And that was why my parents’ lack of approval stung so much. They were right. I wasn’t happy. Not really.
“Gave up? Gave up on what? On you leading a happy and fulfilling life?”
“I guess. But it’s fine. I have a good life even if they don’t think so.”
This conversation had bypassed deep and gone straight to uncomfortable. I didn’t want to talk about this anymore.
Before Hazel could say anything else, I unwound myself from her. “I just remembered you brought cookies.”
She hesitated and I could practically feel her thinking. The wheels turning in that big brain of hers. I probably shouldn’t have told her all that. Especially the part about my mom giving up on me. It sucked to say it out loud and it was worse saying it to her.
Thankfully, she let it drop. “I did bring cookies, although I doubt they’re still warm.”
She sat up and started feeling around for her glasses. I put mine on and found hers on the nightstand. We got dressed, and for the first time, we kept hanging out after having sex. Usually, once we got up, that was it. One of us left.
Tonight, we settled on the couch with her container of cookies. They were crisp on the outside with soft, chewy middles and a sprinkling of sugar crystals decorating the tops. Delicious. I clicked through Netflix while we ate, and she pointed out a documentary about penguins. I’d seen it before but turned it on again anyway.
She went home after it was over, leaving me with the rest of the cookies. It was late, but I wasn’t tired. Not tired enough to sleep, at least. I took a cookie to my desk.
A stack of unopened mail was in my way, so I scooted it to the side. Sticking out of the middle was a thick envelope. I pulled it out of the pile. My name and address were handwritten in fancy script. I had a feeling I knew what this was.
I popped the flap open. Inside, I found a gold embossed wedding invitation with an RSVP card and a self-addressed stamped envelope. It was for Julia Rubin and Easton Donnolly, a couple who had used my questionnaire about six months ago.
There was a note among the formal wedding stationary.
Corban,
We wouldn’t be together if it weren’t for you. You’re a genius. Thank you for everything.
Love,
Easton and Julia
The note slipped from my fingers and I let it fall to my desk. I picked up the RSVP card. They’d written my name on the line and beneath it was a little box next to the words plus one.
The box was empty.
Of course it was. I never had a plus one.
Although—the wedding was two months away. Could I ask Hazel to go with me?
But why? You didn’t go to a wedding with your fuck buddy. Granted, you probably didn’t go to the hospital to visit your fuck buddy’s newborn niece either, but that had been an accident. It didn’t mean we were together.
It didn’t mean my questionnaire had worked on us.
I glanced at my still-closed laptop, knowing the truth, even though I didn’t want to admit it. I’d gotten my hopes up. I knew better, but deep down, I’d wondered if maybe this time things would be different. Maybe this time, my questionnaire would work on me.
It hadn’t.
And I knew it was stupid to get bent out of shape about it. Something about me was broken and science hadn’t helped. The data hadn’t told me what was wrong with me. My parents hadn’t been able to fix it. Me and my genius IQ hadn’t been able to either.
Except, in a way, my questionnaire had worked. That was the real truth I’d been avoiding. The realization sat deep in the pit of my stomach and tried to work its way to the surface every time I saw her.
I was falling in love with Hazel.
The problem was, she wasn’t falling in love with me. She liked me. She liked sleeping with me. But that wasn’t the same, and at the end of the day, it wasn’t what I wanted.
And it really fucking sucked.
32
Hazel
“For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love.” ~ Carl Sagan
Erwin sat next to my feet, looking up at me expectantly. I glanced at his dish, wondering why he wasn’t eating his breakfast, but it was empty. I had to leave for work soon and I’d forgotten to feed him.
“No wonder you’re looking at me like I betrayed you.” I filled his dish with wet food, and he plopped down in front of it. Now that his infected tooth was fixed, he was eating normally again. It was such a relief. I was familiar with the various potential diagnoses for a cat who refuses food, and most of them were not something a pet owner wants to hear.
“I know what you’re thinking. I shouldn’t have stayed up so late.”
Erwin glanced up at me, then turned his attention back to his dish.
“Stop judging me.”
I’d been up half the night researching. What Corban had said about his parents baffled me. They weren’t impressed with his accomplishments? How could they view him as inferior to his sister just because he was single?
He had multiple degrees in two different fields. He’d invented the algorithm that drove the most widely-used dating application in the world. And regardless of my early criticisms of his accelerated intimacy theory, he’d done excellent work. He’d come at the question of how to create emotional intimacy from an interesting angle.
He wasn’t just impressive. He was remarkable.
I was the first to admit I didn’t have a close relationship with my own parents. But that wasn’t the result of a painful childhood or the pressure of unreasonable expectations. My parents were quiet, private people, much like me. They lived several hours away, and we saw each other a few times a year. I didn’t need more from them. But I also knew they viewed me, and my life, favorably. They were proud.
Corban didn’t believe his parents were proud of him.
I’d picked up on the pain in his voice when he’d said his mom had given up on him. It had stirred something inside me. My inner scientist wanted answers. Did the fact that Corban and Molly were twins influence their parents’ comparisons of their children? How had that shaped Corban’s self-perception, and what did it mean for his ability to form relationships as an adult?
There was something else driving my curiosity. Something I didn’t quite understand. It was a feeling, an emotional response to the hurt I’d felt when he’d talked about his parents. There was a familiarity to it, and yet I couldn’t seem to untangle its meaning. All I knew was that I felt something—something big and deep.
I’d shied away from it last night, and I pushed it aside now. This wasn’t about me. It was about Corban.
The desire to better understand him had kept me up until my eyes had gone dry and the words on the screen blurred. I knew one night spent poring over research studies wasn’t enough to reach solid conclusions. But it had left me with a few potential insights, as well as numerous questions.
I’d printed out a stack of information—excerpts, overviews, graphs and charts. Data. Good, solid, reliable data on everything from attachment theory in adults to twin studies to psychological models of parent-child relationships. I gathered everything up, tucked it into a folder, and headed to work.
Corban wasn’t in his office when I arrived. I caught a few glimpses of him during the first few hours of the workday, but we were both busy.