Beginning, Section IV, Next Section

Chapter Nine

Posted on Monday, 16 April 2007

Date: October 27, 2005
From: Isabella R Woodhouse (irw@ckg.org)
To: Emma Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
Subject: Woah.

Thanks for your opinion on the bachelorette party. A reply from you in under fifteen minutes? Someone call the papers!

It must be almost 3 a.m. over there. Why are you still up!?!

Iz.

The aroma punctured her into awareness and it wasn't a pleasant one. Emma wrinkled her nose in disgust. She thought that chamomile was supposed to have a soothing effect.

Not that she had to be soothed. She just couldn't get to sleep. She turned to eye the coffeemaker with longing, but sighed in resignation. It was three a.m. and she had a full day tomorrow. Later today. Whatever. Bracing her hands against the edge of the counter, she tried to grow accustomed to the fumes. Or at least tolerate them. Surely she hadn't over-steeped; the instructions on the box said three to four minutes, yes?

Foul stuff. She grabbed the string and pulled on it a few times, watching the concentrated solution plume out of the bag and disperse into the water. Then she dragged the bag out and threw it in the garbage can. Picking up the mug, she turned around and leaned against the counter as she contemplated the print of tomatoes that Annie had hung. It was rather cheerful.

Deciding she was ready, she drew the mug up to her lips and tilted it, allowing the hot liquid to fill her mouth.

Gross. Absolutely gross. Drinking this wasn't going to make her relaxed or sleepy. She hated tea. She took another sip in hopes that it was an acquired taste, but this one only made her gag as she attempted to swallow. It could not be borne for another second. She turned to the sink and emptied the contents down the drain, watching the gold liquid trace the edges of a spiral before vanishing into the dark black hole.

"Can't sleep?"

Emma turned to the doorway of the kitchen, half-baked remorse at wasting colored water completely forgotten.

Annie stood in her oversize Detroit Red Wings T-shirt and teddy bear boxers, tapping an amused bare right foot on the linoleum floor.

Emma could tell it was amused from its frequency. "I've had better nights."

Annie came into the kitchen and, with a tentative touch, checked on the temperature of the kettle. A gentle shake informed her that it had enough water for her task. Emma groaned as Annie reached for the box of chamomile tea bags. And turned, reaching for the bottle of cabernet sauvignon.

Annie tilted her head towards the dining room and Emma, glad for company, complied.

She didn't bother asking her why she was up at three a.m. "The last time we did this was probably back in our third year, wasn't it?" Annie chuckled as she dunked the tea bag in the mug of hot water.

"You'd just rocked the mother of all figure-eight separations. I had just finished a much-anticipated but completely useless NMR study..." Emma sighed, sinking into her chair across the table from Annie.

Annie shook her head, pulling her old, favorite tea-stained MIT mug up for a sip.

Emma hid her cringe in a tentative taste of her cab. It was delicious, so Emma took a larger swallow.

"Had a busy night?" Annie asked, tease, interest, and amusement braiding themselves into the perfectly innocent question.

"Had a busy day," Emma replied, succinctly, safely.

"Where did Greg take you?"

Emma blushed. "Disneyland," she admitted.

Annie shook her head and laughed. "I should have known. Sometimes I think that guy's just one big kid."

Emma bristled at the description, "He can seem irresponsible at times, but trust me, I think he's fully aware that he's an adult."

"Oh? And have you first-hand knowledge of this?" Annie asked with a quirked brow.

Emma took another sip of her wine.

"Ok, I get it. Still off-limits," Annie chuckled. "You missed some rampant speculation today."

"If you guys are still hung-up on me and-"

"Not on you, though there was considerable interest in your absence. Your undergrad."

"My undergrad?" Emma asked. Had she inadvertently missed an appointment?

"Harriet."

"I know her name. She showed up today? Yesterday?" Already the guilt threw a quick jab to her stomach. If she'd known...

"Not only her."

Emma watched her friend take another leisurely sip of tea.

"Well?"

"Well what?" Annie laughed.

"Well, please. Why do you look so amused?"

"Harriet has an admirer," Annie said with wry smile.

Emma rolled her eyes and gestured for her friend to go on.

"He was introduced as Robert, a junior majoring in physics, and a very good friend."

Emma took a thoughtful sip of her wine.

"Well?"

Emma shrugged. "What?"

"What do you think?"

"If the guy followed her into lab, I'd postulate that he's either, like she said, a very good friend, completely bored with his own tasks, or interested in her romantically."

"Most of us are inclined to believe the last. And from the way she appeared to be as red as a stop light, we think she feels the same way for him."

Gossip annoyed her, but Emma was happier talking about someone else's romantic life than mulling over the confusion of her own. "No doubt a tragic effect of being of Irish descent."

They sat in easy and comfortable silence. Emma swirled the wine in her glass, watching the dark red liquid slosh and cling to the walls in elegant patterns.

"When you have all that between you, really, you're bound to act on it, right?"

The question was asked with a tone of light amusement, but a heavy note of pain precipitated by the time Annie was finished. Emma looked up from the glass to her friend. Worry lines at her forehead and at the corners of her eyes. Dark circles under them. Tense, thin lips.

Emma wasn't oblivious. Or, at least, that oblivious.

"Just hypothetically speaking. Or, you know. In Harriet's case," Annie said quickly before taking another sip of tea.

Annie wasn't a particularly good liar, but Emma wasn't going to hold it against her. If this was the way that Annie wanted to talk about her situation with Frederick, then that was fine. It had to be. Hadn't Annie given her the same courtesy?

Privacy be damned. Good friend or not, Emma knew: Frederick had wrecked her. Completely. And if it was true that Annie and he were talking again, she had to be prepared. Both of them had to be. Emma's fingers itched on the glass and the topic was on the tip of her tongue.

Annie preempted her. "Because it sucks. Trying to be friends with someone when you have stuff hanging in the air between you. I mean, you can try. And you can try hard. But every once in a while..."

Emma quietly sighed, merging into the staccato rhythm of the conversation with her friend, determination to extract the truth still setting her on edge. "If you make sure that your 'once in a while's are not while he's around, maybe."

Annie nodded.

So she and Frederick were trying to put a friendship together. From Annie's tense posture and skittish eyes, Emma assessed that her friend was trying hard.

"I mean, if you saw how Harriet looked at this guy," Annie said, fiddling with the tag of her tea bag.

Right. Back to Harriet. "And how is he?"

"Just a little confused about what he's supposed to do. Like your usual Caltech undergrad."

Emma couldn't suppress a snort.

"I think awareness is the worst," Annie shook her head. "I mean, you can't be that oblivious. Or that stupid. You want to act on it. Or do something about it."

Emma frowned. "But you can also do nothing and just let it peter out, yes?"

"Can you?"

Emma pondered Annie's loaded question, agitation and panic rising within her. "It's not easy, but I think that if you care enough, you should. If it's what's good for you, for the situation."

"And is it good for Harriet to ignore?"

How did her opinion on Harriet matter? Emma paused, trying to pull herself back to the conversation at hand.

"Harriet's not exactly the best multi-tasker in the world," Emma said honestly. "I'd say that being in a relationship would be distracting to be sure. But I don't think the suspense and tension of not having it resolved is particularly manageable either," she shrugged.

"No, I guess it wouldn't be. And the decision might be taken out of her hands entirely, once Robert stops kicking the wall in the corner and faces the situation head-on."

Well, she'd never considered that.

Silence settled between the two once more. Emma debated getting up and getting more wine. It was a bit selfish, but she wondered how much longer were they going to be at this. Where were they going with it? The topic wasn't as easy to talk about as she'd initially thought.

One glass to let loose and relax. Two would get her tipsy when there was no reason for it at all. Emma exercised restraint. "I guess in these kind of situations, you can't control much, aside from how much you let it get to you."

Annie tilted her chin to the right, indicating that she didn't necessarily agree with Emma's statement.

"So it can get to you more than you want," Emma conceded. "But really, you've got to keep things in perspective: I mean, sometimes it's as simple as asking yourself what's the point," Emma said.

Annie looked up, surprised at the energy behind her friend's words.

"Is it that important? Can you handle the changes? Isn't the situation fine just as it is?" Emma asked.

The frustration radiating from her friend was palpable. Annie could see it clearly, having encountered it on her own these past few weeks. Misery loved company, but Annie was tired of it all. Really. There was nothing she could do about her situation. And there was nothing Emma would do about her situation. You know. Whatever it was. This conversation was making her head hurt, what with all its stupid layers and ploys. Annie finished her tea and considered the bottom of her mug. "Then I guess Harriet has a lot to think about, then." After a few minutes, Annie pushed herself away from the table and got up. "It's late."

And while she was relieved that the conversation was over, Emma felt that honestly, it hadn't even begun. She sighed, getting out of her chair as well. "Let's hope she keeps a level mind about things, then."

It was perfectly logical for her to do this. A smart person would do this.

Well, Emma winced as she checked her watch, maybe a smart person would have waited until a saner hour. And perhaps she would have slept some beforehand. But Emma didn't have those luxuries. Ok, so she lacked the patience as well.

Had his assistant not mentioned that Greg had an appointment in Hollywood in four hours anyway, before taking off for the airport? She was doing him a service, waking him up this early; the commute was a killer and she didn't want him to make a bad impression. He was so horrid with showing up on time as it was.

Of course, maybe he was completely different-

The elevator doors opened. Emma glanced back at the hotel registration desk, where the clerk still watched her with suspicion.

She didn't look like the psycho-stalker type. And she wasn't carrying anything that looked remotely threatening. So what was his problem?

Most likely, he was peeved that she'd woken him up from his nap. But he shouldn't have been asleep while on duty in the first place. Idiot.

Emma stepped into the elevator, slid the freshly configured keycard into the slot, and pressed the button for the top floor.

Greg would be expecting her. Well, he had to be now, seeing as the clerk wasn't going to let her get to the penthouse level without expressed permission from his esteemed guest (and phone calls from his assistant weren't good enough). Greg's knowledge of her arrival really didn't change what she was going to do. It wasn't supposed to be an ambush. But it certainly made her more nervous; there was no going back now.

The elevator climbed fourteen floors in what felt like the blink of an eye. A happy chime proclaimed that the elevator had arrived on the desired floor. Emma stepped out onto the soft carpet.

It was a small, ornately decorated and brightly lit hallway. The window opened out to pre-dawn darkness. It had heavy, red velvet curtains. So typical.

"Did you drive here and wake me up just so that you could get a look at those curtains?"

Emma hid her startled squeak into a cough. She turned away from the window and walked down the short hall past three doors, arriving at the open one, standing in front of a grumpy, freshly awoken Greg.

And of course, there was that other problem of waking him up to talk to him.

He stood barefoot. He wore flannel bottoms and a dress shirt he'd most likely just dragged on; the buttons were out of alignment. His eyes were still a bit glassy from sleep, he had a sexy shadow on his jaw, and his hair was a tribute to A Flock of Seagulls.

Yes, talking seemed to slip on that to-do list.

The words to-do also probably weren't good to think of right now.

Don't get distracted by the phys-

Before she could find her ground, however, she was inside the suite, the door was shut, she pressed was up against it, his hands were tangled in her hair, his lips were persuading hers open, and her brain was somewhere back in the lobby.

It was probably good to get this out of the way anyway.

Joy refluxed through her body as layer after layer of pleasure folded her into a heady bliss. It was just so much fun to kiss him, Emma realized as she found herself smiling into his mouth. It was so easy to throw herself in and just feel the lift, the heady, powerful thrill. Emma could spend hours doing it.

At length, she pulled away to kiss the corner of his month and snickered against his ear. "You taste like toothpaste."

"You took five minutes to get up here," he grumbled against the soft skin of her neck, making her all the gladder she could lean against the door in support.

"I'm here. . ."

"Yes, you're here," he said, as he gently traced the sliver of skin between her jeans and shirt at the small of her back.

Emma laughed and sighed at the same time.

Greg grinned against her forehead. So she was ticklish.

She had to stay focused. She wanted to laugh and lean, though. "I'm here," she breathed. "To talk."

"Are you sure you want to chance it again?" he inquired as he traced her spine through her T-shirt.

Emma laughed as she gave him a smack on the shoulder. "We have to."

He kissed her neck. "It's four in the morning, Em."

Emma sighed. "I know. Please?"

He pulled back slightly to meet her gaze. Emma was tempted to change her mind and simply start kissing him again. She was proud that she stood firm.

Greg pulled away abruptly.

She felt the cold instantly, and crossed her arms over herself to try to retain the feeling, the warmth. "Where are you going?" she asked, frown immediately fixed and guard up as she followed him deeper into the suite towards the bedroom.

Greg paused at the door. "If we're going to talk, then we're going to have to get out of here. And I need coffee," he said, going into the room and closing the door behind him.

Emma opened her mouth to speak but Greg shook his head as he grabbed a packet of sugar and tore it open.

She'd been bursting to start in. As it was, she'd had to sit and flip through a day-old New York Times while he'd changed. And stew quietly on the car ride to an International House of Pancakes, because Greg was apparently not a morning person and dispassionately grunted at her tentative (though admittedly lame) offerings of small talk.

She'd used the opportunity to outline her argument. And try to restructure, reword it so that it did not sound as juvenile and impulsive as it did in her head. By the time he got through half a cup of coffee, and started with "So," she was almost ready to back out of this thing altogether.

"So," she said. She was going to be cool about this. Clear, even. She'd held herself so badly last night, she was determined to do better. And was going to get through it all, without doing it wrong. They both deserved that, at the very least.

He settled back into the booth and watched her. Slender pale fingers tight on the coffee mug. Shoulders hunched over. Eyes tired, but clear and easy to read. And predict. "You're trying to find a non-cheesy way of asking me to go steady."

Emma's mouth fell open and since she'd just had her thoughts stolen from her, she simply gaped. "I would never have used the words 'go steady'."

"Point taken," he nodded, "But that's not the important part."

No, it wasn't, but she was trying to figure out where she was in that outline she'd prepared.

Greg, for one, was pleased. After brooding for about a half hour last night, he'd laughed when he realized what Emma was probably going to do with this new development.

To let the kiss be ignored would have been akin to being in denial, and denial made her feel stupid and frustrated. There was no way she was going to let that situation stand. She was too stubborn, too curious. So he'd spent the rest of his beer happily composing her "confession" (though he was sure she would have despised him for using the term) and went to bed, wondering when she'd get out of deliberation. He should have known that it'd be four a.m.; practical or not, had he not known her to treat her research problems in a similar, dogged fashion?

And because it seemed much easier (and not to mention more fun) to put words in her mouth (and because she looked so miserable trying to structure everything), he cut to the quick: "It's the next logical step," he started her explanation for her. "After all, we do seem to have some sort of attraction."

Well if he was just going to take everything away from her, she was just going to react. "An unwise one. Attraction, that is." She wasn't finished. "And don't tell me it's not more than that. If it were just physical, we could just have at it and be done with it."

He hid his grin. "Point taken." Well, she certainly told him.

She really wished it'd just been physical. Emma sighed as she took another sip of her own coffee.

The waitress delivered their breakfast, with yet another extra special smile to Greg. Emma rolled her eyes and waited until the woman left them alone before she took control of the situation. "I just think that a definition or a decision of sorts would alleviate," Emma paused, considering the right word, and gave up, "this. I've been distracted. For weeks. I've-" she stopped herself. I've never been this distracted in my life.

He grinned. "Well, then for your sake-"

She scoffed. "Right. Because I'm sure that you have that copy of Principles of Chemistry on your couch because it made a good pillow."

"Back support and all that," he said.

Emma laughed. "Greg."

"Emma."

"Oh, what am I doing?"

"You can't tell me you've never dated before."

"No, I have. But it's usually--"

"It really isn't a good idea to start a new relationship by talking about all your old ones."

"A relationship," she tried the word out.

"That would be the structure you've been looking for, yes?"

It made her nervous and envious that he used the word so effortlessly. He'd obviously already given this a lot of thought. Sitting there, over-peppering his eggs, it seemed that, having already determined what she'd say, he wasn't really concentrating on their conversation.

Except for, of course, there was that intense light in his eye. Was it mocking her, doubtful that she could make this commitment? Or was it a determined gaze, challenging her to contradict him.

Why was she feeling so squeamish? Emma chewed on her bottom lip. It was all right before, when it was dating, or something less antiquated or inane than "going steady". But relationship didn't sit well with her. Which was ridiculous, because after all, there wasn't anything different between dating and being in a relationship with someone.

It wasn't a particularly convenient time for something like this. She'd have to just be a bit more vigilant about planning things out. Add in a Greg factor. But surely, it wouldn't be too bad; he had projects all over the place. And did he not live in England?

And yes, of course the word would finally give the mess meaning and structure. She was eager to have it settled so that she could move on and focus her energies on other more important things. With an unclouded, unconfused mind.

Well, when it was put that way. . .

Emma held her decision back another minute as she took another sip of coffee. It all felt disorienting. Though she'd been planning this conversation, it felt like things were just going too fast. Was she doing the right thing? Would this make things better? It wasn't as if the status quo was all that great, but a lot of things could go wrong once you started down the road of involvement.

Greg drizzled entirely too much syrup on his pancakes and slid her a lopsided smile before digging in. He made her resolve so malleable.

There'd have to be rules. Emma cut into her omelet. Sure, it would go as long as they were enjoying it, but that didn't mean her life had to be subject to dramatics and whims.

And it would be good if they were aware of each other's expectations.

She was tempted to lay everything down, but he seemed poised to take that out of her hands as well and tease her with it. And after the way this conversation was going, well, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. She'd just have to come up with them on her own. And stick to them. And if he overstepped, tell him so.

"A relationship sounds good. It's exactly the structure I was looking for."

Chapter Ten

Posted on Monday, 23 April 2007

Date: November 1, 2005
From: Amy Morelli (more.ames@gmail.com)
To: Greg (gpknightley@gmail.com)
Subject: You can't keep secrets...

...from your assistant. A trip to Los Angeles in two weeks? Sure, I can book it. But I expect details.

Ames

"Well, that's absolutely wonderful news."

"Yes, I'm quite relieved," Emma said. "So I'll be flying out to Madison, Providence, and Boston in December."

"Before Isabella's wedding?" her mother asked.

"I'm trying to coordinate it so that I leave for England from the East Coast. It's senseless to come back to Los Angeles just so that I can turn around and fly across North America and the Atlantic Ocean."

"Well said."

Emma sighed as she leaned against Fran's desk and absently played with a pen. The question was on the tip of her tongue, but it wasn't any of her business. Not really.

In a move that completely convinced Emma that she needed to be start being contrary and stop being so annoyingly predictable, Donna read her thoughts: "I'll be seeing you in England."

"So you're coming to the wedding?" Emma started tapping the pen against the desk. From her position at her bench, Fran turned to watch her. Emma stopped, dropped the pen, straightened her posture, and started to pace in a small circle instead.

"Of course. Why shouldn't I?" Donna asked.

Emma shook her head. "Of course you should be there. I think it's great." Emma tried to recall whether or not she'd ever seen her father, her mother, and Karen all together. Oh dear benzene. "When will you be getting in? How long will you be staying for?"

"The day before the wedding. And I'll be leaving the day after, unfortunately."

"What about Christmas?"

"I'll be back in Chicago," Donna replied, as if it was already a given.

It was, Emma supposed. Her mother always hosted a Christmas dinner for the students of her lab who could not make it home for the holiday.

"And yours?"

"I think Dad is staying in England with John's parents. I was invited to spend the holiday with them, but I think I'll be back in Pasadena. I'll probably need the time to prepare more applications and talks." Not to mention the fact that if she spent more than a week around her family she was liable to go completely insane.

"That's unfortunate. Are you sure you don't want to come and stay with me?"

"No, I think it will be good to be back on campus. I think I'll also need the time in lab."

And, seeing as Emma seemed set on her course, Donna moved on. "So, aside from interviews, I take it things are going well? You sound quite pleased."

"Do I?" Emma asked, telltale tremble starting in her fingers, threatening to work itself into her voice. "I guess lab work's been coming along. And the interviews. I think that really took the edge off," she laughed for good measure.

And because he wasn't there to glare at, she settled her vicious gaze on the rather sorry-looking cactus sitting on the corner of her desk. Crap. When was the last time she'd watered that thing? How often were they supposed to be watered? While certainly a humorous and personal gift, the cactus was more an inconvenience than anything else.

Which, when she stopped to think about it, was pretty much how she could sum up her feelings for Greg at the moment.

"That sounds great."

Not really, no. "Ah, yes. Like I said before, I'm...really...relieved."

Emma was almost positive that her mother could see through everything, but Donna seemed quite content with the conversation thus far: "Well, I've got a student out in the hall, so we'll have to talk again some other time."

Tension started dissipating immediately. "Oh, well, great. Have a nice evening, Mom."

"You too. Take care, Emma. Love you."

"Love you too," Emma said. She placed the phone back in the cradle.

And because she wasn't ready to be left alone with the guilt of having once again completely omitted certain relevant facts from her life, Emma took a deep breath, made a 180, and approached Fran. "Is this another crop of AustenFive?" she asked with an alacrity that sounded forced, even to her.

Fran added more hexanes to the column. "Yes. Was that your mother?"

"Yes."

There was silence as Fran switched test tubes.

"I heard that Henry's baseball team beat yours in the playoffs. I'm sorry," Emma said.

Fran laughed. For all her apparent disinterest, Emma was a lot more aware of things than most. Not a surprise. "Ha. It happens. There's always next year, I guess. And I guess it's all right, considering his team got demolished in the World Series."

Oh this was painful. Why did she feel compelled to approach Fran?

"So now I know why you've been so chipper lately."

Emma's hands froze on the pipette bulb she was playing with. "What?"

"The interviews. I can't help it; I overheard."

"Ah. Yes," Emma let the bulb go. "Three of them. In December."

Fran nodded as she cut herself a new TLC slide.

"Wisconsin, Brown, and BU," Emma elaborated.

Fran grinned. "Emma, that's awesome!"

Emma nodded as she leaned against the bench. "So...what about you? Have you given any more thought to post-doc positions?"

Fran shrugged. "Not sure yet. And yeah, I know. I'm a fourth year. But I just need a bit more time."

If she waited longer, her chances for funding were going to get smaller, but Fran was smart enough to know it.

"You've certainly been busy," Fran said, quickly changing the topic back to Emma. "But you're very happy about it." Fran shook her head as she spotted her plate. "I don't think I've ever met anyone as happy or relaxed in a lab bench as you."

Emma smiled. Fran really had no idea how great life was going for Emma right now. With the Greg thing settled, confusion over him was set aside. She'd been free to approach her research with her full energy and concentration once more. Things were once again clear and simple. Just as she had hoped.

Fran put the plate in the solvent chamber, then switched tubes again. "You've got a goofy grin that I'm generous enough to let slide for now. But please be compassionate and keep in mind that I'm in a dead zone. My lab notebook is more depressing than a Tolstoy paper."

Emma chuckled quietly. "Tolstoy's research, while painfully depressing, is significant. As is yours." Emma said, straightening up. "You'll get through this."

"Of course."

Now would have been the time for cheer-up stories and jokes. As they'd never worked on her, Emma didn't really know any. Emma pushed herself away from the Fran's counter and looked longingly towards her own bench. She was never good at socializing while she worked, for this very reason. If she was serious about spending Saturday and Sunday out of lab with Greg, then she needed to get as much stuff done as possible now. Not stand around and make banal conversation.

"Well," Emma said, all the same determined to stay with the ship until it finished sinking.

"Just get back to your extraction. I'll be ok," Fran said, amused.

Again, preempted! Emma scowled and threw a variable back at her. "We should get a beer later."

Fran laughed. "Sure. We'll do that, Em."

"And then she laughed."

Greg laughed too.

"It's not funny."

To her it wasn't. To him, it was beyond endearing. She'd never seemed oblivious to the way other people reacted to her, but her brutally honest acknowledgement of her social failings made her seem all the more genuine to him. As well as caring. "Well, what would you think if someone who's worked two benches away from you for one and a half years abruptly came up to you one day and started chatting you up?" Greg transferred the phone from one shoulder to the other as he reached for the cream and added it to his coffee. The customer next to him gave him a second glance. Greg smiled and stepped out of the coffee shop.

"I'd be a bit confused, to be sure. But I certainly wouldn't laugh at her."

Greg managed to hold back his chuckle back this time as it obviously bothered her that he was not giving the situation its due consideration.

Emma continued. "I like Fran. I do. She's honest, intelligent, eloquent, as well as an enthusiastic worker."

"Well, Fran loves to laugh. It's her way of reacting to anything. And I'm sure it's not a reason for you to feel self-conscious."

"I'm not self-conscious," Emma bristled. "I'm merely questioning her sensitivity towards the feelings of others."

"Fran wouldn't hurt a fly."

Emma was silent, which meant that he'd made a good point.

"You shouldn't feel discouraged. Why didn't you go out for that beer tonight?"

"Because she was waist-deep in a column and I had to finish writing my research aims for a grant proposal," Emma yawned.

Greg found a public park and settled down by the fountain to enjoy his morning coffee. It looked like rain, but wasn't going to start yet and Greg was going to enjoy the steely gray day while he could.

"I'll ask her out tomorrow. If she's not busy," Emma offered.

"You'll show her," he said. A tentative sip confirmed he wouldn't burn his tongue, so he grew braver and went for a larger taste.

"It's not about showing anybody," Emma said.

Greg grinned. "Of course not," he said seriously. A young woman came by pushing a pram, another child in tow. Not wanting to be rude, Greg gave a polite smile. The woman was too busy checking on the pram passenger to notice, but toddling tot grinned and waved goodbye as they passed.

"I get it. I can't change things overnight. But I'm just saying that I have to be more careful of the impressions I give. Especially during interviews," she sighed. "Ugh."

"Have you a few more scheduled?"

"Yesterday I scheduled Michigan and UCLA for January."

"UCLA? I'd not been aware you'd been thinking of staying in Southern California."

"They've got a good program and I applied everywhere."

That was true, but he was startled all the same. Her being in Los Angeles on a permanent basis was...convenient. He took a pensive sip of coffee.

"So what do you have planned for today?" Emma asked.

"A meeting with Patrick."

"I'd-rather-stab-my-eyes-with-a-spoon-rather-than-talk-to-him-ever-again Patrick?"

"I recall being bit more circumspect in my wording."

"And I'm a bit more honest in my observations. A meeting with Patrick? I thought they were in post-production on Feynman."

"They are. Patrick's got another project he wants to pitch at me."

"Oh really?" Emma's voice was flooded with amusement and pride over the line. He could feel her warm grin over the phone. It made him grin too. A passing King Charles spaniel quirked her head, certain that he was flirting with her. Greg smiled dismissively at the dog and turned to examine the fountain's worn detail. Disappointed, the dog moved on. "Wow."

"I had a similar reaction." Quite honestly, he'd been absolutely stunned. He'd walked away from New Mexico completely certain that he'd had his fill of biopics, dramas, and, above all, Patrick Cole. And was more than certain that at the very last, Patrick Cole had had his fill of Greg.

However, Little Napoleon had contacted him. The thought of being so completely humiliated on a daily basis again held little appeal, but opportunities were opportunities. To be quite honest, Greg's filming schedule for the next year was looking woefully naked. Amy had gently but sternly reminded him that it didn't hurt to at least meet and see what the project was about. After all, he wasn't signing to anything yet. (This was all after she'd very impolitely told him to grow up, of course.)

Emma was silent as she considered the situation. "Any hints?"

"Patrick likes to catch his prey unawares."

Emma laughed. "You know, it could be good for you."

"I called for support, not a remonstrance."

"I am supporting you," Emma pointed out. "I'm just saying that it's exciting that someone was pleased enough with your work that they'd want to work with you again."

Not that Patrick would ever be so complimentary to tell him so, but Greg agreed. Especially considering that Greg had spent more than half of Feynman not at all sure what he could give, and the other half completely at a loss to whom he was and what he could do anymore.

"Plus, he's a good director. I loved Persona Non Grata. It's one of my all time favorite movies."

"Further proof that underneath that stodgy exterior beats the heart of a wild woman given to crying jags," he deadpanned.

Emma grumbled.

"I will be meeting with Patrick. And I will see what he wants."

"And you'll keep an open mind."

"I always do."

He could see her roll her eyes. "Just because I don't like tomatoes..."

Emma snorted and smothered a yawn.

Greg smiled. She was sleepy. She wasn't going to admit it, but her voice was getting quieter and thicker as the conversation wore on. He gave her a break. "I need to get going, darling."

Emma sighed. "Just as well. It's probably time I turn in over here."

"All right. I'll see you on Saturday."

"Saturday," she promised. "I look forward to it," she said earnestly.

Was the husky note from invitation or exhaustion? "I do too."

"Mmm."

He had to find out. "Just one question before you leave."

"Sure."

"What are you wearing?"

Emma laughed throatily and hung up.

He was in Los Angeles. Somewhere. Hadn't he said he was meeting with his agent over dinner? She wouldn't have been able to see him now anyway.

All the same, this was not the way she'd imagined spending the first evening of his visit.

Instead of meeting up with him, having a quiet intimate dinner, laughing with him, and taking care of that sexual frustration he'd wrapped her up in over the past two weeks, she was sitting in the raucously annoying noise of Buca di Beppo with a perfect stranger and an (extremely) imperfect acquaintance. Instead of relaxed and happy, she was tense and annoyed. And, she hid her wince, wearing an extremely itchy ensemble of lingerie.

She leaned back in her chair and discretely rubbed her back against the wood.

She wanted to take her water glass and throw it in Frederick Wentworth's face; the man hadn't stopped watching her. Instead of Greg's curious and caressing glances, she was subjected to cold, critical assessment. And accusation. Surprise, surprise, he resented her presence.

With a wide smile, Emma sat straighter in her chair. "Annie told me that your fellowship was down in San Diego," she accused, reminding him it was his own fault for showing up.

When Annie had invited (i.e. coerced) her into coming along this evening, Emma had been under the impression that it'd only be Louisa of the gregarious garrulous reputation that they'd been dealing with. She'd not expected the King of Inconsiderate Twats to descend upon them as well.

He looked exactly the same: broad shoulders; strong limbs; dark messy, sun-bleached curls; and skin an unhealthy but glorious bronze from his time out on the ocean, for both play and work, if he was anything like she remembered. And, but of course, the turbulent quicksilver eyes. While he sat in a seemingly relaxed attitude, Emma wasn't fooled for a minute. He cracked his knuckles every five minutes.

While she strove to keep conversation and energy light and fun, Annie looked absolutely miserable. Obviously, she too had been caught unawares.

Furthermore, while Emma already hated Buca's, her disgust with the place had now grown by leaps and bounds. Everybody there was so loud and happy and relaxed to be there. There was entirely too much of everything, from the noise to the portion sizes, making the dearth of all that all the clearer.

Louisa interjected cheerfully, oblivious to the tense atmosphere at their table. "It's totally my fault, I'm afraid. I make him come up all the time. Since I just got started at the firm, I don't want to make a bad impression by running off on the weekends."

"So Fred's been driving up? How very generous of him," Emma could not keep the hard surprise out of her voice.

Fred tightened his grip on his salad fork. Annie put her heel to Emma's foot. Emma kicked it away gently. And sighed, signaling her promise to (try to) behave for the rest of dinner.

Was it her anticipation of seeing Greg or the sheer pain of the company that made this dinner drag on? They were only on salads.

She would not last through dessert.

"Annie tells me that you and she worked in the same lab together," Louisa observed.

"Yes. We met as freshman in Charlotte Bronte's lab," Emma said as she took another gulp of water.

"Wow, and you guys went to grad school together?"

"Well, Annie and I were at different schools, but we lived together most of the time, and of course we live together now." There'd been that span of six months when Emma had already moved here and Annie was still finishing up in Boston, but on the whole, it'd been nearly seven years.

Emma had never thought about it before, but after this year, there was a very real possibility that they'd never live together ever again. That bothered her. Emma stabbed a poor piece of spinach viciously with her fork.

"It's been a rather nice arrangement," Annie elaborated. "We both drink skim, so it's nice that we don't have to get separate milk jugs and watch them both go bad when we can't finish them."

Louisa laughed. "Annie, you're precious."

Emma smiled, as Annie'd known she would. That was the exact reason Emma had given seven years ago. Emma gave Annie a silent toast with her fork of spinach and Annie nearly snickered.

Fred cleared his throat. "I'd have thought that somewhere along the line..."

Emma looked up and watched Annie narrow her gaze dangerously. Fred wasn't stupid and backed off. Emma cheered inwardly, but wasn't smug in her success; experience had taught her long ago that, regarding Fred/Emma debates, Annie was liable to change sides within the blink of an eye. It was a quality that both Emma and Fred had agreed was extremely annoying.

"So where do you live now, Louisa?" Emma inquired.

"I haven't had time to look for a place yet," Louisa said with a small shy smile at Fred. How long had they been dating? Was she expecting a proposal soon? "I kind of moved in with my parents. They live down in Irvine."

Well, that certainly must be frustrating for Fred, Emma snickered to herself. Next to her, Annie breathed a small sigh of relief. Emma speared another few leaves of spinach.

"And you work downtown?"

"Oh, no way. I'd never have the fortitude for that commute. Our offices are in Anaheim."

Emma nodded, sneaking another glance at her watch. 7:52.

So. Slow.

She confessed to a miniscule curiosity over what her adversary had been up to in the past seven years. Annie had not told her and Emma wondered if Fred had even deigned to inform her. As Fred's stormy glance dared Emma to even toss an inquiry, polite or not, his way, she focused her attentions on Louisa, who seemed more than eager to receive them. "Annie said you were a lawyer, yes? What kind of law do you specialize in?"

While she despised Louisa Musgrove for her predilection to insipid chatter and shameless name-dropping, Emma was relieved the woman's repertoire was robust enough to carry them all through dinner. Fred and Emma continued to eye each other warily across the table, taking an occasional swipe. (What could she say? Old habits died hard.) Annie changed from stripes to spots and back again so many times that Emma almost felt bad for her friend. All the same, the driving need to make things go smoothly (and hence invisible to Louisa) seemed to get Annie through the main course and dessert. Indeed, Annie held her own with graceful aplomb and a spine thicker and sterner than Emma had ever seen. Near the end, it was almost as if Annie was mediating and intervening even before Fred and Emma could get their barbs in.

However, as they were walking back to the car after relieved and happy farewells, Emma assessed that it was also clear that Annie was completely wiped out from her efforts.

The feelings of guilt precluded her anticipation for seeing Greg. Yes, the evening was over. But seeing Annie's pinched lips and tired eyes, Emma immediately wished she could go back and redo the entire ordeal.

And while she really wanted to get to Greg as soon as possible, she knew that she couldn't turn away from her friend at a time like this. Emma shuffled the apology around in her mind, wondering if she'd trigger a stern reprimand or a cowardly but tired "it's ok". Emma unlocked the doors to the car and Annie got into the passenger seat.

"I hate that restaurant," Annie sighed.

Emma laughed, following her friend's lead as she started the car. "Louisa's idea?"

"What do you think?"

"Just her style. Why do you see her?"

"With Fred down in La Jolla all the time, she gets lonely," Annie explained. "Sure, she has a tendency to go on and on, but her heart's in the right place. She's not a bad person."

No, she wasn't, Emma reluctantly agreed. "You're too good a friend."

"I know," Annie sighed, voice heavy, and completely devoid of humor.

Emma shifted uncomfortably in her guilt as she drove towards the exit of the parking structure. She wanted to say something but since Annie had closed her eyes, Emma kept quiet as she handed over her ticket and money to the attendant on duty. It appeared that Annie wanted this event behind her just as much as Emma did.

Emma bit her lip as she started to rearrange her schedule for the rest of the evening. As Emma pulled the car onto Green, Annie surprised her by speaking again. "So you're going to see Greg tonight?"

Emma struggled to keep her focus on the road. Well, this was certainly a change of topic.

Annie's voice was surprisingly bright and sure. "I don't know why you think you can keep these things hidden. Do you think I can't hear you giggling on the phone at night? Or that I didn't notice that you were checking the clock every ten minutes in lab today?"

And because her friend seemed much happier, Emma indulged her. "I do not giggle," Emma said, stopping at a red light.

"I was wondering all through dinner what on Earth would make you itch so badly," Annie reached across and pulled at the collar of Emma's shirt. And snickered when she saw the lacy turquoise strap.

Emma flushed as the light turned green. She punched on the gas pedal a bit too viciously and Annie raised a brow. Contrite, Emma proceeded to maneuver the Civic carefully through the one-way traffic. "I guess I should tell you that we're involved," Emma said quietly. "But it appears that you already know." Emma paled and tapped her fingers nervously on the steering wheel.

"I don't think anyone else knows," Annie reassured. "And my lips are sealed, but I'm grinning on the inside."

Emma relaxed into her seat. And was so tempted to explode into details. Jokes. Stories. The urge was overwhelming in a way it'd never been before.

Emma signaled to turn into the driveway of their complex, but Annie put a hand to her shoulder. "No. I'll get out here."

"I can go later," Emma insisted.

"I know. Thank you. But, truth be told, I've had enough of people and I think I'd like the rest of the evening to myself," Annie replied baldly.

While Emma could understand the sentiment, she felt a part of her heart sting that her friend was so deliberately pushing her away, and that it was her own fault.

"Besides," Annie joked. "You can't let those past three hours of suffering be in vain. Do it for the bra, at the very least."

Emma kept her voice light. "Well, when you put it that way..."

A car was coming out of the driveway, so Emma pulled the car forward out of the way and put the car in park. She reached a hand to her friend's cheek. "I'm so sorry, Annie," she said.

Annie laughed, taking Emma's hand in hers. "Emma, I can't send you off like this. Greg will take one look at you and think that you hate men."

"No, but I hate--" Emma silenced herself, having learned her lesson. "I don't want to leave you this way." It was too dim to read Annie's eyes. "I promise I won't do it again," Emma said, remorse ringing clearly in her voice.

"Thank you, I appreciate it," Annie smiled gently, leaning forward and kissing her friend on the forehead. Emma felt some of the weight lift already. "Now get going, I'll be fine," Annie reassured. "It's nothing that a big bowl of Ben & Jerry's and a few reruns of Friends can't take care of."

Emma nodded.

Annie reached for the door handle, then hesitated, sure that though Emma was now smiling, she was still beating herself up over her behavior. It served her right, but Annie couldn't very well let Fred ruin Greg's evening too. "Just tell me one thing."

"Anything."

Annie grinned. "What did he say when he saw the tattoo?"

Emma shook her head, slowly processing the question. Realization dawned in an embarrassed and nervous flush. She'd apparently not thought of it. "He hasn't seen it."

Annie laughed as she opened her door and stepped out, and closed the door behind her. "Yet," she said, into the open window. "Have fun!"

Emma shook her head, mysterious, complacent smile blooming into her features as she put the car in drive. "Yet."

Chapter Eleven

Posted on Monday, 7 May 2007

Date: November 14, 2005
From: Dennis M Woodhouse (mathguy314@yahoo.com)
To: Emma Caltech (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
Subject: I lost your flight schedule.

Or I would have, had you sent it. Or, for that matter, booked it.

Get your butt home for Thanksgiving, young lady.

Love,
Dad

P.S. Karen thinks we should invite John's brother again. She says we're being polite, but I think she still has that crush. What do you think?

There were many things that Greg loved about Emma's body. The dent above her collarbone that matched the exact curvature of his lips. The dry, calloused, sure hands that felt so confident and stimulating against his skin. Her knees and endless legs with the twenty scars, twenty terribly embarrassing stories, and twenty laughter-filled conversations. The way her laughs and sighs filled her throat and made her neck tremble against his lips when he kissed her there. Her luminous, flawless skin: with its endless seas of smoothness and dry cracked deserts, it had as many contrasts as the person it encased.

All right. So maybe he loved the last so much because of its role, as canvas for his runaway favorite of Emma's physical attributes.

"You're tracing it again," she mumbled into the pillow next to him.

"Can't help it. I'm completely mesmerized," he said gruffly, not at all pausing in his ministrations.

Sometime in the past hour the sun had set; it was dark in the room. It didn't matter for Greg. It was stood vivid in his mind, sexy against pale pure, as it was on her skin, heavy, distinct black against soft white.

It was an intricate web of lines, shapes, and letters that made no sense to him but was aesthetically gorgeous beyond belief. He'd never seen anything so beautiful. It must have hurt like hell when she'd gotten it, but Emma promised she'd inhaled nearly a whole bottle of Tylenol before she went in, during the procedure, and afterward.

She'd admitted that getting it was an act of arrogance and vanity; it'd been born out of a promise she'd made with Annie when she'd been nearly hopeless and completely inebriated. However it had happened, and for whatever reasons, Greg was completely overjoyed that Emma had the molecular structure of Diazonamide A¹ tattooed across the small of her back, straddling the dent of her spine.

His gorgeously silly nerd.

"Still?" she sighed as she lifted her head and turned to face him.

The amused, teasing glint in her eye distracted him. With her hair spilled out over her shoulders and the soft pillows, her bare body unashamedly stretched across two-thirds of the bed, and her pink, kiss-swollen lips slightly parted, she presented a very inviting challenge.

"It's only been two weeks. Give me at least a month. It's too good to be true." He grabbed her firmly by the hip and pushed her back into the pillows with another mind-sonicating kiss.

Emma laughed on a gasp. And circled her arms around his neck, pulling his warmth closer, sighing on an "oof" when she felt that hot body sprawl almost uncomfortably across hers. When he concernedly lifted his head in a threat to move away, her throat constricted over her protest, so instead she arched her body into his, enticing him to stay.

He did. Emma luxuriated in the long slow kiss, the thorough, deliberate caresses. Moments like these made her regret that she did everything so hurriedly, and all the more grateful that Greg didn't care and took his time.

When he kissed the side of her neck, she surprised herself with the thought that she could easily get used to this.

She was cold and hot at the same time.

Softly but firmly, she pushed him away with a conciliatory peck on that toned tasty shoulder. Reluctantly, she pushed herself out of bed, flipped on a lamp, and grabbed his dress shirt and pulled it on, buttoning in brisk, efficient motions. "I'm starved. Do want me to call down?" she asked over her shoulder as she walked towards the living room of their suite.

He lifted his gaze from her long legs to her shoulders. "How about we go out?"

Her shoulders scrunched in reaction. She turned to him with an eyebrow raised.

She looked so confused at the question, not to mention so completely entrancing in his shirt that he didn't have the heart to persist. "Just kidding. The Asian beef salad."

Emma glared at him. "Just the salad? Or the salad, one-third of my orange roughy, and half of my baked potato?

"And only two-thirds of your slice of strawberry cheesecake," Greg conceded. "I have to stick to my trainer's strict menu."

Emma rolled her eyes and dialed room service, ordering one Asian beef salad, one order of orange roughy with steamed vegetables and wild rice, and a bottle of pinot grigio. And, because she knew he'd throw a revolt if there was no dessert, she ordered a bowl of berries.

She loved baked potatoes, but some compromises had to be made when one dated a movie star.

Not like she wasn't doing her part, making sure he got that cardio.

"You're thinking again," he said, wrapping his arms around her from behind and kissing her on the neck.

Emma shrugged out of the ticklish kiss but stayed in the comfortable embrace. One heartbeat. Two. One breath. Two. One minute. Two. "Perhaps," she said.

"Do you have to go in and fill dewars?"

"No. I asked Annie to do it for me," she said, slowly moving out of his embrace to sit down on the couch. He settled in next to her.

"What's your schedule looking like tomorrow?" Their enthusiastic greetings taken care of and set aside, she recalled that he actually had a legitimate reason to be in town this time.

"A photo shoot with GQ, starting at 5:30 a.m. out in Joshua Tree."

Emma quickly calculated when he'd need to get up the next morning.

Greg elaborated: "I'll gladly kill the person who thought it'd be nice to have a few pictures of me in a full tuxedo out in the middle of the desert at sunrise. Whatever happened to the easy ones along a red carpet with a few starlets on the arm?"

Emma laughed. "Telling you that I've gotten up earlier so that I could get in a full day of climbing in would only get you more annoyed with me, wouldn't it?"

"But of course."

Emma smirked, but Greg closed his mouth over her protest. She sank bonelessly back into the cushions. "Didn't we have that conversation about your deliberately goading me?" Greg asked huskily.

Emma laughed as she threaded his fingers with hers. "I told you I can't help myself; you're just too sexy when you're annoyed." He started to trace patterns around her palm.

The silence turned too thoughtful. Emma once again shrugged out of his embrace and pushed herself off the couch as she grabbed the laptop bag she'd dropped in the doorway earlier. "It could be worse. It could be mid-July. And midday."

And, as always, while the logic provided him with small consolation, her lack of sympathy had him ready to cheerfully strangle that beautiful neck. Emma slipped the laptop from her bag and brought it out to the coffee table. "I need to check my e-mail," she said in explanation. "Jane said she'd have her revisions ready tonight."

And break time was over.

Emma was a busy woman. More prepared than he'd been last weekend, Greg got up off the couch and grabbed his overnight bag from the door and brought it into the bedroom. He settled back on the bed and turned on a lamp, quickly unzipping the bag and pulling out the screenplay he'd been reading on the plane. He should have marked where he'd left off.

He was deep into another discouragingly intense dialogue when he heard the knock at the door. He pulled his glasses off and pushed the script aside.

Emma had already sprung off the couch. Flying by the bedroom, she shut the door with a loud snap before answering the front door. Greg sighed back against the headboard to wait, simultaneously amused and annoyed. She did realize that, even though she had made the reservations this time and they'd arrived separately, that they weren't fooling anyone here? Perhaps she would have been a bit more comforted if she'd known that he'd also had Amy call and buy a bit more discretion, or even if she'd known that the hotel itself was used to keeping celebrity secrets.

Still, it was amazing how quickly and athletically the woman moved when she put her mind to it. Greg got up and turned off the lamps as he heard Emma greet, direct the placement, and sign for the delivery of their dinner. After he heard the door click shut again, he opened the bedroom door a crack and teased, "Is the coast clear?"

Emma glared at him. "Dinner's here."

Greg stepped out and came into the room, closing the bedroom door behind him with a sullen click.

Emma shook her head, silencing the argument before it began. "We've already talked about it."

That wasn't really true; it'd been implied. Greg opened his mouth.

Emma looked at him and shrugged helplessly. And replied honestly. "I know. But I need some more time."

And who could argue with that?

Emma grabbed a stapled packet of papers and moved towards the table, but after a look at Greg's lifted left brow, politely tossed it back on the couch. Taking the wine bottle out of the ice bucket, she poured out their glasses before taking a seat.

"What were you looking over, by the way?" Emma asked, cutting and setting aside his portion of fish on an extra plate. "You looked frustrated." She handed the plate over.

He kept his smile to himself as he accepted the offering. "It's the script that Patrick sent me."

"Ah," she said, as if that explained everything.

And it did.

"You never did tell me how the meeting went, but I'm guessing that since you're looking stuff over, it's still on the table."

He shrugged. "I didn't turn him down, if that's what you mean."

"...but?"

"But."

Emma sighed back into her seat with her wine glass. Tilting her head, she watched him carefully. Whatever she was thinking, she must have decided to drop the topic; she drank some of her wine and went back to dissecting her steamed vegetables and divesting them of the bits of carrot.

Seeing as she was going to let it go, he stopped fiddling with the stem of his own wine glass and picked up his utensils.

He let his logic and guard down too early.

"You're not going to take it."

Greg pretended nonchalance as he took up a forkful of leaves and meat. "I haven't decided yet. I haven't finished going through the script."

She was watching him again. Trying to anticipate his thoughts.

So he didn't want to talk about Patrick or the script. But. But he wanted to talk. When had their encounters turned into silent staring contests?

He took a bite of the fish. "Especially delicious tonight."

Do you always order it because you love it, or because you're not all that interested in the other items on the menu?

"How's Annie?" he asked.

Her hands were tense on her fork. "Fine," she said tersely.

What's wrong with Annie? "Have you heard from Isabella lately?" he said, taking another bite of fish.

Emma didn't look up from her vegetables. "No."

What did she say to you to make you so upset this time?

"I just..."

Greg looked up.

Distress, annoyance, and sadness all gazed back at him. They found no voice. His brain was tired from trying to anticipate, trying to rationalize. Greg mentally threw his arms up in surrender as he returned her gaze placidly. Ask me a question. Talk to me.

"Sorry. My mind's still on something Jane said in her e-mail," Emma said apologetically.

The food in his throat was a dry knot. He forced it down with a painful swallow. It stung more than he'd thought it would.

And though he didn't believe her, he stepped back. Because while she didn't say it, he could hear her words echoing crystal clear in his mind: he should have known better. Frustration was a low inaudible growl in the pit of his stomach. His fingers ached to shake her until she surrendered her words, her thoughts, anything.

Everything.

And while he was increasingly frustrated with her reluctance to reveal herself to him, he gave her exactly what he knew, without a doubt, what she wanted and needed. "Understandable," he said, before continuing his meal in silence.

"...probably after the premiere."

Her dilemma with the DCM result was completely forgotten.

Her hand tightened around the handset. Emma sat up in bed. One minute he was on a gorgeously decadent chocolate torte at a small family-owned patisserie in Paris and the next he was streetside, stepping out of a car in Hollywood onto a red carpet. Her mind reeled as she tried to follow him. It was too late for this. "Premiere? You have a movie premiere this weekend?" Emma asked, confused.

He cleared his throat, injecting that authority that she knew he didn't quite feel. "Not one of my own. You remember Rachel Bates? It's a movie of hers. I figured that since I was going to be in town anyway, we might attend."

A few strands were being pulled by the handset, sending prickles to that spot right above her right ear. She readjusted the phone, pulling her hair away, and placed a stretched hand to her temples. Her headache was getting worse by the microsecond.

"I'm guessing no," he said. She could tell that the answer did not surprise him, but he was annoyed all the same.

Annoyance was something that he'd suppressed more skillfully in the past. Though she guessed now that he wasn't trying to hide it anymore. Irritated herself, she cleared her throat. "It's not good idea, Greg," she stated staunchly.

"Because you don't want your name in trashy gossip magazines while you're trying to appear dedicated and serious in your pursuit of a job," he said.

"You could have saved us both some time and just had this conversation with yourself," Emma pointed out, hand sinking limply to her side.

Served her right for being stupid and picking up the phone tonight. She could have let the machine pick it up. She should have. She'd been tired, mentally mired in a table of conflicting and confusing results that she'd wasted her last week making. She'd already had stay late in lab to catch Edward so that she could apologize to him for biting his head off last Thursday (though, in her own defense, she'd been justified: who went around stealing whole six-gram quantities of catalyst without at least leaving a note!?).

And of course, there was the pile of bills on the corner of her desk that she hadn't even opened yet. The laundry. The grocery shopping.

"I like making you feel dull."

Great. Childish name-calling. This was sure to change her mind. "I like being dull," she said defensively.

Greg gave a half-hearted chuckle. Emma gave an inner sigh of relief. At least he wasn't angry.

Emma pressed on. "Greg, you don't even like this stuff."

"I don't always, but it is what it is. And Rachel is a good friend."

"Well, that's very good of you, I guess," Emma allowed. And since it was out in the open anyway, she once more stated the obvious: "But surely, you can understand that by not attending together, we can also keep our privacy," she pointed out. "You go and be a good friend. I'll stay in lab and get some things done so we can spend time together afterwards."

"You worked hard last weekend so that we could spend the time together this weekend."

"Which we can. But not out there."

He didn't like it. At all. And while he didn't really care about these things, his desire (or pigheaded stubbornness, take your pick) to attend was probably irrationally growing by the word. In another five minutes, Emma was sure that he'd be determined to attend all the premieres he was invited to for the rest of his life, just to spite her.

Not that she'd be around to see it, or deal with it, or anything.

Confused, she smacked down on her comforter viciously. The blanket surrounding her hand plumed up in reaction to the force. She opened her mouth to explain, but really, she didn't have to. He knew.

He knew and he was still pushing. Just like how he'd conned her into letting him join her and her family for Thanksgiving, and was pressing about letting her parents know about their relationship during their holiday.

She could have guessed this was going to happen. She'd wondered how long they'd go before The Problem came up, even before she knew what the nature of The Problem would be: her lack of free time, personality differences, the death of sexual spark, etc. It usually resulted in a period of half-hearted happiness, a rather uncomfortable but quick conversation, and an equally uncomfortable but quick parting. Or perhaps a set of unreturned phone calls. One time, a rather explosive argument, followed by a grand but honestly quite desired exit. Never did she think it'd be this battle of wills and strategy. Maneuvering, rationalizing. Unspoken rules and illegal moves. Her own rules, of course. Small comfort. His illegal moves. Not a surprise. "It's a relationship, not a chess game," she said, tiredly.

"Is it really?"

He was pouting. Great. Her grip tightened on the phone. She was simultaneously afflicted with the mad desire to just hang up and have it be done with, and the sickening weak need to placate and do damage control. Too tired to do either, she simply simmered and warned. "Greg, don't be such a...girl."

"I know a number of women who would take exception to that remark." He was silent. She imagined he was pacing, wherever he was. She felt a modicum of guilt at insulting her own sex. But he understood where she was going.

He wasn't finished pontificating: "And is it really considered feminine to wonder what, exactly, is the point of our association if you won't be seen in public with me, and won't acknowledge our relations to our families and friends?"

Emma withheld more insults and tried very hard to hold on to reason. "Of all people, I'd imagine a movie star would understand the necessity of privacy."

"Sure. But this isn't anything remotely close to that. This is about-"

She didn't want or need to deal with an analysis of her flaws. "I'm tired. I need rest," she interjected abruptly.

He wanted to continue. He wanted to chew her head off, pour in some selfish tripe about feelings and needs. She was sorely tempted to kick his face in. Annoyance built. Irrationally. She took a deep breath to slow herself down.

She could hear him sigh over the phone. "We can't avoid this forever," he stated.

As if that ominous tone scared her. Calm down.

"We'll talk about it. Later," she said promised firmly.

"In person," he said.

"In person," she agreed. "I really need to get going, Greg."

She could sense that he was torn between a selfish desire to brood longer, and a sad awareness that this was not how he wanted their conversation to end. "All right."

"Have a good day, ok?" she said, hating the conciliatory gentle tone she took, but still glad she used it.

"I will," he said quietly. "Good night, Em."

"Good morning, Greg."

"I'm a bigger fan of happy endings," Annie stated, as she brought her cup to her lips and blew at the steam and heat. Precautions taken, she happily settled in to enjoy her first sip of her chai.

Emma shrugged as she toyed with her half-empty cup of coffee, picking at the uneven edges of the cardstock thermal sleeve. The mellow, sultry Bossa Nova beat did much to soothe the nerves that she'd promised herself she would not feel. She allowed her right foot to follow the rhythm.

"You don't agree?" Greg inquired, breaking a bit off her brownie and popping it into his mouth, chasing it with a sip of cappuccino.

He couldn't be oblivious to her agitated state, so he was either being considerate in helping her ignore them, or being completely insensitive in not caring anyway.

No big deal. Emma shrugged. "There wasn't much to go on. The heroine was flat and uninteresting. Not to mention decidedly stupid. Who produces this crap?"

Greg chuckled as he broke off another piece.

Emma rolled her eyes, broke the remainder of the dessert in half, and pushed a chunk to him on a napkin. He smiled warmly and extended a hand towards hers, but she immediately pulled back and continued. "Either way, I didn't sympathize with her at all and so didn't really care what happened to her in the end."

A group of Asian teenagers hunched over the chairs, falling over one another in rhythmic pattern as event after event of an evidently hilarious anecdote sent them into bright bursts of laughter. A quiet couple sat in the corner. From the look of the poor woman's face, it looked like a regrettably long first date. A man sat in an arm chair and scowled at the teenagers as he adjusted his newspaper. A woman burrowed into the other arm chair, happy to listen to her ipod as she read her thriller.

The barristas were joking with each other. One of them had taken out the trash and was currently rolling out the mop and bucket of water.

And there they were, sitting in the middle of it all. A woman, her boyfriend, and her best friend, exchanging views of a movie they'd just seen across the street. An interesting movie. Just not the best movie in the world.

So maybe she'd messed up a little. But when she'd been about to step out of her apartment for their very casual Saturday night out, she just...didn't want to do it alone. If Annie had been surprised that she'd been suddenly drafted for the role of wing-woman this evening, she'd hidden it.

Not like she was doing a particularly good job of it. "I can't believe Emma's never taken you here! Old Town Monrovia's one of our favorite haunts."

Greg watched her carefully over his cup. Emma sat up straighter, clearing her throat. "Annie's addicted to movies. I'm addicted to coffee," she explained.

"I'd wondered. Emma's seen a lot of movies for someone who doesn't really care for them," Greg said thoughtfully.

"I never said that," Emma bristled. "I just said that I'm usually busy."

"She loves the whodunit thrillers. You know, the ones where the cinematography's all messed up and just about everybody looks guilty," Annie elaborated. Maybe inviting Annie wasn't such a good idea. "She abhors romantic comedies. She gets really uncomfortable during sappy scenes with bad dialogue."

"Who doesn't?" Emma interrupted before Annie went on to say that some of those very scenes starred him. It wasn't like he'd written the dialogue, but still. She went on the offense. "It's not like there's much diversity when you pick." She turned to Greg with a nod back towards Annie. "She's a sucker for action flicks."

"The more gratuitous the violence, the better," Annie said wryly.

Emma opened her mouth.

"And of course, the muscles," Annie laughed.

Emma snorted.

Annie turned back to Greg. "The preview for Feynman looked awesome tonight, Greg! I'm really looking forward to seeing it. Where and when is the premiere?"

Greg drank the remainder of his coffee cup. He cleared his throat and spoke with an ease he did not feel. "Next month, actually."

A month. That's all that was left.

In the past few weeks, he'd grown increasingly apprehensive; having finally faced reality, he'd swallowed his pride and signed on for Patrick's pet project, with strict orders to Amy that he was to have a month to himself for preparation before filming and a full month afterwards to recuperate.

He'd conceded. Steps had to be taken.

And he'd find out in a mere month whether or not it would be a good move, or if he'd already been identified for the fraud he was.

Patrick Cole had liked it, though. He wouldn't have asked Greg back if he hadn't. Surely.

He looked to the woman who sat next to him, chewing on her brownie as if they were discussing the weather instead of one of the toughest projects he'd taken to date. His paranoia would make no sense to her.

But Annie's bringing it up gave him the perfect opportunity to bring up the horrid event, and secure Emma's presence. "The opening's going to be at the Pasadena Civic Center. There will be an after-party on the Caltech campus to thank the administration and faculty for the use of the campus and records."

Annie's eyes lit up.

Greg cleared his throat. Emma was gripping the edge of the table with white knuckles. "You can come, if you'd like. I'm sure Emma would love to have you come along."

Annie ignored the threatening glow in Emma's eyes. "That sounds absolutely fantastic! I'd love to come!"

"Great! I'll call Amy and secure an extra ticket. I'll even throw in an appropriately stunning mode of transportation that will doubtless consume too much petrol," Greg smiled, matter settled.

"Or she could just-" Emma interjected.

"I've always wanted to attend a movie premiere," Annie observed, pretending Emma hadn't said a word. Annie almost felt guilty for ignoring her. But she was not to be deterred. And she wanted to help.

Emma loathed delivering the bad news. Annie looked so much happier than she'd been lately. Her eyes held the sparkle of excitement she'd lost in the last few weeks, and her smiles were genuine.

But while the idea to bring Annie along tonight had been brilliant at the time, Emma was regretting it by the second.

She sent a sideways glance to Greg, who sat back in his chair with deceptive languor. His mouth was pressed in a thin line, and there was a steely glint in his gaze that dared her to contradict or disappoint him in this. Carefully, she ventured, "I hadn't been aware of the premiere, Greg."

"How terrible of me. I don't know why she puts up with me," he winked to Annie.

Emma paled. Later.

They weren't fooling anyone, Annie averted her eyes and sighed her disappointment into her tea. When Emma had floundered at issuing an innocuous invitation to dinner and movies tonight, Annie had taken pity on her. After all, it'd been months since they'd gone to the movies together. As her alternative was to go into lab and dwell on Fred as she ran another column that didn't work, Annie quickly snatched at the distraction.

Not that the curiosity alone wouldn't have gotten her off her butt and slipping on her flip flops: she'd never seen Gremma in action before. She'd never really seen Emma and anyone in action before.

Though honestly, given what she'd been witness to tonight, it was a wonder how Emma got the action. She could see the heavy boundary lines delineated on Emma's pressed lips, the warning sparks coming from her eyes. The frigid ice queen routine ready to whip out at will, always ready for an emergency, most likely stowed in the purse, next to her rule book and backup tampon.

There were times that Annie was really, really frustrated with her friend.

She was happy, right? Prior to Greg, she'd never seen Emma let go of even a cubic centimeter of herself. Not that she'd given Greg the farm, but it looked like he had a liter, at the very least. Give or take a few brain cells. And the libido. That was handy.

Looking at Emma at this moment, Annie couldn't tell all that. And that was a pity, because she wondered if Greg could. She certainly hoped so, because she was ninety-nine-point-four percent sure that if they really were this oblivious to each other's needs, then they were pretty much screwed.

"I can think of more than a few reasons," Annie said, answering his joke with a lightness she didn't feel.

Footnote/Tangent: (yes, tiny type. Blame Amy I. To enlarge text, press Ctrl and the += key.)

1. If you're curious about what Emma's tattoo looks like, (as well as a woefully abbreviated version of the chemerific story behind the total synthesis of it), here it is: (this will be the only chemistry note that I plan to include for this story, and it's only because I love it. And I was feeling didactic this morning. :P)

Short story: the one she has on her back is 54 in the figure below.

Figure 1. Diazonamides A and B
from Ritter, Tobias; Carreira, Erick M. The diazonamides: the plot thickens. Angewandte Chemie, International Edition (2002), 41(14), 2489-2495.

The Diazonamides were isolated and characterized in 1991. (There are scientists who just go around Hawaii and the Philippines and collect sponges and see what they can isolate. Then they test to see whether or not they kill cancer cells and the like.) They were found in the marine Ascidians Diazona chinensis collected from the ceilings of small caves off the coast of the Philippines. Diazonamides A and B are secondary metabolites of the species, and Diazonamide A in particular exhibited cytotoxic effects on certain cancer cell lines. The structures initially assigned to these molecules were 1 and 2 from the figure above.

Now what happens in the organic chemistry world after a natural product is found to be so potent is that it immediately becomes the next synthetic holy grail; organic chemistry labs all over the world will direct programs to try to make this one beautiful molecule using all the synthetic reactions and imagination in their arsenal. (Oftentimes, new reactions and methods can be discovered along the way.) This is simply amazing. There are so many cool ways to "build" the molecule. You can make certain bonds early, or save them for later. Close the ring now, or later. I've shown the stategy for one of the labs, K.C. Nicolaou's, below: you work backwards to break it down to pieces you can handle. Then you go forward from the start and see if it all fits together. These kind of efforts take PhD Theses; we're talking multiple years. The guy who finishes first gets the glory, and for organic chemists, that's important. With glory comes endowments from companies, etc.

Figure 2. Retrosynthetic Strategy by the Nicolaou group
from Nicolaou, K. C.; Chen, David Y.-K.; Huang, Xianhai; Ling, Taotao; Bella, Marco; Snyder, Scott A. Chemistry and Biology of Diazonamide A: First Total Synthesis and Confirmation of the True Structure. Journal of the American Chemical Society (2004), 126(40), 12888-12896.

Anyhow, the worst was yet to come for these guys, for some time into their synthetic programs, it was discovered that the guys who first isolated the molecule didn't assign the structure correctly!!!! It was found that the molecules were in fact 54 and 55 in Fig. 1!!! So then all these labs had to go back and change their strategies and reinvent their wheels.

Anyhow, Emma's own PhD would have overlapped with this drama. I have her finishing her own synthesis of the molecule (which I put in 2003, when Nicolaou, the first across the finish line, did).

For a better-worded summary, you can check out:
Ritter, Tobias; Carreira, Erick M. The diazonamides: the plot thickens. Angewandte Chemie, International Edition (2002), 41(14), 2489-2495.

Continued in Next Section