“He called it off?” Elizabeth’s gaze jumped back to Kat and remained there, her expression holding some urgency.
“Well, someone should comfort him,” Nico suggested quietly, his attention squarely focused on his stitches.
Silence filled the room like a vapor, whispering over us, pressing down from every direction.
I suspected—no, I knew—each of us were silently rooting for Kat and Dan to make a love connection. I also knew Dan was all for making Kat his, and had been for years. His unrequited affection for her was both beautiful and heartbreaking to watch.
Furthermore, I suspected Kat really, really liked Dan.
But Kat’s tendency to freeze up around him was the main problem. Before his most recent girlfriend, Kat had been painfully shy around him. Meaning, it had been painful to watch. She barely spoke to him, and whenever he’d been friendly to her, she ran the other way.
So. Frustrating.
I was just about to blurt my suggestion that Kat send him a strippergram—of herself—when Fiona glanced at me, giving me a probing look. “Speaking of relationship shakeups. What’s going on with you and Matt?”
“Who’s Matt?” Elizabeth glanced at me. “Should I know who Matt is? Why do I never know anything?”
“Matt is Fiona’s next-door neighbor.” Sandra crossed her arms. “I thought we didn’t like Matt.”
“Oh. That Matt.” Elizabeth nodded. “I thought our assessment was that he fell into the hot-asshole bucket of shame, right?”
Hot? . . . Yeah. I guess he is hot.
“Marie?” Janie prompted.
I sat straighter in my seat, caught off guard by Fiona’s question; an odd sensation I couldn’t identify made my chest tight. “Nothing is going on with Matt and me. I mean, not really. I asked him to help me with a story I’m writing and he . . . agreed.” I decided saying he agreed would be easier than explaining the details. “Why do you ask?”
“He texted me right before you arrived,” Fiona held up her phone as evidence, something like concern sharpening in her eyes, “asking me what kind of wine you drink.”
11
Sasi
Semi-supervised Algorithm for Sarcasm Identification.
Source: Hebrew University, Israel
Upon arriving home from work on Wednesday, I checked the curry in the crockpot, set the jasmine rice to steam, and then changed my outfit seven times.
For me, making a new friend was like the beginning of any new relationship. Befriending someone, like dating someone, was a conscious choice. I wanted to make a good, lasting impression. And, like all relationships, I found it harder to establish new friendships as I grew older.
People, especially parents and/or working professionals, are busy. Time is a commodity. But it wasn’t just lack of time. My expectations for people matured as I matured, and sometimes to my detriment. I wasn’t as playful as I used to be. I wasn’t as open to new experiences.
The sad truth was, I’d been more open to becoming friends with different types of people when I was younger, more open to people like Matt. Odd people. Exciting people. Playful people. Impulsive people. Artists, intellectuals, musicians, actors, authors.
And now apparently, brilliant scientists.
I was just pulling on a cozy gray sweater with a slouchy cowl neck, which exposed my collarbone and one shoulder, when I heard a knock on the door.
“Oh shit.” I waved my hands in front of me in a panicked motion, still undecided about my black leggings, but then caught sight of myself in the mirror. “Why are you so nervous? Stop being nervous. It’s just Professor Matt.”
I nodded, feeling better, but still a little worried that my smile would be weird because I wouldn’t know how to calibrate its size.
My apartment was very small, therefore I made it to the door in ten leaping steps, yanking it open before he knocked again.
“Matt,” I said, out of breath.
“Marie,” he said, grinning, and then he looked over my head into my apartment, his expression morphing into one of awe and wonder as he shoved a bottle of wine and a small package at me. “What is that heavenly smell?”
I smiled at him, and the smile didn’t feel at all calibrated. It just felt right.
“Come in and find out,” I said, turning toward my kitchen just a few feet away and eyeing the package he’d brought. “What’s this?”
I heard him close the door and sensed him trail after me. “That’s a book you should read. I, Robot, by Asimov. It should address some of your robot ethics questions.”
“Huh. Thanks.” I placed it above the refrigerator so it wouldn’t get messed up.
“You’re welcome.”
“Thanks for the wine, by the way. It’s one of my favorites,” I said as I eyed the bottle, wanting to see if he’d admit to messaging Fiona to ask for wine-selection help.
“Oh? Is it?” He sounded genuinely surprised. He was a good liar. If I hadn’t known better, I would have believed his surprise.
I faced him, my hand on my hip. “Professor Simmons, I know for a fact you asked Fiona for help picking out this wine.”
“Help is such a strong word,” he hedged, wrinkling his nose and fighting a guilty laugh.
“You’re a stinker.” I sent him a mock-chastising look, also fighting my laughter.
“Speaking of stinking, you know what doesn’t stink? Dinner. Seriously, what is that?” Matt had followed me into the kitchen even though there was hardly enough room for one person.
“It’s coconut curry.”
“Coconut is my favorite,” he moaned, peeking around me as I opened the crockpot.
I tried to affect the same tone of voice he’d used about the wine. “Oh? Is it?”
“First the cookies, now this. Who told you?” Matt placed his hand on my back, trying to lean over the crockpot. His proximity and the deepening of his voice sent involuntary tingles shivering down my spine.
He is just so . . . sigh.
I stiffened.
Oh no.
We can’t have that.
“None of your business.” I didn’t shift away from him, but every muscle in my body was tense. “But do you know what is your business? The scatterplots on the table.” I needed him to leave the kitchen ASAP so I could put a cover on whatever was causing my unanticipated sexy-feels to boil over.
Taking the hint—thank God—Matt left my diminutive galley kitchen. Stealing a look at him, I conducted a quick survey of the good professor.
Yep. Still hot.
“Is this where you eat?” he asked, eyeing the small café-style table.
I had to clear my throat before speaking. “Yes. Nothing bigger will fit in that space.”
That’s what she said . . . dammit.
“Yeah, I can see that. It’d be too tight.”
Jeez, I had a dirty mind. “I—uh—left my notes just there, next to the printouts. Do you mind going through and noting corrections?”
“Sure. No problem,” he said, throwing me an easy grin.