Switched, p.2
Switched, page 2
“Do this,” I say, spinning my finger again. “Glue me in place.”
At that he grins—a happy smile that kicks my heart into warp drive—his eyes crinkle at the corners, and he says, “You felt it too?”
2
When I was four years old I fell in love for the first time. It was an epic love, like the sun rising for the first time, spreading its golden light over the fertile ground of my open heart.
It happened one fall night when I was sitting outside in the cool, shaggy grass of our back yard in Northern California. The night-thick scent of cedar and redwood drifting from the old-growth woods just past the edge of our small, grassy lot tickled my nose as much as the grass tickled my bare feet. I could hear my mom washing dishes in the kitchen, my dad humming from the open door of his toolshed, and the raspy droning of cicadas congregating at the edge of the woods. My legs and arms puckered with goose bumps from the chill night wind, so I pulled my sleep shirt over my legs.
Then, I looked up.
I looked up and I was swallowed by the sky.
The Milky Way stitched across the black velvet, the moon full and pregnant with expectation, Mars with its red flickering light, Jupiter bright and strong, and I tumbled headlong into the mysteries of the universe. And then, as I fell, a meteor shot across the sky, streaking a path straight to my heart.
I gasped, swallowing the starlight, and then I jumped up and ran to my dad’s toolshed, where he told me the distant stars were unreachable, that everything we saw happened millions of years ago, that some of the stars I saw were long dead, and that none of us, not a single one, could ever reach the stars, and if there were other habitable planets, other beings out there, we’d never know, because it was impossible to reach them too. We could yearn, but we’d never find what we were yearning for.
He said, “Ducky, keep your feet on the ground, and your eyes on what’s possible.”
But I was in love with the stars, with the universe, and so I decided right then and there that I loved this universe I’d found myself in and I was going to unlock its secrets. I was going to make the impossible possible.
That was the day I fell in love with science without knowing what science was.
But that feeling? That tumbling, rolling, diving through the stars to be swallowed whole by the wonderment of the night sky? Yes. That’s a feeling I’d recognize anywhere.
I also avoid it. I flee from it as fast as a proton shooting at the speed of light. I don’t have room to love anything else but science. It’s my passion. It’s my purpose. Plus, I know what happens when you fall for a man. You cease to be you.
You become this new creature, half-yourself, half-someone else. Your tastes change, your passions change, your priorities change. You literally lose yourself in the object of your desire. It’s like the anglerfish—one of the most dysfunctional, toxic relationships in the animal kingdom. The clingy, jealous, controlling male anglerfish finds a female and then attaches himself to her. Not with his teeth or his fins or his reproductive organ,1 but with his whole self. He mates with her and then their skin tissue fuses together, their circulatory systems combine, and they share all nutrients, blood, oxygen, everything, until the day they die.
This is basically what happens when two people fall in love.
Everyone knows this. We’ve all seen it.
Those couples who wear matching his-and-her outfits? Khakis, white shirt, Converse! We’re one person!
The couples who combine their name? We’re Nathangela! Elizabert! Kerbob!
The couples who speak as if they are one person with one opinion? “We only eat local, organic, gluten-free sausage.” “Our favorite color is ecru.” “We like to be spanked.”
It’s all out there for everyone to see. Fall in love, lose yourself.
Fall in love, have your organs fused, your brain hijacked, and your personality wiped.
So, when the stunningly attractive man with the dimpled smile, the sky-gray eyes, and the rumbly voice that makes my heart pound asks if I feel it too, I take a moment to laze in what I’m feeling.
Tingling skin. Thumping heart. Shortness of breath. A pull tugging me toward him even while I’m glued to my seat.
Is it love?
Or is it lust?
Is it stardust raining over me, or is it “yes please, let’s get it on tonight and then never speak again”?
My mouth goes dry at the unexpected visual—me with my legs wrapped around him, his hands gripping my bare thighs, his mouth devouring mine. Suddenly I wish Vinny had brought out my pilsner and pickle, but unfortunately no one has come by yet.
The soft rumble of the pub, muted by the stone, folds around us. The dark of the far corner, the shadow of the low-beamed ceiling, blankets us in intimacy. The spice of vinegar and beer pinches my nose.
The man leans closer as he tilts his head, waiting for my answer. I feel that static again, the warm electric pull running through me, lighting up my insides, tugging me toward him.
Lust.
It has to be lust.
Us humans, we’re made up of electrical impulses. Our hearts run on electricity. Our neurons are jumping with it. So it’s not surprising that I’d find a man who makes me feel as if I’m sitting next to a generator, plugged in and buzzing with delicious, stroking energy.
So. Do I feel it?
“Maybe . . .” I say in a careful voice, and the man grins as if I just shouted “yes” from the top of Mount Blanc for all of Geneva to hear.
At his grin, I can’t help it. I grin back.
His eyes widen and he stands, pushing his chair back. It scrapes across the wood floor. Now that he’s upright I can see that he’s exactly as tall as I thought, a little over six feet. He dwarfs the low-ceilinged pub with its homey plaid, cozy wood, and crowded tables.
I trace my gaze over him. His shoulders are wide and solid, he’s built like a footballer, lean but muscled. He stands with confidence, his shoulders back, his eyes direct, and he takes two long strides to stand next to my sticky-topped table.
As soon as he does, the cool, vinegary air of the pub is swept aside and replaced by viscous warmth and his subtle scent—clean, fresh mountain air, cedar, and . . . can someone smell like starlight? Oh yes, he smells like starlight.
No. That doesn’t make sense. People don’t smell like starlight.
I blink at him as he holds out his hand. “I’m Henry Joule, from Oxford.”
I pause, wondering if this is one of those moments that should come with a warning label. For example: “Proposition 65 Warning for California Residents: This man may contain chemicals2 known to cause reproductive harm from repeated sex, masturbation, and uncontrollable desire.”
Or perhaps the warning is that his last name is Joule, the same as James Joule, the famed English physicist who discovered the relationship between the amount of heat produced and the current flowing through a conductor. The man who the Joule3 is named after.
I hold my hand out to him and say, “Ducky, from Northern California.”
3
You may be wondering why I introduced myself as Ducky. You may also be wondering why I’m addressing you and breaking the fourth wall.
Look, I’m a theoretical particle physicist. I know (okay, theorize) there are more dimensions than the one I’m living in. I know (fine, theorize) that people are watching our lives, reading our lives. I know (alright, theorize) you are there. There’s the first dimension, the second and third dimensions, and then there’s the fourth wall dimension.
If you ever want to get a kick out of life, go about your day and then stop, look at the sky, and say in a serious voice, “Little did she know, her ordinary life was about to change.”
Or if you’re having sex, you can pause and say, “Stop watching me! Pervert!” Then your partner will ask, “What? Why?” And then you can say, “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to them.” Then you can get back to it, having made your point. Because trust me on this, someone out there, somewhere, is (theoretically) watching the story of your life too.
I smile at Henry as he enfolds my hand in his and says in his crisp accent, “It’s a pleasure.”
And although he hasn’t asked, I can tell he has the same question you do: why Ducky? Am I named after the lame friend from that cult classic Sixteen Candles? Or is it a childhood nickname? No. Neither.
“Nice to meet you,” I agree, smiling at him with something that probably looks like a foolish grin.
I can’t help it. His hand is warm, strong. His lean fingers hold mine and the heat of his touch sends a thrill through my blood, lighting me from the inside out. My mind momentarily goes blank as I bask in the warmth working its way over my skin. His touch feels as if we are pressed together, heart-to-heart, his mouth nuzzling the hollow of my neck, his hands stroking over me. The cells in my body realign and point toward him.
The Large Hadron Collider at CERN has seven-ton superconducting magnets—huge mothers, strong. They don’t have anything on the pull I’m feeling.
Lust.
This has to be lust.
The strongest I’ve ever felt, but nothing more.
Slowly, I pull my hand from his, tensing at the loss of the coursing warmth. Then I wiggle, still stuck in place, and say, “What I meant was, I’m stuck to my seat, and . . .”—I lift a shoulder—“I thought for a moment you may have put down an adhesive.”
“An adhesive?” He frowns, glancing down at my stuck-tight thighs.
“Uh-huh.” I demonstrate by tugging at my leg and attempting—and failing—to stand.
Henry flashes a grin at my predicament, his dimples deepening. “Well, yes. I did once glue Ms. Treacletee’s favorite teacup to a mismatched saucer. It drove her mad—”
“Nanny?”
“Headmistress.”
“Ah,” I say. “Well. I’m sure the teacup had it coming.”
He nods solemnly and studies me with a grave expression. “It did. The saucer was always complaining. ‘You’re such a tease.’”
Hmm. I trace my finger across the wooden tabletop, doodle a five-sigma,1 and look up at him. “I wonder . . . I’ve never been tea or a tease. However, I’m still—”
Henry glances at my thighs then says, “Stuck?”
I wriggle and try to stand again. No luck. “Like a pig in a blanket.”
Instead of responding, Henry leans closer, his starlight scent fanning over me, and pulls a piece of paper off the side of the wooden booth.
“I think . . .” he begins, holding out the sheet to me. It’s torn a bit, there’s a piece of tape, and in bold handwriting it says in French, “Wet Varnish, Do Not Sit.”
“Varnish?” I ask, mentally face-palming.
“Varnish,” he confirms. The dimples in his cheeks deepen and his blue-gray eyes brim with humor.
I glance around the pub. It’s gotten busier in the few minutes we’ve been chatting. All the tables are full, energy bounces around the wood and the stone, and post-work laughter mixes with the slosh of beer and the scent of French fries and pickles (and, now that I take the time, varnish).
At the long wooden bar, Vinny Vincenzo, hairy and scowling, is completely occupied by a dozen rowdy students calling for another round of “The Unctuous Uni,” which is a vile drink consisting of pale ale, cheap gin, and pickle juice. For some reason the male students love to bet on how many rounds they can chug before someone vomits.
Regardless, with the frenzied students, a few clusters of glassy-eyed tourists, and some post-work commuters catching a break before heading home, Vinny won’t be coming by my table for a good ten minutes.
So it seems like there’s only one good solution. Well, I wouldn’t say good, but expedient. It’s expedient.
“So . . .” I smile sweetly at Henry. “I noticed you have a coat.”
I’m not ignorant of the salubrious effect2 my smile has on the male population, and I’m not averse to using it to my advantage.
Henry nods, a twinkle in his eye, like he knows exactly what I’m doing and doesn’t mind at all. “Yes, indeed. I do have coat.”
I lean toward him and say in a low voice, “Do you think I could, perhaps, borrow your coat? Since we’ve shaken hands, introduced ourselves, bonded over adhesives.”
The edge of his mouth twitches. “Of course. Shall I hold my coat up while you Houdini your jeans?”
Gosh, he’s a quick study. “That would be delightful. Thank you.”
So he does. Like a gentleman he holds his long wool coat in front of me like a curtain before a show. In this case it’s a striptease. Luckily, my favorite booth is in the back corner, dark and out of the way, so no one notices as I kick off my high heels, unbutton my jeans, and use the wooden table as leverage while I wriggle free.
Henry keeps his head turned and his eyes averted.
I jiggle, I wiggle, I kick and push up with my hands, until I’ve managed to kick free. Then I squat on my jeans, my knees folded up, with my bare legs hidden from view behind Henry’s coat. I keep expecting someone to yell, “Hey there! She’s nudie!” but luckily everyone seems distracted by the beer-chugging throng of students.
My bare legs pucker with goose bumps at the cool air blowing over them. And me, I frequently don’t wear underwear, so everything comes out to say hi. Plus my sweater hits well above my hips . . . so.
“Don’t look,” I say quickly. “I’m free. I’m going to put on your coat now.”
“Right,” he says, his jaw tensing as he turns his face further toward the cheering/chugging students.
I crouch between the table and the back of the booth and quickly take his coat, shoving my arms through the sleeves concealing my bare butt, thighs, and everything else. With fast fingers I button it closed. The warmth of the coat and the fresh air, cedar, and star-studded scent of him wraps around me.
“All set,” I say, pulling the coat closed. “Coming out.”
Henry steps aside and then turns toward me as I carefully make my way out of the booth. His eyes warm when he sees his gray wool coat wrapped around me. It’s so long it nearly hits my knees.
“Well done,” he says. He reaches under the table, picks up my black heels, and then holds them out for me.
My heart gives a little flip when he does. I hear myself ask without thinking, “What are you doing tonight?”
He smiles as I take my shoes and then nods to his table. “Dinner. Rescuing you.” He shrugs. “After that, it’s my first night in Geneva. I thought I might—”
He stops at my wide smile, and I say, “I’ll show you around. I’ll show you the city at night. I can take your coat on a magical tour, and you can tag along.”
I was right. He’s a tourist. A lone tourist having dinner in a British pub. Perhaps a tourist hoping for a one-night, no-regret fling with an intriguing—hey, I can be intriguing—woman he met while on holiday.
“That sounds . . . magical,” he says, studying me with a familiar warmth that makes me feel as if I’m wrapped snug and comfortable in his arms.
I frown at him, my gaze moving to his bare ring finger. “You’re not married, are you?”
I don’t do married.
He shakes his head. “No. You?”
“No. Engaged? Dating someone?”
“No.” His eyes warm and his golden-wheat hair glints in the pub’s low light.
I smile then and bend down to slip on my heels, glad to get my toes off the cold wood floor. I gain three inches from them, putting me about six inches shorter than him. Not terrible. Not terrible at all.
“And you? Engaged? Dating?” he asks, curiosity and maybe a little hope tinging his voice.
“No,” I say. “It’s just me.”
I don’t do attachments. I don’t do love. But mutually satisfying one-night flings? That I do.
4
Henry doesn’t get a tour of Geneva. Neither does his coat.
Instead we’re in his hotel room. After he paid for his dinner, he mentioned he’d forgotten his phone at his hotel, and could we go grab it because he wanted to take pictures? I figured he was fabricating an excuse to get us back to his room, which I was one hundred percent there for, but when we walked into his hotel room there was his phone, sitting on the wooden desk near the window.
His hotel is one of those old five-story sandstone regal palace-like places that look like they belong in a high-budget historical miniseries about Marie Antoinette. It’s snooty, dignified, and full of marble and self-importance. I like it immediately.
The hotel spreads its stone-and-ivy terraces out like a beribboned skirt fluffed over the bank of Lake Geneva. Strings of outdoor lights line the windows and the stone walkway where little white boats bob in the mirrorlike water, ducking their heads to the hotel, the grand lady above them. The twinkle lights of the hotel and the city along the stone shore all dance and nod in the night water, reflecting magic.
It’s five-star, the kind of place where dignitaries and bankers stay, and I wonder for a moment if Henry is either but decide that it doesn’t really matter. I’ve had enough flings to know that small talk—“And what do you do?”—gets in the way of really knowing someone. “What do you do?” should probably be the last question you ask someone if you want to find out who they really are.
In my opinion, “What do you like to do?” results in much more interesting conversations. For example, I like to search for alternate dimensions, fangirl at Star Trek conventions with my best friend Jillian, eat dill pickles with French fries, and swim naked at night. Isn’t that interesting?
I spin slowly, my feet sinking into the plush gold carpet, and take in the luxurious hotel room. It smells like orchids and fresh linens, there’s a twinkling, gem-studded chandelier, the walls are covered in hand-painted gold wallpaper, and the rich, ivory-colored silk curtains drape from the high ceilings to the floor. The room has French Regency-style wood furnishings, elegant and ornate—a glossy walnut and gold-inlaid armoire, a writing desk with curlicue legs, and a spindly-looking chair that couldn’t possibly hold the weight of a six-foot-tall man. And then the bed, a four-poster with a deep mattress covered in a night-blue silk duvet. The headboard is wrapped in navy velvet with a single gold tassel hanging from the center.
