“Is it? How does farmed fish compare to wild?” I asked. “Besides the obvious, that is.”
His eyes brightened. “You’re probably thinking farmed fish sounds good for the environment, correct? That’s less fish being taken from the ocean, which has been overfished to near extinction of many species. However, fish farming has its own problems. Not only when it comes to the health of the fish and thus the humans who eat them, but in terms of environmental impact….”
He went into a lecture on fish farming, which later took a ninety-degree turn into factory farming in general, and then veered into the problems with cattle raising, deforestation, and methane gas.
The waitress came and went. Our food came and was eaten. Jeremiah ate his trout almost without thought, despite the likelihood that it was farmed. I had chicken and deliberately didn’t think about factory farming while I ate it.
It wasn’t that I was bored. Quite the contrary. He spoke well and was interesting. It reminded me of being in a lecture by an enthusiastic TA. And it was a free seminar. I asked questions. There was back-and-forth. He was a little myopic in his opinions, but then, many scholars were. It was the sort of conversation that my parents would enjoy. Hell, I enjoyed it.
The waitress came to take our plates. “Would you care for dessert? Coffee?” she asked.
“No thank you,” I said. He demurred as well, and she said she’d bring the check.
When she walked away, he chuckled. “Oh, man. I didn’t mean to monopolize the conversation. You’ll have to forgive me. Oxford is all about oral argument—even in regular coursework. And then I just had my actual orals defending my dissertation. I’m afraid I’ve picked up some bad habits.”
“I didn’t mind. So your orals went well?”
“You’re looking at a newly minted PhD,” he said with a big smile.
“That must feel fantastic. Congratulations.” Obtaining my own PhD still felt—was—years away.
“It does. It was a long time coming,” he said. “And you’re just finishing your undergrad in genetics, correct? You’ll be taking your graduate studies at Harvard, your parents said.”
Yes, my parents had given him the full resume. He didn’t sound overly impressed, but then, he’d been a Rhodes scholar at Oxford. And a newly minted PhD!
“I may go to Harvard,” I hedged. “But I’ve been accepted in a few other programs, including at Madison. So I have to make a final decision.”
He nodded sagely. “Well, if I may offer some advice—it’s always easier to stay where you’re comfortable. But you won’t get far in life by doing what’s easy. That’s what my father always says.”
“And the point of life is…to get far?” I asked, more to play devil’s advocate than anything. This conversation so far had been so smooth, so…frictionless. And pretty much one-sided.
He tilted his head and regarded me curiously. “I’m not sure it’s the goal, but it certainly is a goal.”
“I suppose that depends on your value system,” I debated. “If your highest value is success, how is that measured? By the amount of money you earn? By titles and awards? Or what if your highest value is to help others? Or to be happy? Those all seem like worthwhile goals to me.”
He narrowed his eyes and looked at me thoughtfully. The waitress appeared with the bill.
I took it. “So, no ice cream sherbet?” I asked him, feeling bratty.
He frowned a little and shook his head. “No. I don’t eat desserts.”
“I’ll put this on my room,” I said since my parents were paying for that. He didn’t even attempt to argue.
When the waitress had left, he leaned forward and studied me. “I’ll be honest with you, Sean. Obviously, my parents and your parents pushed for this date. Initially, I wasn’t enthusiastic. I’m not in the market for anything serious at the moment. I’m starting a new job in Boston, and I’ll be focused on putting in long hours and building my career for the next five years.”
I nodded. “Quite understandable.”
“However—” He took another glance down my body. “You’re obviously bright and attractive. I wouldn’t be opposed to going out again. If we ever reside in the same state, that is.” He smiled in a way that was presumably charming or flirtatious. “And now I’m genuinely looking forward to seeing your game tomorrow. That will be a new experience for me.”
I waited for some reaction from my heart, some pitter pat. But it might as well have been sprayed with liquid nitrogen. It was a frozen block in my chest.
“I’m looking forward to it too,” I said politely.
In the interest of science, I did a thought experiment. I imagined leaning over and kissing Jeremiah. Or him taking my hand under the table. I was trying hard to be objective, to put aside my bias and focus on the experience objectively.
But, while I didn’t dislike Jeremiah, the idea of physical contact with him was about as stirring as imagining doing my laundry—dutiful rather than exciting.
At the restaurant exit, he turned to me. “Well, good night, Sean.”
“Good night,” I said. He didn’t try to kiss me, not even my cheek. And I made no move either. I realized, after he’d gone, that we’d not so much as brushed hands or shoulders the entire evening, not even knees under the table. Perhaps we weren’t actively repelled, but we weren’t subconsciously drawn together either.
I thought of the day I’d met Bubba, the way he’d slugged my arm as he laughed, bent down to help me when I was in the mud puddle, cleaned my glasses and fixed them oh-so-carefully over my ears. He’d even swatted my butt as he shooed me away. And he hadn’t been flirting that day. It was just…automatic. As though he couldn’t not touch me.
Even the memory of those small touches made heat flush through my body. I shook my head to clear it. At least this little experiment was providing some interesting new data.
Up in my room, I’d just gotten into my pajamas when my phone rang. It was my mother.
“How did it go?” she asked excitedly. “What was he like? We want to hear all about it!”
I could tell she was on speaker phone with my dad—probably at home given the late hour. I wished I felt any of the excitement I heard in her voice.
“It was fine. He was nice.”
“Yes? Did you talk about his work, his career?”
“Yes.”
“His new job in Boston with the Climate Emergency Coalition sounds interesting, doesn’t it?” my father prompted.
“Yes.”
There was a loaded silence.
“You did give him a chance, didn’t you, Sean?” My father sounded disappointed.
“Mmm. Listen, what do you think about polarity?” My gaze went muzzy as I stared at the desperately neutral wallpaper.
“Polarity?” my father asked. “In what context?”
“Light, Dark,” I said. “Static and void. The Theory of Electromagnetism.”
There was a confused beat.
“What do we think about it? I’m not following you, Sean.”
I blinked, and the wallpaper came into focus. God, that tan pattern was boring. “Can I ask you something?”