too personally, because Sean’s a jerk to pretty much everyone. But I know I’m not imagining that his most egregious behavior is always directed at me (“I wonder why,” I muse to myself, stroking my woman-in-STEM chin). But Sean’s the team leader, so?.?.?.

Did I say that I love my new EPA job? Maybe I lied. Or maybe I do love it, but I hate Sean more. Hard to tell.

I spend the day doing what work I can without access to classified information—i.e., very little. I briefly FaceTime with Sadie, but she’s on a deadline for some hippy-dippy eco-sustainable project (“I haven’t slept in thirty-eight hours. Please, tie an anvil to my neck and drop me in the Sargasso Sea.”), Hannah is unreachable (probably frolicking with the walruses on a slab of ice), and?.?.?. That’s it. I don’t really have any other friends.

I should probably work on that.

By one p.m. I am mortally bored. I nap; I watch a YouTube video on the plate arrangement of the stegosaurus; I paint my nails a pretty red matte color; I write a half-assed post for my Bachelor blog on my expectations for the next season; I practice braiding my hair in a crown; I wonder whether I’m a workaholic, decide that I probably am.

I can’t remember the last time I was inside all day. I’ve always been a bit restless, a bit too antsy. Much too active, my parents would say as they tried to enroll me in every possible team sport to keep me busy. They aren’t bad people, but I doubt they wanted a kid, and I know for sure that they weren’t fans of whatever changes my arrival brought to their lifestyle. Probably the reason they were never huge fans. We talk maybe once or twice a year now—and I’m always the one who calls.

Oh well.

I lean my forehead against the chilly glass of the window, feeling an odd sense of isolation, as though I’m disconnected from the entire world, swaddled in a muffled white cocoon.

I should start dating again.

Should I start dating again?

Yeah. I should. Except that?.?.?. men. No, thank you. I am well aware that #NotAllMen are condescending shitlets like Sean, and I’ve had my share of perfectly nice boyfriends who didn’t feel the need to Actually me when I tried to have a conversation. But even at their best, all my romantic relationships felt like work. In a way Sadie and Hannah and Helena never did. In a way actual work never did. And for what? Sex? Jury’s still out on whether I even care about that.

Maybe I should skip the dating and just visit Sadie in NYC as soon as the weather gets better. Yeah, I’ll do that. We’ll make a weekend out of it. Ice-skate. Get that frozen hot chocolate thing she’s been raving about, the one she insists is not just a rebranded milkshake. But in the meantime it’s still snowing, and I’m still stuck in here. Alone.

Well, not alone alone. Liam’s around. He came downstairs this morning, large hand brushing over the smooth wooden railing, looking?.?.?. not quite disheveled. But he didn’t bother with his usual suit. The faded jeans and worn T-shirt made him seem younger, a more human version of his aloof, stern self. Or maybe it was the hair, dark as usual, but sticking up just a bit in the back. If we hated each other a tad less, I’d have reached up and fixed it for him. Instead I watched him step into the roomy entrance until it didn’t feel quite so roomy anymore. No high ceiling is that high when someone as tall as Liam stands under it, apparently. I stared at him half-mesmerized for a few moments—till I realized that he was staring right back. Oops. Then he looked out the window, sighed deeply, and headed back upstairs. Phone already on his ear as he gave calm, detailed instructions about a project that’s probably aimed at freeing the planet from the evil clutches of photosynthesizing plants.

I haven’t seen him since, but I heard him. Laughter here. Barefooted steps there. Creaking wood and the beep of the microwave. Our rooms are one and a half hallways away. I know he has a home office, but I’ve never been in there—a bit of a tacit Do-not-go-to-the-West-Wing, Beauty and the Beast situation. I’ve considered snooping around when he was gone, but what if he put live traps around? I picture him coming home, finding me wailing, my ankle tangled in a snare. He’d probably leave me there to starve.

Plus, he doesn’t go out much. There are that couple of friends of his who come over to do surprisingly nerdy stuff (which reminds me a bit too much of me, Sadie, and Hannah making brownies for a Parks and Rec marathon—which in turn is vaguely painful—so I pretend it doesn’t happen). His workdays seem to be sixteen hours long, even when I’m not being a petty gremlin about signing his mail, but that’s about it. I wonder if he dates. I wonder if he sneaks a different girl into the house every night and tells her Shh, be quiet. My squatting ginger roommate will key my record player if we’re too loud. I wonder if I’m simply failing to notice the masked orgies he has in the kitchen every weekend while I’m tucked under my granny quilt, carefully composing my blog posts.

I wonder why I wonder.

When I pad downstairs for dinner, the house is dark and silent. And cold. Honestly, how is Liam not freezing? Is it the seventy pounds of muscles? Does he coat himself in baby-seal fat? I shake my head as I raise the thermostat and heat up more food than I need to eat (but, crucially: not more food than I can eat).

There are a few living/sitting/front/lounge/whatnot rooms on the first floor, but my favorite is the one connected to the kitchen. It has a large, comfortable couch that probably cost more than my graduate education, a soft area rug I like to stealthily caress when I’m home alone, and the pièce de résistance: a giant TV. I move my (many) food containers to the walnut coffee table and let myself plop down on the couch.

For reasons I don’t understand, Liam pays for cable television and for about fifteen different streaming services that I’ve never seen him use. I’m in no way above exploiting FGP Corp’s blood money, so I find a rerun of a season twelve episode of The Bachelorette. Not my favorite, for reasons I explained at length on my blog (don’t judge me), but decent. I settle in.

Ten minutes later, an idiot with an obvious tanning-bed addiction is fist-fighting an idiot who clearly snorts protein powder, all under a delighted girl’s eyes—i.e., the premise of the show. But I realize that not all noises come from the TV. When I mute it, I can hear another argument. From upstairs. In Liam’s voice.

It’s not loud enough to make out the gist of it, but I do manage to eavesdrop the occasional words. Wrong. Unethical. Opposed, maybe? Quite a few firm Nos, but that’s about it. After a brief moment, the sounds are muffled again. Another minute, and a door slams; feet quickly make their way down the steps.

Crap.

I consider quickly switching to a Lars von Trier movie, but Liam arrives before I can fool him into thinking that I’m an intellectual. I look up from my egg roll and he’s there, in the slice of kitchen I can see from the couch, looking like?.?.?. murder.

That is: more than usual.

My first instinct is to flatten myself against the couch, keep watching my trashy show and eating my excellent food. But he turns, our eyes meet, and I have no choice but to hesitantly wave at him. He answers with a curt nod, and?.?.?. he looks broody and dark, like he just had a terrible ten minutes, perhaps a terrible day. Even worse, he looks like he’s ready to take it out on the first person he’ll find in his path—which, given the weather conditions, is regrettably going to be me. He looks like he needs a distraction, and a very stupid idea pops into my head.

Don’t do it, Mara. Don’t do it. You’re gonna regret it.

But Liam is visibly clenching his teeth. The way he’s staring into the open fridge suggests that he’d like to strangle each and every jar of tartar sauce (for unknowable reasons, he owns three). Maybe the ketchup, too. The line of his overbroad shoulders is so tense I could use it as a bubble level, and—

Ah. Screw it.

“So.” I clear my throat. “I ordered way more food than I need.” I resist the urge to cover my discomfort with nervous laughter. He can probably smell it, my abject terror. “Would you, um, like some?”

He slowly closes the fridge door and turns around. “Excuse me?” He looks at me like I just offered to go rob a bank together. To buddy–sign up for aerial yoga. To spend the rest of the night moth watching.

“Takeout. Chinese. Want some?”

He glances at the window. Yes, it’s still snowing. We’re officially the North Pole. “You ordered takeout.” He sounds dubious.

“Not today. Two days ago. I always order too much, because leftovers taste better. Especially the lo mein, it really needs to soak into the sauce to?.?.?.” I stop. And flush. “Anyway, would you like some?”

“We’re in the middle of a snowstorm, Mara.” Why am I shivering all of a sudden? Ah yes. Because it’s cold. Not because he said my name. “You should be hoarding your food.”

Yeah, I should. “It’s about to go bad. And I’m happy to share.”

It takes Liam an inordinate amount of time to answer. Ten good seconds of him staring skeptically, perhaps suspecting me to be a deranged murderess on the prowl for roommates to poison. Eventually he says: “Sure.”

He sounds everything but sure. Very cautious. Looks cautious, too, as he makes his way to me. He slides his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and looks around morosely, and it’s obvious that he has no idea what to do—sit on the couch, the chair, the floor. Eat standing in the middle of the living room. It occurs to me for the first time that his entire aloof, stern persona might hide a smidge of awkwardness. Could he be one of those people who are hyperconfident in professional settings and the total opposite in their social lives? Nah. Unlikely.

I pat a spot next to mine, already regretting this. We’ve never sat together before. So far, every interaction between us has been circumstantial. The act of sitting next to each other implies intentionality and a longer duration. A new territory.

Weird.

Liam is so heavy and tall that the cushion dips when he sits down, and I have to tense my abs and readjust to avoid sliding toward him. I hand him a plate and a pair of chopsticks, pretending there’s nothing unusual about any of this. He does the same as he accepts them with a brief nod, his fingers never accidentally touching mine.

“What are you watching?” he asks.

“The Bachelorette.” No sign of recognition. “It’s this stupid, amazing show. Reality. You don’t have to watch with me. Save yourself while you can.” Surprisingly, Liam stays put. Still looks a bit like he wouldn’t mind trashing the entire house, but his expression is slightly less bloodthirsty. Progress? “So, Sheryl, the girl in the green dress—the only girl—has a few weeks to choose a husband among all the guys.”

Liam squints at the TV for a moment. “Based on what? They all look the same.”

“They do, don’t they?” I shrug. “They take her on dates. And chat. Toward the end they might even have sex.”

Is he flushing? No. It’s just the light. “On-screen?”

“Hey, it’s ABC, not HBO.” I put a spring roll on his plate. Then I take a look at him—his arms filling his shirt, his chest, his general?.?.?. hugeness—and add two more. How many million calories does he need a day? I should find out. In the name of science. “You see the guy wearing glasses he obviously doesn’t need in the vain hope of looking less imbecilic?”

“Blue shirt?”

“Yes. We’re rooting for him.”

“Are we.”

“Yep. Because he’s from Michigan. And I went to U of M for undergrad,” I explain, licking a drop of hoisin sauce off my thumb. His eyes linger on my lips for a too-long moment, then abruptly slide away.

“I see.”

“It’s a great place. Ever been?”

“I don’t believe so, no.” He’s still not looking at me. Maybe he holds a profound and irrational hatred for Ann Arbor?

“Where did you go to school?”

He seems mildly surprised that I’m asking. Fair, since I haven’t exactly excelled at turn taking and conversation making in the past. “Dartmouth. Then Harvard Law School.”

“Right.” I nod knowingly. “That sounds?.?.?. cheap.”

He has the decency to look sheepish, so I take pity on him. “Want some cashew chicken?”

“Ah?.?.?. Yes, please.”

“Here. You can finish it, I’ve already eaten like, ten pounds of it.”

He nods. “Thanks.”

Liam Harding. Being polite. Wow. “You’re welcome.”

For a couple of minutes we are silent—Liam watching the TV, me sneakily watching Liam as he eats ravenously, large quick bites that are youthfully endearing. Then he turns to me.

“Mara.”

“Yes?”

“You clearly are some kind of genius.”

Uh? Am I? “Is this—are you—making fun of me?”

He looks dead serious and faintly offended at the idea. “You’re basically a rocket scientist.”

“Basically being the operative word.”

“And Helena, who had ridiculous standards, chose you to work with her. You’re obviously remarkable.”

Oh God. Is this a compliment? Am I going to blush?“Um?.?.?. thanks?”

He nods. “What I don’t understand is, why is someone as smart as you watching this shit?”

I smile into my fried rice. “You’ll see.”

One hour later, when Sheryl says, “I think our relationship has come a long way, but I am not convinced that it could develop any further?.?.?.” I slam my hand on my armrest and yell, “Oh, come on, Sheryl,” just as Liam slaps his armrest and yells, “Sheryl. What the hell?”

We turn to each other and exchange a brief, bemused look. Told ya, I think at him with a smile. His mouth twitches, like he heard me loud and clear.

“.?.?.?at this point, I just know that it’s not gonna work out between us. Can I walk you out?”

Liam shakes his head, horrified. “That’s just a bad decision.”

“I know.”

“He’s the best of the lot.”

“Soooo stupid, right? She’s gonna regret this so bad. I know it, because I’ve already seen the season.” Multiple times. I reach for one of the beers Liam took out of the fridge a few minutes ago. “Want another crab rangoon?” I ask.

He nods and settles back, long legs stretched next to mine on top of the coffee table. The snow outside is still falling, and we wait for the next episode to start.

Maybe it’s the isolation-induced insanity speaking, but there’s something hypnotic about it. The rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders under the black fleece. The seemingly effortless way he’s been going at it for hours, occasionally stopping to wipe the sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve. I press my forehead to the window and just?.?.?. stare. I can almost hear Helena’s voice in my head (Would you like to borrow my birding binoculars?). I blithely ignore it.

Maybe that’s what he majored in at Dartmouth: Snow Shoveling. Nicely complemented by a minor in Muscles. His honors thesis was titled The Importance of Armceps in Ergonomic Excavating. Then he moved to graduate school to study How-to-Make-a-Mundane-Winter-Task-Look-Attractive Law. And here I am, unable to take my eyes off a decade of overpaid-for higher education.

This is getting weird. It’s giving me flashbacks to the first time I saw him, when his dark eyes and those (frankly ridiculous) shoulders hit me like a brick in the head. It’s not a memory I want to revisit, so I look away and head downstairs to make lunch, blaming my temporary lunacy on skipping breakfast. This is what I get for falling asleep late last night, halfway through the finale, in the middle of explaining to Liam between yawns that Bachelor and Bachelorette contestants get mandatory STD screenings. What I get for waking up this morning on the couch, a soft, heavenly smelling blanket laid over me. I wonder where it came from, anyway. Not from the living room. I’m positive that there wasn’t one around.

It’s not that Liam and I are friends now. I don’t know him any better than I did yesterday—except, I guess, that he has some surprisingly valid opinions when it comes to reality TV. But for some unparsable reason, when I start working on my soup I find myself making enough for two.

See, this is why humans are not meant to be sequestered at home. Boredom and loneliness turn their minds to mushy oatmeal, and they start imposing their poorly cooked food on unsuspecting Snow Lawyers. And I’m apparently embracing my weird, because when Liam comes in, dark hair damp and curling from the melting snowflakes, cheeks glowing from the exercise, I tell him, “I made lunch.”

He stares, arms dangling at his sides, as though unsure how to answer. So I add, “For both of us. As a thank-you. For doing that. The shoveling, I mean.” He stares some more. “If you want. It’s not mandatory.”

“No. No, I?.?.?.” He doesn’t finish. But when he notices me reaching toward a high shelf to the bowls, he comes up behind me and sets two on the counter.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” I might be imagining this, but I think I hear him inhale slowly before he moves away. Does my hair smell bad? I washed it yesterday. Has Garnier Fructis finally failed me after years of faithful service? I’m wondering whether it’s time to switch to Pantene by the time we’re politely eating at the kitchen table, in front of each other, like we’re a young family in a Campbell’s commercial.

Problem: without the TV on, it’s pretty conspicuous that we have nothing to talk about. Liam glances at me every few seconds, as though me stuffing my face is either something he likes to look at, or something totally hideous—who’s to say? As the silence stretches, I am once again regretting every choice I’ve ever made. And when his phone rings, I’m so relieved I could fist-pump.

Except that he doesn’t pick up. He checks caller ID (FGP Corp—Mitch), rolls his eyes, and then turns the phone around in a dismissive movement that has me chuckling.

Liam gives me a puzzled look.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to?.?.?. Just?.?.?.” I shrug. “It’s nice to know that you hate your colleagues, too.”

He lifts one eyebrow. “You hate your colleagues?”

“Well, no. I don’t hate them. I mean, I sometimes hate them, but?.?.?.” Why is this about me? “Anyway, do you think the snow is over for good?”

“Why do you sometimes hate your colleagues?”

“I don’t. I misspoke. It’s just?.?.?.” Liam has stopped eating and is looking at me like he’s actually interested. Ugh. “They’re all men. All engineers. And men engineers can be?.?.?. yeah. And I’m the newest arrival, and they’re all kind of chummy already. And I’m pretty sure that Sean, my boss, thinks that I’m some sort of pity diversity hire. Which I’m not. I’m actually a really good engineer. I have to be, or Helena would have butchered me in my sleep.”

He nods as though he understands. “She’d have butchered you awake.”

“Right? She wasn’t exactly forgiving. And I’m not complaining—I owe her so much. She truly helped me become a better scientist, but everyone in my team treats me as though I’m some infant engineer who doesn’t know what an ohm is, and—” Why am I still talking? “Well, everyone except for Ted, but I’m not sure whether he actually respects me or is just trying to get laid, since he’s already asked me out like, three times, which makes things kind of awkward?.?.?.”

Liam’s face instantly hardens. His spoon sets in the bowl with a loud clink. “This is sexual harassment.”

“Oh, no.”

“At the very least, it’s highly inappropriate.”

“No, it’s not like that—”

“I can talk to him.”

I blink. “What?”

“What’s his last name?” Liam asks, like it’s a totally normal question. “I can talk to him. Explain that he has made you uncomfortable and he should stop—”

“What?” I let out a laugh. “Liam, I’m not going to tell you his last name. What are you gonna do, pour a barrel of oil on his house?”

He looks away. Like it was an option.

“No, I?.?.?. I actually like Ted. He’s nice. I mean, I’ve even considered saying yes. Why not, right?” Why not? is what Helena would say, but Liam’s expression darkens at that. Or maybe it’s just my entire soul, darkening at the idea of putting on eyeliner to go out with a guy who’s perfectly fine and excites me as much as boiled spinach. “It’s just that?.?.?.” I shrug. How to explain that I am forever uninspired by the men I meet? I won’t even bother. It’s not like he cares. “Thank you, though,” I add.

He looks like he’d like to insist, but just says, “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Um. Okay.” I guess I have a six-foot-three mountain of muscles in my corner now? It’s kinda nice. I should make soup more often. “So, since I have you here,” and to avoid dropping into awkward silence again, “what’s up with the pictures?”

“The pictures?”

“The black-and-white pictures of trees and lakes and stuff. Hanging on literally every single wall.”

“I just like to take them.”

“Wait. You took the pictures yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it mean that you’ve actually been to all those places?”

He swallows a spoonful of soup, nodding. “It’s mostly national parks. A few state ones. Canada, too.”

I’m a little shocked. Not only are the pictures good, professional-level good, but?.?.?. “Okay”—I point at the frame behind the table, a mobius arc in what looks like Sierra Nevada—“this is not the work of someone who hates the environment.”

He gives me a puzzled look. “And I hate the environment?”

“Yes!” I blink. “No?”

He shrugs. “I might not compost my own feces or hold my breath to avoid emitting CO₂, but I do like nature.”

I’m a little dumbfounded. “Liam? Can I ask you a question that will possibly make you want to throw the bowl at me?”

“It won’t.”

“You haven’t heard the question.”

“But the soup is really good.”

I beam. And then I immediately feel self-conscious at the surge of warmth that comes from knowing he likes my cooking. Who cares if he does? He’s a random dude. He’s Liam Harding. On paper, I hate him.

“You said you really respected Helena’s work. And that she was your favorite aunt. And that you were close. But you work at FGP Corp, and I’ve been wondering?.?.?.”

“How I’m still alive?”

I laugh. “Pretty much.”

“I’m not quite sure why she spared me.”

“A bit out of character, isn’t it?”

“I hid the sharp knives every time she visited. But she mostly focused on sending me daily texts about all the evil FGP Corp is doing in the world. Maybe she was going for a slow grind?”

“I just?.?.?. I don’t understand how you love Helena and nature and working at a company that lobbies to eliminate carbon taxes like its aim is to plunge civilization into fiery darkness.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You think I enjoy working there?”

“I assumed you did. Because you seem to work all the time.” I flush—okay, fine, I noticed his hours, sue me—but he doesn’t seem to care. “You?.?.?. don’t?”

“No. It’s a shitty company and I hate everything it stands for.”

“Oh. Then why?.?.?.” I scratch my nose. Oh. I did not expect that. “You’re a lawyer. Can’t you, um, lawyer elsewhere?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?”

The spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl for a moment. “My mentor recruited me.”

“Your mentor?”

“He was one of my professors. I owe him a lot—he helped me get all my internships lined up, advised me during law school. When he asked me to take this job, I didn’t feel like I could say no. He’s my boss now, and?.?.?.” He leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair. Tired. He looks very tired. “I have a lot of complicated feelings about what FGP Corp does. And I don’t like the company, or its mission. But in the end, it’s a good thing that I’m around. If it weren’t me, someone else would do my job just as well. And at least I can be there for the team I lead. And run interference between them and my boss when it’s necessary.”

I think about the words I overheard last night. Unethical. Wrong. “Is he the one you were arguing with? On the phone?” He lifts one eyebrow, and my cheeks warm. “I promise I wasn’t eavesdropping!” But Liam shrugs as though he doesn’t mind. So I smile, leaning forward across the table. “Okay, maybe I was. Just a bit. So, what’s his last name?”

“Whose name?”

“Your boss. Maybe I can talk to him while you talk to Ted? Some good old reciprocal proxy bullying? Mutual warn-off? Leave-My-Friend-Alone Sixty-Nine?”

He smiles at me then—a full, real smile. His first in my presence, I think, and it makes breathing that much harder, the temperature of the room that much hotter. How—why is he so handsome? I stare at him, speechless, unable to do anything but notice the clear brown of his eyes, the lopsided way his lips stretch, the fact that he seems to be studying me with a warm, kind expression, and—

Our eyes dart to his phone. Which is ringing again.

“Work?” I ask. My voice is hoarse.

“No. It’s?.?.?.” He stands from the table and clears his throat. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

As he walks out, I hear him chuckle. On the other side of the phone, a female voice is saying his name.