The Dating Experiment by Briar Prescott
Jamie
I’m smiling as I scroll through Seb’s and my message thread. What started as a weekend game of Words With Friends has quickly evolved into chatting every evening.
He keeps insisting he’s bad with people, but I don’t see it. Or maybe he just doesn’t consider me people. He has this dry, self-deprecating sense of humor that I really—
“I read somewhere that people eat quite a few bugs unbeknownst to themselves in their lifetime. A lot of them while they’re sleeping. Are you trying to set a new record and add daytime bugs to your tally?”
I clamp my mouth shut. Connor is leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb, looking at me. He should be pissed, I’m scrolling on my phone at work. Instead, he’s looking at me with some sort of weird intensity I don’t know how to decipher. It happens sometimes. At first, I thought he was practicing insults in his head to always have one at hand, but I don’t think that’s quite it. Nor is he silently marveling at my incompetence. He just… looks. Like I’m some sort of mystery.
I tend to get really awkward when that happens, so… falling back on the tried-and-true method of jokes and sarcasm it is.
“It’s interesting you don’t count yourself as people,” I say. “Is that intentional? Wait. Are you here to tell me the spaceship is coming for you?” I look to my left, then to my right and lean forward. “Are you Spock? That’d explain so much.”
He stares at me for a second.
“Did you go through the schedule for Chicago?” he asks, clearly deciding to ignore my question.
“I did.”
“Tickets? Hotel room?”
“All booked.”
“Imagine that.”
He straightens himself and saunters back into his office.
“You don’t have to ask that every time, you know?” I call after him. “I’ve been doing this job for three years. I know the drill by now.”
“Like you knew the drill when you tried to courier the contracts to Toronto, Canada, instead of Toronto, Ohio, where they were actually supposed to go?” he calls back.
I stalk after him and throw myself into the chair in front of his desk.
“That was right after I started working for you. And in my defense, you didn’t specify which Toronto. I thought you were this big deal, so I had no idea why anybody would try to send contracts to Toronto, Ohio, population count five thousand something. It’s not my fault I couldn’t figure out immediately you actually weren’t a big fish in a big pond.” I wave my hand in his general direction. “Those tailored suits make you look more of a big deal than you actually are.”
His lips twitch.
“Why can’t people from tiny towns have successful enough businesses to hire my services?” He cocks his brow. “I didn’t know you were so prejudiced against small-town life.” He places his palms on the desk and leans forward, almost looking conspiratorial as he says, “But you see now why I would feel the need to ensure we won’t end up in the Chicago that’s in Mexico, instead?”
I snort out a laugh.
“I wouldn’t blame your overwhelming desire to always check everything on my one little mishap. You’re just a control freak.”
He considers me for a second. I half expect him to argue, but in the end, he just gives a one-shoulder shrug.
“Maybe so. You should be flattered, though. You’re one of the few people I sometimes do trust with not screwing up. I only asked you to confirm the arrangements had been made. I didn’t ask you to email me our detailed travel plan, did I? Be flattered. Your predecessors never got to that point.”
With those words, he pulls his laptop in front of himself, effectively dismissing me.
Airports are like Disneyland. Not because it’s the happiest place on earth. Airports are not in the running for that title, and if we’re all being honest with ourselves, neither is Disney.
These two places have some remarkable similarities. There’s a lot of waiting involved. It doesn’t matter if you wait at your gate or if you’re waiting for a ride. Either way it takes way too long, and all you can do is watch your phone battery dwindle while you grumble under your breath about having to just stand there and—wait for it—wait.
There are toddlers throwing tantrums because little kids aren’t exactly in love with crowded places and—one more time for the people in the back—waiting.
Once the blessed time comes when you’re done with waiting, you’ll be flung into the air, and since human beings are not really designed for the purpose of flying, it’s not that much fun in the end.
And I’m being an optimist here, as opposed to Connor. He doesn’t like to show it, but he hates flying. If everything goes according to plan, he can hide his apprehension well enough. Throw in something unexpected that interferes with the holy schedule he has in his head, and he becomes a mess. I mean, a tightly wound, very controlled mess, but still a mess. By Connor’s standards. Those who don’t know him won’t notice anything, but I know Connor better than most people.
Today, the flight is delayed about thirty minutes, so by the time the engines come to life and the plane starts moving toward takeoff, his jaw is clenched, and he’s obsessively scrolling through his phone, where he has a spreadsheet with data about air travel. He doesn’t know I know. His gran spilled the beans once. Page after page of statistics meant to assure Connor that the chances of plunging to our deaths midair are minimal.
It doesn’t seem to work so well today. He looks even more uptight than usual, and he’s starting to make me nervous, too. That will not do.
I turn away from the window and the sight of airport workers moving around.
“Do you have a favorite movie?”
Connor blinks rapidly. He looks sort of like I’ve just woken him from a stupor. He tilts his head to the side and studies me with a small frown on his face.
“You really can’t handle prolonged silences at all, can you?” he asks after he’s straightened himself.
“Not true. I can be silent just fine.”
It doesn’t matter that I’ve just proven the opposite. It’s the principle that counts, and with Connor, said principle is that I have to disagree with everything he says. I’m not sure why that is exactly. There’s just something about him that always makes me feel like everything he says to me is a challenge.
“And yet you caved first just now,” he says.
“I wasn’t aware we were having a contest.”
He lowers the phone and angles his suit-clad body toward me. “I like to conduct secret experiments with you. This is an ongoing one. Wait, let me mark down your time.” He pretends to take a pen and write in an imaginary notebook as he murmurs, “The subject managed twenty minutes this time around. A personal best.”
“Running experiments on me. Kinky,” I say.
“It’s an observational study to see how long it would take for you to feel the unbearable need to fill the silence.”
“I feel used.”
He shrugs. “You shouldn’t. It’s all in the name of science.”
Another few moments of silence pass before I cave again.
“Seriously. Do you have a favorite movie?”
He sends me a smug look that makes me roll my eyes.
“Humor me. We have two hours without Wi-Fi stretching out in front of us. We should really use it to get to know each other better,” I say.
“We’ve known each other for three years.”
“And yet you don’t know any of the important things about me.”
He arches a challenging brow.
“You put music on the moment I leave the office. Usually some sort of alternative rock, but whenever you’re extra cheerful, you listen to pop songs from the eighties. Your love for peanut butter is bordering on unhealthy and obsessive. You hum when your mind is elsewhere, which is a nice way to let me know you’re not listening. Your—”
“Okay, fine,” I stop him because I’m getting slightly flustered. When the hell has he noticed all of that? I shake my head to get myself on the right track again. “You’ve caught some tidbits. But you can always learn new things about each other. My gran was sixty-three when she found out Gramps likes olives.”
“Did that knowledge make their lives better somehow?”
“Pizza night turned into a more interesting affair, for sure. That’s not the point, though.” I purse my lips and look him up and down. “Maybe you’d only be able to comprehend the point if you actually liked people.”
“I don’t mind people,” Connor argues.
“Well, sure you don’t mind us,” I say. “We make for perfectly good subjects in your observational studies.”
“You make it sound like I’m a mad scientist.”
I shrug one shoulder. “If the shoe fits.”
He looks at me for a little while before he says, “The Deer Hunter.”
I groan.
“No. No, no, no. I’m not asking for your official, pretentious answer. Give me the real one.”
“That is my real answer,” he protests.
I roll my eyes.
“Suuuure. Okay, I get it. Everybody has an official favorite movie. You know the one. Critically acclaimed. Thought-provoking. Usually overwhelmingly gloomy and sad. I’m asking for your death bed favorite. When you’re about to say goodbye to this cruel world, you won’t put on Citizen Kane or Silence of the Lambs. You put on…”
I look at him expectantly.
He stares back.
“I don’t think a movie night is high up on my list of priorities while I’m drawing my last breaths,” he says.
I shake my head.
“You put on…” I repeat stubbornly.
He sighs.
“Lethal Weapon.”
“See?” I say with a wide grin. “We’re bonding already.”
“Yes. I’m enjoying every moment of this human connection we’re forming,” he replies in an impressively robotic voice.
He falls silent again. The plane is gaining speed on the runway. In a few more minutes, the most unpleasant part is over. Let’s face it, nobody likes takeoff.
“What’s yours?” Connor asks. He’s now toying with the edges of some kind of a brochure he’s pulled out from his seat pocket.
“The Wedding Singer, of course. There’s just something about a guy serenading you that I like,” I say immediately. “Or, you know, Schindler’s List if we’re in snobby company.”
He shakes his head.
“I’ve never seen The Wedding Singer.”
“That calls for a movie night. You know, since we’re best friends now and all. Okay, next item on the agenda, the best burger you’ve ever eaten.”
Connor relaxes into his seat as I ramble about everything and nothing. The flight passes in no time at all.
Our day is packed with meetings. We manage to grab a quick lunch and take a breather around two o’clock, but after that, the day continues at the same breakneck speed. I should have been prepared. I mean, I arranged most of those meetings, but the crazy schedule Connor keeps still always manages to surprise me when I have to do the whole thing with him. I have no idea how Connor manages to be as sharp and focused at a business dinner at seven o’clock as he was in the morning, but I’m beat by the time we get to our hotel.
We stand in front of our respective doors, him across the hallway from me. He could easily afford a suite or something more luxurious, but he never tells me to book one for him. It’s always just a regular room close to mine.
“I will see you in the morning. At eight,” Connor says as he disappears inside his room, the door closing behind him with a quiet click.
I stumble into my own hotel room and fall face-first onto the bed. After a little while, I get my ass in gear enough to toss my clothes off and take a quick shower before I crawl back under the covers.
I should probably sleep. It’s going to be another long day tomorrow, but I can’t help it when my hand searches out my phone to check my messages.
There’s one from my mom asking if I’m coming for a visit anytime soon. Anders has sent me a lawyer joke. He usually does when I’m out of town with Connor. I think he figures laughter will make me less liable to snap.
Seb’s message arrived just a few minutes ago. Sleep disappears as I push myself to a sitting position. I put my pillow between my back and the headboard and settle in.
Seb: What are you doing?
J: I’m in bed.
Can this be construed as flirting? I have time to say something. Turn it into a joke.
I don’t.
But Seb doesn’t take the bait anyway.
Seb: Tired?
J: It’s been a long day.
There’s a strange intimacy in chatting with him in my dim, quiet hotel room. It feels like it’s just the two of us, even though he could very well be in the middle of a crowded restaurant right now.
Seb: I should let you go, then.
J: Soon. I’ve been running around the whole day, so tell me something good before I conk out.
Seb: Do you want to specify that a bit, maybe?
J: No. Just tell me something that makes you feel good.
The dots start appearing and disappearing, and I wait patiently, as is customary already.
Seb: Me?
J: You.
I stare at the ceiling while I wait. Everything is quiet, but I don’t feel antsy like I usually do when I have to spend the night in an unfamiliar place. I’m in a bubble of serenity, created by Seb’s faraway presence. The phone vibrates on my chest.
Seb: My feet are always cold when I go to bed, so I wear wool socks and pajama bottoms to keep warm. But every now and then, I wake up in the middle of the night, and I’m warm, so I take off the socks and the pants, and then I turn the comforter over. The feel of slightly cool sheets against skin while I’m still nice and warm is ridiculously good.
My mouth goes completely dry as I read the words.
Taking the socks and pants off means… naked. It has to. Unless it’s some super-weird custom of wanting to have your dick against cool sheets but chest covered, in which case I choose to ignore it and go with the good option.
Seb.
Naked.
The level of intrigue I feel about this anonymous man is probably stupid. Scratch that, most definitely stupid. Let’s face it, I know very little about him.
And at the same time, I know a lot. Depends on the perspective, I guess. I don’t know his job or exact age or even where he lives.
But I know all these other things.
That he has a sense of humor that clicks with mine.
That he once spent twenty minutes during our chat trying to catch a wasp because he didn’t want it in his apartment, but he wasn’t going to kill it either.
That he likes the taste of cilantro and black licorice. The lunatic.
That he watches movies but not series because he gets bored.
That he’s seen the aurora borealis.
That he likes taking road trips by himself.
Somehow those tidbits seem so much more important than his surname or birthday. Not that I’d exactly mind knowing those things eventually, but right now, I’m afraid to break the spell. These last few weeks chatting with Seb have been so good, and I don’t want it to stop.
Seb is a warm buzz under my skin, and reality is usually the bully that’ll pop your favorite red balloon, kick your ice cream cone to the ground, and steal the strawberry cupcake you wanted to savor.
So yes, I’m making a conscious, most likely very stupid decision to ignore reality for a bit longer. I mean, there haven’t exactly been any signs of danger. Seb hasn’t asked me for any personal information either. Nor has he tried to talk me into taking part in a pyramid scheme, or sending him money so that he can pay a lawyer to get his hands on that inheritance somebody left him that he’s going to share with me if I just do him that one little favor.
Seb: Your turn. What makes you happy?
Whatever inhibitions I should have are lost right now. I kind of get what Seb meant when he talked about there being a freedom in anonymity.
J: Lately? This here. Chatting with you is the highlight of my day.
This time he takes forever to reply, even for Seb. I’m starting to think I’ve fucked up. Said too much too soon. Came on a bit too strong. Maybe he’s not into guys and I’m freaking him out? I bite the inside of my cheek. At least the reassuring dots are still there.
Seb: Mine too.
Seb: I mean, I like it, too.
Seb: I haven’t had a friend in a long time.
Seb: I’m making this awkward. It turns out I’m talkative when I type. Who would have thought?
I grin at my phone, and my heart skips a few beats, only to then start doing overtime to catch up.
J: It’s not awkward. I consider you a friend, too.
Seb: Thank you.
I know I should go to bed. Tomorrow is going to be another long day, but I don’t want to let him go just yet. I’ll just sleep during one of Connor’s numerous meetings tomorrow.
J: How was your day?
Seb: Long. I have another work gathering tomorrow. Lots of people. Lots of small talk to look forward to.
J: And you’re absolutely thrilled about it, aren’t you?
Seb: Does thrilled mean something else in the language of your people?
J: My people?
Seb: Extroverts.
J: Haha. You’re approaching this wrong. But I can help you with that. Nobody likes small talk, so in order to deal with it, you have to make a game out of it.
Seb: Teach me, Yoda.
J: Okay. Here’s how this is going to go. You need a challenge. We’ll tap into your competitive side and use that to our advantage.
Seb: I don’t like where this is going.
J: You don’t have to. You just have to follow through.
J: Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to speak to fifteen people at tomorrow’s party.
There’s a long silence on his end before he replies.
Seb: Damn you.