I adjusted my glasses, then crossed my arms as I scanned the front of the room. A grad student and someone from campus IT tested the projector, and Elliott stood to the side speaking with another professor. But no sign of my nemesis.
The fact that I was internally referring to him as my nemesis was probably not a good sign. The logical part of my brain knew this.
But I’d never been very good at applying my hard-earned cache of knowledge and logic to my own circumstances.
So I remained in my seat, arms and legs crossed. The very picture of defensiveness. I’d listen to what he had to say in order to better frame a rebuttal.
Elliott stepped up to the microphone and a hush settled over the room.
“Thank you for joining us today. It’s my pleasure to introduce Corban Nash, here to discuss his popular accelerated intimacy theory. Please join me in giving him a warm welcome.”
I was mentally framing the opening paragraph of my counterargument when a man in the front row stood and replaced Elliott behind the microphone.
He had careless brown hair that stuck out at odd angles and wore black Converse with his slacks. His short-sleeved button-down shirt was partially untucked, as if he’d gotten partway through dressing himself and forgotten what he was doing.
He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “Good afternoon.”
I stared at him, pressing my lips together, willing myself to ignore the wide set of his shoulders. His trim waist. The way the muscles in his arms filled out his shirtsleeves. Were those veins in his forearms? He wasn’t bulky, but he was certainly toned and fit. Not exactly typical for someone with a background in data analytics and social psychology.
Crossing my arms tighter over my chest, I mentally reprimanded myself for noticing his physical qualities. And pointedly ignored the way my traitorous lady parts reacted to them.
Elliott had said he had a unique way of captivating an audience, and as Corban began speaking, I could see what he’d meant. Although he occasionally stumbled over his words, there was a sense of excitement in his deep voice that seemed to resonate with the crowd. He clicked through slides and I noticed many people—women in particular—leaning forward in their seats. He held their attention, their body language suggesting rapt interest.
I couldn’t help but wonder if they were interested in his talk, or in him.
Re-crossing my legs, I huffed out a breath. Yes, he had a certain charisma, and his passion for his work was clear. But that didn’t change the fact that his so-called theory was poorly researched at best, dangerous at worst.
Although my friends had mentioned, on more than one occasion, that I seemed preoccupied with Corban Nash—truthfully, they’d called me obsessed—it wasn’t due to a personal vendetta. I’d seen this sort of thing before. Someone in another field would burst onto the scene with an easy-to-digest and compelling theory, claiming their data had led them to a groundbreaking new insight. Their articles and videos would go viral, spreading unproven information as if it were scientific fact.
Corban’s theory of accelerated intimacy was not scientific fact. He hadn’t cracked the code to falling in love, and it was reckless of him to spread his ideas before they’d been properly tested.
I glowered at the screen as he continued his presentation, shifting from the data behind his theory to his supposed evidence. He clicked through slides of happy couples, mostly wedding photos, naming the people pictured. Relatives. Friends. Colleagues. Corban had tested his questionnaire on people he knew. No control groups. No means of controlling for variables.
The fact that he admitted his theory required more data didn’t make up for his lack of respect for the scientific method, as far as I was concerned.
The crowd oohed and ahhed at the romantic photos. Corban stuffed his free hand in his pocket, clicking the remote with the other, looking a little sheepish at the enthusiastic reaction of his audience.
And there was nothing at all endearing about his half-smile or the way he shrugged his shoulders. Not a thing.
He concluded with statements about how more research was needed but he was excited for the potential applications. I rolled my eyes again.
“Does anyone have any questions?” he asked into the mic.
Hands shot into the air, mine included.
Corban called on a few people near the front and answered their—easy, in my opinion; was no one going to challenge him?—questions. Then he got to a young woman in the middle of the room.
“Are you single?” she asked, eliciting a murmur of half-suppressed giggles.
He ran his fingers through his hair and gave her a crooked smile. “Well, I…”
“I mean I’m wondering if you’ve used your questionnaire with anyone,” she said. “Of course, if you haven’t, and you aren’t in a relationship, that would also be interesting to know.”
I wished I had another set of eyes so I could roll them all simultaneously.
“Um, no,” Corban said. “I’m not currently in a relationship.”
“Well, if you need a test subject, I can give you my number,” she said. “For science.”
More giggles rippled through the audience.
I cleared my throat. Loudly.
“Yes,” he said, his eyes finding me. His expression indicated relief as he pointed. “There in the back.”
“Mr. Nash, how can you claim to have developed a theory when none of your research could possibly withstand any outside scientific scrutiny?”
The relief in his expression melted away and our eyes locked. Did he know who I was? There was recognition in his face. He only knew me by my internet handle—Kiegen314—but he was quite familiar with my criticisms.
“I’m well aware that my data has limits.”
“But still you speak and write as if your claims are already substantiated. You’ve even given your theory a name. This lends undue authority to your assertions, framing them as scientifically valid when they are, in fact, not.”
The murmur that went through the crowd this time was no longer of the giggly variety. I ignored the rest of the audience, my gaze locked on Corban.
His eyes narrowed. “My results are so conclusive, I’m confident in what the data is telling me.”
“But what about the biases inherent in the way you’ve collected—”
“I’m afraid we’re out of time,” Elliott said into the mic. He’d appeared out of nowhere. “Professor Cole’s class is beginning soon, so we need to clear the room. But thank you all for coming, and thank you, Corban, for your informative presentation.”
The audience clapped, some with a great deal of enthusiasm. Not me. I sat on the edge of my seat—when had I scooted forward like that?—my eyes locked on the man at the front of the room. He stared right back, apparently oblivious to the praise from the crowd.
A renewed rush of heat burst through me, warming me from the inside. Corban Nash was indeed my nemesis. The way he fixed me in a hard glare, I could tell the feeling was mutual.
I wasn’t afraid of a rivalry. It was time someone challenged his supposed theory.
Bring it on, Corban. Bring it on.
2
Corban
“Science is like a love affair with nature; an elusive, tantalizing mistress. It has all the turbulence, twists and turns of romantic love, but that’s part of the game.” ~ Vilayanur S. Ramachandran