For a second, I thought about complaining to Elliott. But I was rational enough to realize that would not only make things worse, but risk my own reputation in the department. Tell Elliott what? He already knew how I felt about Corban’s theory. Harping on that topic would be petty. And what else could I say? That Corban annoyed me? That I hated the way his unkempt shirt and careless hair were so frustratingly cute?
No. I had to be the bigger person. Yes, he’d put my lunch in the freezer as some sort of childish revenge prank. And yes, I’d succumbed to the temptation to retaliate using my friends’ provocative suggestions. But one of us had to deescalate the situation, otherwise this was going to become a hostile working environment for both of us.
I’d simply have to ignore him. That was the only logical solution. I’d be polite when necessary, but otherwise, I wouldn’t engage. He would do his work, and I would do mine. Separately. It was the only way.
7
Hazel
“Occam’s Razor is the scientific principle that, all things being equal, the simplest explanation is always the dog ate my homework.” ~ Greg Tamblyn
“Excuse me?” I asked, tilting my head to one side.
“I need you and Corban to work together,” Elliott said.
The three of us sat at a small table in a corner of Elliott’s office. His desk was strewn with files and books, and a slideshow of his wife and three kids faded in and out on his computer screen. The table was bare except for a short stack of blue folders and my crisp white notepad and pen. Which I probably should have been using to take notes, but my boss had just rendered me unable to move. Or speak a coherent sentence.
His words took their time crawling through my brain, like a line of garden snails climbing up the side of a wall, leaving a trail of slime in their wake. Had he just said work together? Together with Corban?
Oh no. This would not do.
“Is that a problem?” Elliott asked, his dark brow furrowing deeply.
“No,” Corban said.
A flash of irritation roused me from my stupor. I didn’t need him to answer for me. “Not a problem at all. I just wanted to be certain I’d heard you correctly.” I stuck a finger in my ear and wiggled it. “I’ve been experiencing a bit of fuzziness in this ear. If it persists, I’ll be sure to check with my physician.”
“It could be allergies,” Corban said. “Do you have any pets at home? Oh wait, never mind, you already said you’re not a fan of animals.”
“I said no such thing. And yes, I do. I have a cat.”
“Maybe you’re allergic.”
“I’m not allergic to my cat.”
Elliott pushed a folder toward each of us. “Copies of the study abstract, introduction, and proposed methodology. There’s also a reference list of other labs doing motion capture studies.”
The motion capture lab. My breath caught in my throat as I flipped through the brief. One of the reasons I’d taken this job was the potential for doing motion capture research. The technology had gone far beyond creating special effects in movies. Psychology labs were using it in studies that involved motion and use of space. Elliott’s proposed study would explore nonverbal behaviors such as mirroring and synchronizing and the effect on both communication patterns and perception.
It was fascinating.
I wanted to work on this study. But with Corban?
“Are you sure we’re the best people to work on this?” Corban asked.
My spine went stiff and I whipped my head toward him. “Why wouldn’t we be the best people to work on this?”
“Of course you are,” Elliott said. “I know you’re both new to our department, but this will give you a chance to dive in headfirst. And as much as I’d love to devote more time to it, I have too many other things on my plate. My wife will kill me if I start working twelve-hour days again.”
I felt a tingle of relief, realizing Elliott thought our trepidation was due to the fact that we were both new here. It was a logical reason, and I was happy to let Elliott keep thinking it. The rational grown-up inside me didn’t want to have to explain to my boss that the thought of working closely with Corban made me feel like the blood in my veins had been replaced with lava.
Corban raked his fingers through his hair. “Okay.”
Did he have to act so miserable about it? Was working with me the worst thing that had ever happened to him? Of course, I wasn’t showing any enthusiasm either.
Still, it stung, even though I knew very well that it shouldn’t.
“All right,” I said. “When do we get started?”
“Immediately,” Elliott said with a satisfied smile and opened his folder. “Let’s go over the details.”
My arm ached from creaming butter and sugar. I had a stand mixer, but I’d opted for some old-fashioned elbow grease. I made a mental note to research the etymology of the expression elbow grease. It was an odd turn of phrase when I thought about it, one I surmised had its origins in agriculture or perhaps the Industrial Revolution.
With my large glass mixing bowl braced in the crook of my right arm, I stirred furiously with my left, whipping the soft butter and sugar into a smooth mixture.
The oven beeped, letting me know it had finished preheating. Erwin twitched his ears at the noise, lifting his face and blinking his green eyes at me.
“It’s just the oven,” I said, still stirring.
Erwin lifted a single gray paw and licked between his claws a few times. He sat on the floor just outside the entrance to the kitchen, where carpet met linoleum. He only came into the kitchen to eat—or to escape capture—seeming to prefer the softness of the rug. His long gray fur spread out around him, making him appear larger than he was.
Glancing into the bowl, I studied the texture of the butter and sugar mixture. Deeming it smooth enough, I set the bowl on the counter and shook out my tired hand.
“Erwin, what am I going to do?” I started measuring dry ingredients and carefully pouring them into a second bowl. “I have to work with him. How can I work with that man? He’s… well, he’s… I mean, really, he’s so…”
I didn’t know what to say. Not that Erwin understood. Nor did he reply. He didn’t, as a general rule, which was only to be expected considering his feline nature. Despite the illogic of holding one-sided conversations with a cat, I did so regularly. I told myself it was fine because I was fully aware of what I was doing. Talking to an animal as if it were a person wasn’t crazy if you didn’t expect them to answer.
Truthfully, I found it comforting.
“He’s a pain in my ass,” I said, finally. I picked up my martini and took a sip.
Usually baking relaxed me. I liked the precision of it. Proper baking required exact measurements to produce the right chemical reactions during the heating process. And the products of my labor had their own, delicious appeal.
But whipping up a batch of my signature chocolate chip cookies wasn’t making me feel better.
My persistent sexual frustration wasn’t helping my mood. I cast an irritated glance at my bedroom, just down the short hallway. The most recent accessory I’d tried had been as useless as the rest of my growing collection of self-pleasuring technology.