She checks that we’re available every night for the next four weeks. We are. She asks if we’re comfortable wearing a few wiresand being recorded while we sleep, explaining the wires are about checking our brain activity, breathing, and body movements. We both agree.
I nod along with the enthusiasm I reserve for teaching my students how to break apart covalent bonds, hoping that coupled with my intense eye contact she knows I am,we are, the perfect couple to complete her study. What’s really happening is I’m actively trying to avoid thinking about Xander’s hands. Twisted around mine. Turning my hands into the epicenter of some sort of seismic event. My whole body is vibrating.
“Great. Now onto the fun stuff,” Dr. Waitley says with the enthusiasm I assume she reserves for the human circadian rhythm. I’m excited, too, but for different reasons.
“The money?” I say, slipping out of character.
I see Xander out the corner of my eye trying to swallow his laugh and his entire body changes, from marble statute to real-life person.
“No,” Dr. Waitley says, giving a strange laugh-slash-cackle that I can’t really decipher. “Your history together.”
History together? I shift in my seat. All I know is that Xander is a sexual magician. He’s responsible for the first orgasm I didn’t have to give myself. Our chemistry was off the charts hot. And I ghosted him the morning after we fucked our way out of a friendship and into a one-night stand, never to see him again until ten minutes ago.
Xander lets go of my hand and absentmindedly runs said hands through his hair. The curls flop forward, not agreeing with his actions. I never knew I could hate and simultaneously adore hair as much as I do until right now.
“How did you two get together?” Dr. Waitley says, venturing into new territory that’s going to test how well we can bothlie—and lietogether—after knowing each other for a grand total of three weeks eleven years ago. “I love a good meet cute.”
I remember when Em and I had to lie about the missing copper sulfate and how we kept it close to the truth, saying that we used it in a Halloween-themed experiment for the kids that was technically not “part of the curriculum” but well worth it when they aced the hardest question on the test about boric acid. The lesson here? Keep the lie as close as possible to the truth.
“We met in university when I stole a bottle of peach schnapps,” I answer, pulling from our actual meeting. I slide my eyes to Xander and find a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“She thought she was being stealth, stealing from the frat party. But I couldn’t keep my eyes off her the moment she walked in,” he says. This is the first time I’m hearing his side of the story. I raise an eyebrow at this admission. It honestly felt like I was invisible that night. Until he found me outside drowning my sorrows.
“He bought me a margarita. We bonded over a ‘proper’ drink,” I say, adding in further details. Dr. Waitley smiles at our little tag team storytelling.
“Chemistry,” he says, finishing off our meet cute. I snap my gaze to him. He remembered what I said when describing the sweet, sour, salty, bitter taste of the perfect margarita he introduced me to. His lip twitches into a half smile, his hazel eyes amused by my response. We both remember.
“That’s so fun. And how long have you been together?” Dr. Waitley says, interrupting our staring contest. She seems satisfied with our answer, and not at all suspicious that we actually haven’t seen each other in eleven years, up until ten minutes ago, outside her lab.
“Depends. Are you talking about when we first met? First kissed? First slept together?” I say, words just tumbling out of my mouth. Oh my god, what is wrong with me? Beside me, Xander tenses but I don’t dare look at him for fear I’ll give it all away.
“Yes, apologies. I should have clarified,” Dr. Waitley says, making me feel slightly better. “How long have you been sleeping in the same bed together?”
“Eleven years,” Xander says, giving me a chance to regain control over the Broca’s area of my brain. That’s the area that’s found to be most active right before you speak. Supposedly. I believe mine might be malfunctioning.
Dr. Waitley takes note. My mind flashes with an image of Xander’s naked torso lying in bed next to me. Well, it’s official. I have no control over my speech, my thoughts, and brain activity. I swallow. At least my involuntary reflexes are working correctly.
“So, I see from the paperwork, Ashleigh, you’re the solid sleeper, and Xander, you have insomnia,” she says, reading from our clipboards.
“Yes,” he replies, and even though I knew he had insomnia, there’s something about his simple admission that makes me uncomfortable. I love sleep. And I’m so good at it. I’m the best at sleeping. Nothing keeps me awake. Which is also why I must live on the third floor of an apartment building because I would be a prime candidate for getting murdered in my sleep. If I don’t get my eight hours, I can’t function. And here Xander is, sitting next to me, confirming that he doesn’t sleep. I give myself a moment to feel for him. One moment. Nothing more. And then it’s back to objectifying him. And his hands. Tracing my thigh …
“How does Xander’s insomnia affect you?” she says to me, pulling me back.
Well, it makes me tired just thinking about it, I almost say. But then I stop and try to give it thought. If Xander were my person, which he never, ever will be, how would I feel? Worried. Definitely. I start to answer but Xander beats me to it, and I wonder if he possesses the ability to read my thoughts, which wouldn’t be the first time since seeing him today, because he says exactly what I’ve been thinking.
“She worries. But she sleeps through it,” Xander says with cocky confidence.
“Understandable,” she says, nodding solemnly.
“She looks blissfully cute when she sleeps, though,” he says, eyes flicking toward me like the adoring boyfriend he’s playing.
His ad lib catches me off guard, but I manage to recover. “Aw, honey,” I say, unleashing my own version of a sickly sweet smile. We are really nailing this whole “perfect couple with sad affliction worthy of a place in your study” show. And it reminds me what else we’ve nailed together.
“How often do you have sex?” she says, as though reading my mind.
“Every night,” I say before I can add a filter from my brain to my mouth. Oh, we’re back to that, are we? Thanks, brain, for the heads-up.
Dr. Waitley looks at me like I’ve said something she’s never heard before. I stare at her, committing to the lie, but before she returns to her page she says, “You’ll have to pause that routine for the duration of the study.”
