Love on the Brain(5)
It will never cease to befuddle me how differently Reike and I reacted to being thrown around like rubber balls during childhood, both before and after our parents’ death. We were bounced from one extended family member to another, lived in a dozen countries, and all Reike wants is . . . to live in even more countries. Travel, see new places, experience new things. It’s like yearning for change is hardwired in her brain. She packed up the day we graduated high school and has been making her way through the continents for the past decade, complaining about being bored after a handful of weeks in one place.
I’m the opposite. I want to put down roots. Security. Stability. I thought I’d get it with Tim, but like I said, relying on others is risky business. Permanence and love are clearly incompatible, so now I’m focusing on my career. I want a long-term position as an NIH scientist, and landing BLINK is the perfect stepping-stone.
“You know what just occurred to me?”
“You forgot to flush?”
“Can’t flush at night—noisy European pipes. If I do, my neighbor leaves passive-aggressive notes. But hear me out: three years ago, when I spent that summer harvesting watermelons in Australia, I met this guy from Houston. He was a riot. Cute, too. Bet I can find his email and ask him if he’s single—”
“Nope.”
“He had really pretty eyes and could touch the tip of his nose with his tongue—that’s, like, ten percent of the population.”
I make a mental note to look up whether that’s true. “I’m going there to work, not to date nose-tongue guy.”
“You could do both.”
“I don’t date.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“No, actually.” Reike’s tone takes on its usual stubborn quality. “Listen, I know that the last time you dated—”
“I was engaged.”
“Same difference. Maybe things didn’t go well”—I lift one eyebrow at the most euphemistic euphemism I’ve ever heard—“and you want to feel safe and practice maintenance of your emotional boundaries, but that can’t prevent you from ever dating again. You can’t put all your eggs into the science basket. There are other, better baskets. Like the sex basket, and the making-out basket, and the letting-a-boy-pay-for-your-expensive-vegan-dinner basket, and—” Finneas chooses this very moment to meow loudly. Bless his little feline timing. “Bee! Did you get that kitten you’ve been talking about?”
“It’s the neighbor’s.” I lean over to nuzzle him, a silent thank-you for distracting my sister mid-sermon.
“If you don’t want to date nose-tongue guy, at least get a damn cat. You already have that stupid name picked out.”
“Meowrie Curie is a great name—and no.”
“It’s your childhood dream! Remember when we were in Austria? How we’d play Harry Potter and your Patronus was always a kitten?”
“And yours was a blobfish.” I smile. We read the books together in German, just a few weeks before moving to our maternal cousin’s in the UK, who wasn’t exactly thrilled to have us stay in her minuscule spare room. Ugh, I hate moving. I’m sad to leave my objectively-crappy-but-dearly-beloved Bethesda apartment. “Anyway, Harry Potter is tainted forever, and I’m not getting a cat.”
“Why?”
“Because it will die in thirteen to seventeen years, based on recent statistical data, and shatter my heart in thirteen to seventeen pieces.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“I’ll settle for loving other people’s cats and never knowing when they pass away.”
I hear a thud, probably Reike throwing herself back into bed. “You know what your condition is? It’s called—”
“Not a condition, we’ve been over—”
“—avoidant attachment. You’re pathologically independent and don’t let others come close out of fear that they’ll eventually leave you. You have erected a fence around you—the Bee-fence—and are terrified of anything resembling emotional—” Reike’s voice fades into a jaw-breaking yawn, and I feel a wave of affection for her. Even though her favorite pastime is entering my personality traits into WebMD and diagnosing me with imaginary disorders.
“Go to bed, Reike. I’ll call you soon.”
“Yeah, okay.” Another small yawn. “But I’m right, Beetch. And you’re wrong.”
“Of course. Good night, babe.”
I hang up and spend a few more minutes petting Finneas. When he slips out to the fresh breeze of the early-spring night, I begin to pack. As I fold my skinny jeans and colorful tops, I come across something I haven’t seen in a while: a dress with yellow polka dots over blue cotton—the same blue of Dr. Curie’s wedding gown. Target, spring collection, circa five million years ago. Twelve dollars, give or take. It’s the one I was wearing when Levi decided that I am but a sentient bunion, the most repugnant of nature’s creatures.
I shrug, and stuff it into my suitcase.
2
VAGUS NERVE: BLACKOUT
“BY THE WAY, you can get leprosy from armadillos.”
I peel my nose away from the airplane window and glance at Rocío, my research assistant. “Really?”