Beginning, Section II, Next Section

Chapter Three

Posted on Monday, 12 February 2007

Date: August 29, 2005
From: Frances M. Price (fprice@caltech.edu)
To: Elinor C. Dashwood (dashwood@caltech.edu), Anne L. Elliot (ale@caltech.edu), Emma M. Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu), Edward C. Ferrars (ecf@caltech.edu), Henry R. Tilney (tilney@caltech.edu), Frances M. Price (fprice@caltech.edu), Edmund L. Bertram (ebert@caltech.edu), William F. Darcy (wfdarcy@caltech.edu), Elizabeth J. Bennet (eliza@caltech.edu), Catherine E. Morland (cemorland@caltech.edu), Harriet Smith (harsmith@caltech.edu)
Subject: BBQ and baseball!

Sunday Night Baseball at Henry’s in two Sundays, Sept 5. It’ll be a BBQ and potluck. Henry and I will provide the meat. You just have to bring sides and desserts. I’ve posted the signup by my desk in 326.

Come! Bring significant others! We’ll need a headcount so that we know how much to buy, so I’d appreciate it if you got back to me by September 3.

Cheers,
Fran

---

Date: September 3, 2005
From: Elizabeth J. Bennet (eliza@caltech.edu)
To: Anne L. Elliot (ale@caltech.edu)
Subject: re: Emma

You want me to what? Dude, does Emma know you’ve e-mailed me about this? Because I think she’ll kill you.

Liz

A post-doctoral scholar makes approximately $40,000 a year. This stipend is to be sufficient for rent, utilities, taxes, food, an occasional parking ticket, and a more than occasional ice cream fix.

That Emma had to spend $40 of this 40K to prepare for her night on the town with Greg Knightley did not raise him in her esteem at all.

But that was not the worst of it. “Stop fidgeting or I’ll mascara a mustache on you!” Liz Bennet threatened darkly, as she once more twisted her lips into that vicious sneer of concentration.

Emma didn’t know who to blame; Liz, for being around and polishing, buffing, tweezing, and painting her like they were at a high school slumber party; Annie, for (knowing both Emma’s and her own ineptitude with anything involving cosmetics) inviting Liz in the first place; Isabella, for being incredibly bossy in FedEx-ing her a dress, matching purse, and shoes and e-mailing Annie to make sure that Emma “did things right”; John, for telling Isabella about the stupid thing; or Greg, for inviting and conning her into it in the first place. And then telling John about it.

There was always the obvious candidate: herself. But that was never pleasant. Emma suppressed the scowl, knowing Liz would chew her out again if she dared frown.

As Liz nearly took her eye out with the mascara wand, Emma decided that she’d push the blame on someone else entirely: Revlon.

Because if they and other makeup companies didn’t exist, she wouldn’t be going through this right now.

“Emma!” Liz uttered in exasperation, grabbing a Kleenex out of the box that Annie held out.

How was dinner supposed to fit in this dress? The fancy satin shoes she wore were uncomfortable and pinchy, not to mention completely extravagant and frivolous. The only mildly redeeming factor was that the staccato taps she made against the hardwood floor accurately conveyed her impatience with the whole situation.

She had yet to take a look at herself, and to be quite honest, she was afraid to.

“Hold still.”

Emma did not stick semi-sharp implements towards her eye. It wasn’t in her nature. It wouldn’t be in the nature of anybody who was sane.

But her sanity was debatable at this point, she figured, so implements towards her eye was probably a natural progression. At some point, her brain had been shut off. If it had been functioning, she certainly would have been able to avoid this whole development altogether.

What had he been thinking?

“Eye liner,” Liz clipped the request dispassionately.

Annie handed over the black tube, happy in her role of surgeon’s assistant.

Emma had been so focused on avoiding lunch with Greg that his “Ok, then we’ll do dinner and a movie premiere instead…dress nice” came out of nowhere. She was still speechless when he’d deposited her back at her office and gone on his merry way.

She'd tried calling and e-mailing him. Of course he'd anticipated that; her many messages were left unanswered. She'd thought about simply "forgetting" the engagement, but she was sure he'd pin her to the moral wall with all sorts of charges of hypocrisy.

And then Isabella called, having gotten the story, and loaded her up on guilt and obligation. Her father's plea to "for once, get out and have some fun" also didn't help.

Oh, Greg was so dead, next time she saw him.

Then there was that other thing that had come up: Isabella and her father had both called this thing a "date".

Emma had shrugged it off with a mysterious "it's none of your business". And had supposedly had left it that. But it was strange how one four letter word could haunt a person. It snuck up on her while she was at the rotovap, logging in at the NMR, packing her column. Cooking. Eating. Drinking coffee.

Ok, so she thought about it a lot. It was ridiculous how much it hounded her, considering it was all complete and utter nonsense! She didn't really think it was a date. And she didn't think he thought it was one either.

At least, she was pretty sure he didn't think it was one.

He didn't say anything about it being one. Of course, adults didn't have to pass notes and ask for formal descriptions of the time they spent together. That was juvenile.

But if he was expecting something…

No way. Dates involved…well, romance. Possibilities. Flirting. None of which she, the happy, hard-working, stressed-beyond-belief-and-loving-it chemist, was thinking about with regards to him, the playboy movie star. No. None of those feelings at all for him. Never. Never ever.

Not that he'd ever think of any of those things when he thought of her either.

“Stop twitching!”

“It’s involuntary,” she snapped back. She sighed and closed her eyes, putting an apology together. And jumped when she felt a quick cold wet swipe across the edge of her upper eyelid.

“I love liquid liner,” Liz gushed to the laughing Annie.

An excruciating fifteen minutes found Emma hidden in the peaceful, beloved privacy of her own bedroom, examining her reflection. Or what was supposed to be her reflection.

She was never a good judge of aesthetics so her opinion on her appearance at this moment really didn’t matter. It seemed that Liz’s stamp of approval was the only one of interest. And since Liz declared she was fabulous, well, then she, Emma, was fabulous.

She didn’t feel fabulous. The boning of the dress most likely had bruised her ribs by now and the neckline was itchy. The strapless bra pinched underneath her arms. Her hair had been pulled, pinned, and shellacked into an updo that made her head ache already. Her cerebellum challenged her to even try teetering around on her shoes. Did makeup always feel like an extra layer, or were women not supposed to feel it? Scowling in to the mirror, she wondered what she was supposed to feel.

Happy? Excited? Nervous? She was disappointed and annoyed that the last actually applied. She could see the line of tension in her forehead that Isabella perpetually commented on. And because Liz wasn't around to scold, Emma bit her lip.

She didn’t know actors aside from Greg and something told her that “lunch” and “premiere” weren’t quite the same thing. And that her pinchy, wheezy, wobbly uncertainties were most likely not common to the silver screen populace.

Neither was the guilt. She'd left lab at three today. And it wasn't just her. Annie, Liz, and her. Three people not setting up their reactions, not setting up GC runs, and not taking NMRs. Sure, taking an hour or two off didn't kill anybody, but they all had better things to do. Including Emma.

Worrying doesn't help anybody. One night won't kill me. One night. Only six or seven hours. Ok, eight or nine, counting the prep time.

Trying to find something better to do, she examined the silver satin dress critically for tears or stains. There were none, which was a relief. She was pretty sure that she couldn't afford to replace it, should anything happen. The face was…a face. Pleasant enough. And, she was pleased to discover, still intact, even after being left alone for five whole minutes. But there was very little in that face that was familiar to her.

She smiled at the reflection, embarrassed. This was probably what a blind date felt like.

She heard the quiet female whisperings outside in the living room joined by a deeper, male rumble and sighed. Well, she was out of time for questions and speculations now. She glanced at the mirror once more and shrugged, awkwardly laughing at her own joke: “It’s show time.”

"So what did you think of Drama in the Dutch Department, Emily?"

It was the hundredth time she'd been asked the question, and the twentieth name that she'd been called that was not hers. All the same, Emma smiled politely and replied. "It was fun and enjoyable."

Apparently her remark fell short of its mark because Emily's conversation partner, the one who played the heroine's best friend, was not impressed or gratified. "I thought the character you played was interesting," she elaborated, mentally slapping herself for pandering to the prima dona. The woman was beautiful, had admirers, and had a decent film career. Did she really need her approval?

"Interesting?"

"Yes."

"Interesting how?"

"Oh you know."

The curious assessing gaze assured Emily that no, she didn't.

Emma hadn't really found anything all that fascinating about Angelique Elton's character. Truth be told, she had found her completely annoying. She smiled too much and laughed like a hyena. "That you smiled. A lot. Your character has a cheerful outlook on life."

She wanted to shudder at all the lies she'd told all evening.

"Well," Angelique smiled conspiratorially. "I always do say that having a positive outlook on life makes you much more beautiful. That and eating well, exercising at least five hours a day, and a spa appointment every two weeks!"

Oh. So the hyena laugh wasn't part of the act. That was 100% Angelique.

"And I don't know anyone who is more positive than me, so I must be absolutely gorgeous, right? Greg, your Emily here is absolutely charming!" Angelique enthused to a passing Greg.

Greg paused and joined the ladies, raising his eyebrow at Emma. Emma smiled back, but let him see the full scowl in her eyes. A corner of his lips lifted in amusement.

"Infatuated with academia these days, Greg?"

Greg smiled warmly at Emma. There was a cheeky red spot by her collarbone that the dress strap had left throughout the course of the evening. Her eyes were glazed from fatigue, boredom, and contrived eagerness, but he found her completely adorable for her patience. "Maybe," he said huskily.

Emma's scowl became deeper.

"Two professor roles in eight months. Be careful not to get typecasted…" Angelique warned. "It's something I always try to avoid."

Right. Because playing small town girl from Arkansas and small town girl from Maine were completely different roles. "Something like that," Greg greeted their passing waiter with a smile, taking both his and Emma's empty flutes and replacing them with ones filled to the brim with frothy pink champagne.

"How are you doing?" he bent closer to ask.

It was a night for firsts. She was sipping on expensively delicious champagne, standing in the backyard terrace of an estate that had more acreage than some college campuses. The stuffed mushrooms were the most incredible she'd had in her life, but nobody seemed intent on enjoying them. Emma shrugged.

"I am surprised to see Rachel Bates, though." Angelique leaned towards them.

Emma nodded absently as she felt Greg's warm hand at the bare base of her neck. She stiffened in surprise, and felt a cool absence when Greg removed his hand immediately. Clearly not interested in salacious comments made about Rachel Bates, Greg looked for his exit. "If you'll excuse me, I see someone I'd like to have a word with." And then he abandoned her.

"What, with that scandalous affair with Geoff Perry! I heard Kim is leaving him. And of course, you know that Rachel never really lost the weight she put on for The Task at Hand." Angelique eagerly divulged.

As if she knew she was being talked about, Rachel turned and waved. Angelique waved back enthusiastically, calling out, "You look sensational!"

Emma's feet were killing her and she dreaded assessing the damages later. The noisy mixture of music, business, and gossip precipitated in a throb at the top of her neck. In reality, home was only about twenty miles away. At this point, it could have been half a world. They were never going to be free of this evening.

With a small glance at the woman who stood next to her in bright sparkling red, Emma despaired of ever being free of Angelique. She knew no one but Greg, but she didn't want to be "that meek creature who followed Greg all night".

Knowing she was being watched and judged, as she'd been watched and judged through dinner and the premiere, she maintained her placid façade as she scowled on the inside. Greg had not mentioned an after-party.

"And the work she's had done!"

"Angelique, could I borrow Dr. Woodhouse for a second?"

Emma's relief on being saved was immediately replaced by pure annoyance when she met the cobalt tetrachloride blue eyes of her savior.

Emma despised herself for the petty dislike she'd felt upon meeting Janette Fairfax. And she was ashamed that she'd allowed that dislike to grow exponentially throughout the evening. The woman had done nothing wrong. In fact, Emma was pretty sure that the woman couldn't do anything wrong. At the premiere, Greg’s perfect co-star appeared in golden shiny satin glory and glided/floated/whatever-goddesses-did through the rest of the evening. From the snippets of conversation and laughter she’d picked up between Janette and Greg (when the tragically garrulous Angelique wasn’t regaling her with some story about agents/options/contracts/ex-husbands/costars), she deduced that Janette was charming.

She couldn’t help but notice that Greg smiled a bit more warmly at Janette. Not that she was watching him. She could just tell. With Janette, he'd lean a little closer, put a hand on her shoulder, allow her to tug on his sleeve. Laugh without watching himself.

"Miss Fairfax."

"Please call me Janette." The woman sparkled. And glittered. It must have been a trick of the overhead lanterns; there was a freaking halo around the woman's gold curls.

"Then call me Emma," she replied, taking another sip of champagne while suppressing the urge to tug at her itchy neckline.

Janette smiled her pleasure. "Wonderful. Ever since Greg's introduced us, I've been dying to find some time with you!"

Surprised, Emma tugged at a dangling earring, untangling it from curly tendrils. "With me?"

"Yes!" the woman enthused, as she entwined her arm with Emma's and started walking. Left with no choice, Emma followed along. As they left the crowded party on the fancy terrace, Emma turned to try to find Greg.

He appeared to be in deep conversation with someone or another (she was pretty sure that he was introduced as a director, but that had been after the point at which Emma had given up trying to remember). Greg leaned closer to the speaker and assumed an intense, inscrutable look. Of course, rather than listening, his thoughts were likely elsewhere: when he'd be eating next, what his schedule was like for tomorrow, or something that Anal Amy had told him to do.

He briefly glanced in their direction and gave a small intimate smile. Covertly, she turned towards Janette to watch her reaction but the woman had not even seen it. Emma gave a small shrug back to Greg.

She followed Janette into the sprawling, elegant house of glass and stone. As they passed a few people, Janette made quick friendly inquiries and even quicker excuses. They passed a number of elegant hallways that were sprinkled with abstract paintings and sculptures that Emma found mildly disturbing. After finding the spacious kitchen, Janette easily moved to the glass cupboards to grab two glasses. A few waiters smiled politely and Janette acknowledged them with warm greetings.

"Are you sure-"

"I know the owner. Don't worry," Janette shrugged as she grabbed a pitcher of water from the stainless steel refrigerator. "Doug and I go way back."

Of course they did. Everybody went far back with Janette Fairfax.

"So," Janette handed Emma a glass of water, "you've got to tell me everything you know about these new sensitizers that the James lab published on last May."

Emma looked down at her half-empty champagne flute, wondering if she'd drunk too much. She took a few healthy gulps of water. When she put the glass down, Janette was still looking at her expectantly. "Um, Henry James's lab?" Emma asked for clarification.

Janette nodded. "I've being trying to get this documentary on solar energy out for the past few years and Henry James is number one on my interview list."

"Oh." And Emma hated herself even more for feeling that dislike of Janette Fairfax intensify.

Janette laughed self-consciously. "I'm getting ahead of myself, huh? I confess, renewable energy sources fascinate me. They have ever since they helped me with a science presentation I had to give in seventh grade."

Well isn't this so unbelievably perfect?

"Well, I'm an organic chemist, so I don't do the work myself," Emma started with her disclaimer. All the same, determined not to be shown up by an actress, Emma proceeded bravely, "but I understand that increased quantum yields generate-"

"That I could somewhat understand. But my question has to do with the metals specifically. I know it's a dumb question, but why do some of these metals give better quantum yields than others?"

“So what did you think?” he smiled across the table at her. His jacket and discarded bowtie had been tossed carelessly onto the living room couch. His collar was loosened, his sleeves rolled back. What used to be a 9-square inch piece of double chocolate brownie begged for mercy from the plate by his left hand. A tall glass of milk sat by his right elbow. He carelessly played a slow lazy game of pong with his cufflinks. He looked charming. And, Emma lamented, tempting.

She’d never noticed how peaceful it was in her apartment. She could hear crickets outside, the German neighbor on his cell phone, and the occasional compression and release of air as a car rushed by.

While all this was nice and cozy, she had a problem that had to be dealt with immediately. She’d been good all evening. She’d refrained from poking and scratching, but the hair had to come down now, whether or not Greg Knightley was sitting across the table from her.

The deterrent was a chemical reaction between the hairspray and gel. She suspected that it had been photo-initiated by all the bright lights and the flashes of the cameras. However it had occurred, a cross-linked polymer had formed on her head, cementing the pins tightly into place. "About the movie? Because if I answer that question one more time…"

If she wasn’t concerned about initiating a further chemical reaction, she would have tried dousing it all in nail-polish remover. But of course, putting the flammable liquid on her hair probably wasn’t a good idea either.

Greg chuckled. "No. About the evening."

Progress was slow. Pin by pin, the chassis was slowly dismantled. Her hair was still stiff and brittle, but it felt slightly looser. As she came across a stubborn pin, she frowned. Her bare aching arches hit floor as she concentrated.

And because she was looked deep in thought, he laughed. “Guess it could have been better,” he sighed ruefully.

“Well, it could have been worse,” she shrugged as she extracted another pin. This one had been scraping her scalp, so she couldn’t smother the groan of pure pleasure and relief.

He took another bite of brownie. “Why, Emma, that’s remarkably positive of you to say.”

“It was an observation. I was merely observing that the evening could have been worse,” she massaged her arms, buzzingly sore from the loss of circulation the pin hunt entailed.

“And what defines a worse evening?”

Emma considered the question seriously as she picked another pin out. And squealed, yes squealed, in delight as a good portion of hair came tumbling over her shoulder. “We could have had food poisoning. Or a nuclear warhead could have been dropped on us.” And she nearly danced with glee as the next pin allowed the other half of her hair sculpture to come tumbling down.

“Priceless,” he chuckled, sending strange tremblings to her stomach. She was reminded of how hungry she was, and how terribly oppressed her stomach felt in its satin cage. The hair issue being addressed, her thoughts now turned to how quickly she could rush Greg out so that she could get out of this literally killer dress and into her pajamas. She wanted to gorge on a brownie of her very own.

Oh whatever. She got up to wash her hands in the kitchen sink and grabbed a brownie and glass of milk for herself, as well as another chunk for Greg.

“Well, I thought you looked lovely and were an absolutely wonderful companion this evening,” he said admiringly. He might have added brave but that would have had her growling.

She looked at him, surprised.

“Why does this seem to shock you?”

“Just…”

Just that she didn’t feel lovely or wonderful at all this evening. While she was fairly reputable and respected in the chemistry world, she was treated like arm candy tonight, dismissed before she had a chance to speak. Not like she had much to say, but nobody really cared to hear it.

She groaned as she recalled how she shrunk behind him on the red carpet. Greg had to practically drag her all the way up the aisle. And instead of facing the situation head-on, as she normally did, she shamed herself by never looking up. Overwhelmed by the cries, the lights, the questions, she shut them all out and refused to look up. She focused on Greg's back, Greg's hand, her shoes and her steps.

And of course, the one thing that made her feel special was taken away when perfect Janette Fairfax swooped in and initiated a conversation on ligand field theory and allowed transitions. The last time Emma had thought about spectroscopy of inorganic compounds was back in her first year of grad school, so being thrown into the topic was like having acid in her eye. It burned that she didn't know it enough to talk confidently about it. It burned her that She knew more about it.

Her impressions were too shameful to be dumbed down into rational sentences. Petty insecurities and stupid moments. That's all she could recall. She was aware of a jumble of emotions, all making her feel less than “lovely” and “absolutely wonderful”, the most insidious of which was envy.

“Just…?” Greg smiled teasingly.

“Nevermind,” Emma replied, dismissing the desire to pout. “Why didn’t you just bring Janette Fairfax?”

“Emma, dare I hope that you’re jealous?” he laughed.

Emma opened her mouth, but was too ashamed to admit to her dislike. “Only because her dress looked much more comfortable,” she grumbled as she took another inelegant gulp of milk. “Next time, you warn me if we're going to be spending another three hours at some party. And Isabella will go up a dress size for me.” And when she saw the half smile on his lips, she asked, affronted, “What?”

“Next time?” he asked with an almost-triumphant air.

Emma felt the embarrassment but couldn’t force herself to vocalize it.

“Next time you’ll also wear your hair down. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it down before. It’s beautiful.”

And the embarrassment now took an entirely different turn. He was looking at her collarbone again. At the hickey the dress had given her. It made her flush all over.

She turned away from him to face the clock. 3:30.

Somewhere in her tired brain, there was a twinge of panic. Staying out so late hadn't been such a good idea. Tomorrow was her free day, and she had a grocery run to make, laundry to do. And how much of the day would be lost to sleep now? “Do you always stay out this late?” A safe question.

“No, I don’t,” he replied. “In fact, I don’t go to more these than I have to.”

Emma shrugged. “I imagine that it's a big part of the industry, though.”

Greg shifted in his seat. “It may be part of the occupation, but it isn’t part of mine,” he responded simply. “It’s rather exhausting.”

“And you’d rather…?”

“Go to a café and enjoy a cup of coffee and read a book. Watch a ballet or opera. Stay at home.”

“What do you do when you stay at home?”

“More coffee and books. Maybe a show on the discovery or history channel. Sit around with friends and brownies."

And she felt that flutter again, but it was accompanied by a strange thud in her chest area. “Sounds nice,” she said breathily.

“It is.” When he saw the puzzled expression on her face, he laughed. “What?”

“If you want to stay home, stay home. You don't have to go to these things, do you?"

"No, but-"

She didn't want to go on, but he was intent on her explanation. “You always stop to sign autographs and talk with fans when we go to lunch, even if you're tired. And I saw you tonight. You weren't really enjoying yourself,” she observed. "Why do you do all this when you don’t like it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Greg shrugged. “I’m not doing much with my time anyhow, and I’ve got no where to be.”

Feeling she’d gone too far, she stopped herself from any further inquiry. The silence that followed made Emma clench her jaw and she knew that something had changed, and she was pretty sure the change rested in her. Or perhaps entirely in her imagination. With a shaky hand that she hoped Greg did not notice, she put her glass of milk down and put all her effort in trying to push the brownie past her suddenly dry throat.

“Well, it’s rather late and I don’t want to take you away from your research too long; your advisor may grow to hate me…” Greg gave a quick rub of his fingers with a napkin and snatched up his cufflinks.

She smiled waveringly. “Yes. Real life beckons,” she stood.

Greg got up from his chair slowly with a long lazy stretch. He grabbed his coat and tie off the couch and went towards the door. Before he reached for the knob, though, he turned back to her and smiled.

Agitated, Emma took a step backwards.

He grabbed her hand, gently clasped it, warmth in his eyes. “I was surprised tonight, Emma.”

And she found that she couldn’t reply immediately, she could barely hear him over the noisy erratic beating of her heart. She could feel another headache coming on. She really needed to sleep.

“I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted,” she managed a wry smile and gently tried to extract her hand.

“We’ll argue over it next Friday. There’s a hospital benefit for Cedars-Sinai,” he said, his gaze on her hers intent, his hands playing with her fingers.

“Next Friday?” she asked, contemplating her schedule. She looked down at their tangled fingers. Friday was a week away. Strangely enough, that thought made her feel…no.

“What’s wrong?”

Don't do it, Emma.

And despite her own warning, she blurted out the invitation: “Are you free on Sunday? There’s a barbecue…it’s in that whole ‘social and entertaining’ thing that you may not like, but it’s this thing with my lab group." When he didn't respond immediately she went on like a fool. "They’ve been wondering about you…” Why couldn’t she stop talking? “…but if you’re too busy then I don’t want to trouble you…”

“It sounds delightful,” he responded with a grin. “A Sunday afternoon with the Austen group? How could I resist the opportunity? Will the Good Lady be there?"

"Ah, no. Jane doesn't come to these things. She's very busy."

"Ah. So will I find you here or at the lab?”

He looked so pleased she couldn't be upset at herself. She smiled before she could stop it. “Lab. At five?”

“Sounds perfect,” he replied huskily, with a final clasp of his hand.

It was ten minutes after Greg Knightley had left her, ten minutes into a wicked headache, when she’d realized the true weight of what she'd done.

Chapter Four

Posted on Monday, 19 February 2007

Date: September 4, 2005
From: Fran Price (fprice@caltech.edu)
To: Emma Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
Subject: The more, the merrier!

No worries; your guest is more than welcome! See you at Henry's!

Fran

>Hey Fran,
>Sorry for the late notice; if it's all right, I'll be bringing a guest.
>Thanks,
>Emma

---

Date: September 4, 2005
From: Fran Price(fprice@caltech.edu)
To: Henry Tilney (tilney@caltech.edu)
Subject: Dude.

I have a surprise for you. But you have to promise me that you won't tease Emma to death over it.

Your Astros are going down today. My Cards have their number.

~f.

"Oh, come off it. The man's being a tease. He just wants a bigger contract. And he'll get it," Greg punctuated his comment with a pull of his Newcastle.

He was having a fantastic time. It was killing her and he loved it. Greg gave Emma a wink through the glass doors. She ignored him and turned to say something to Annie.

Henry shook his head with a loud laugh as he flipped the steaks on the grill. Fran contemplated Greg's opinion. "Still sucks that he's toying like this."

"Them's the breaks, kid," Henry said, taking a sip of his beer. "I'll have to agree with you, Greg."

"What about young talent?" Fran persisted.

"Dude, you don't mess with the Rocket. The man's got seven Cy Young awards. If he wants to pitch, you throw over the money and let him," Henry defended. "Can you get the chicken out of the fridge, Fran?"

Fran nodded and headed indoors. "Another Newcastle, Greg?"

"Sure."

Greg stood back on his heels as he took a deep breath of the smoky, sweet, and tangy air. It was beyond unbearably hot this evening, but the delicious aroma made standing out on this stuffy, small cramped balcony well worth it: Henry Tilney knew how to grill. Sitting on the layer of flavor was the broadcast: one of the greatest ironies of hosting a BBQ was that one didn't get to watch the game. Henry seemed somewhat mollified by having a radiocast downloaded and broadcasted over the speakers in the corner.

"So does she have a sports-obsessed boyfriend or is she really the perfect woman?"

Henry laughed as he took the sausages off the grill. "Fran came upon that obsession all on her own," he said proudly.

The door slid open and this time, Emma came out with beers. "Fran's looking for the chicken," she said, as she passed new bottles to Greg and Henry and stood back with her own.

"Greg's thinking of ditching you for Fran," Henry informed her.

"I'm absolutely heartbroken."

Greg laughed. "Emma, did you just make a joke?"

Emma scowled as she moved to put Henry between the two of them. "You have my blessing. Fran's absolutely wonderful."

"If you're setting Fran up with Greg, do you think you could put in a good word for me with Janette Fairfax?" Henry chuckled.

Emma smothered the wince, not wanting Greg to notice.

"Speaking of which, Janette's been in a tizzy since Friday," Greg intimated.

"Oh?" Emma grabbed a carrot stick from Henry's plate and took a bite.

"She's absolutely certain she's annoyed you."

So Janette was dragging Greg into it? Oh please.

"You mean that you actually met Janette Fairfax?" Henry turned, surprised.

"Yes," Emma said tersely.

"That's an understatement," Greg elaborated. "Janette called in raptures yesterday, going 'Emma this' and 'Emma that'. She's completely taken with you."

"Isn't that great!" Emma said with false enthusiasm.

Henry muttered under his breath as he turned the meat.

Greg came closer to tilt her chin up with his hand and look for the truth in her eyes. "Though she's completely certain she's made a bad first impression."

Emma broke off eye contact immediately. "Hm? Ah, no. She was fine," Emma said, as she shrugged off his touch with a glance to Henry. She grabbed another carrot.

"Here's the chicken," Fran came out, triumphantly holding up the Tupperware. "Dude, Hen, you've got to clean out your fridge. It's gross."

Henry took the container out of Fran's hands and started laying out the meat on the grill. As the sizzle snapped into the air, Henry spoke loudly above the noise. "You'll never guess with whom our Emma's been rubbing elbows, Fran."

Emma sighed. "I'll get some more carrots, as I've eaten all of yours."

"Please take in the sausages," Henry gestured to the plate on the card table.

Emma took the plate and went back inside, not wanting to hear more about delightfully perfect Janette. She wasn't perfect. It wasn't that Emma had been thinking about their encounter. Ok, maybe she had. A little. It just bugged her that she didn't know the answers to all of Janette's questions! In (admittedly petty) self-defense, Emma had come to the conclusion that someone as adept in society as Janette had to have known that she was putting Emma on the spot and showing her up. Janette wasn't an idiot, and no one could be that naďve, right?

Enough! Again, with the Janette Fairfax. Why was this important? Emma bit back her groan. She missed the days when all she had to think about was her next reaction. Now, actors, actresses, wedding guests, university committees…how had her life become so…crowded?

Greg followed Emma inside and held her back by the elbow. Emma quickly looked around, and saw they had an audience on the couch, much more interested in their interaction than the game on the television. She moved them to the relative privacy of the kitchen. He stepped closer. "Seriously, Emma. I don't know what happened, but Janette was really worried about how she came off."

Emma wanted to growl. Cutting him off would have been ungracious, though, as he obviously cared about the situation quite a bit.

"She thinks she put you on the spot, even though I told her that you probably didn't mind and were more comfortable talking with her about science anyway."

The woman didn't miss a trick; she'd covered her bases with Greg! But, Emma realized with a wince, what if? If Janette was sincere in concern, Emma was an even worse person. Maybe Janette was that naďve or excited to get carried away. Then it was like getting mad at a puppy. A perfect puppy. "It was fine. We talked about things," Emma said, tiredly. "I wasn't uncomfortable at all. I was just fine."

Greg didn’t believe her, but he'd learned from vast experience that when a woman was "fine" she either wanted you to figure it on your own, or she didn't want to be found out. "All the same, I'm pretty sure you should expect an apologetic phone call or monologue next time you see her. She's like a dog with a bone."

Prancing perfect puppy still in her head, Emma shook her head. "What did you say?"

"She's like a dog with a bone. Janette. She doesn't forget things."

It shouldn't have bothered her; the canine allusions were not at all related. But still. Emma quickly moved to the table and started loading up a paper plate with carrots, celery, and fruit.

"You made some really great pilaf, Em," Catherine entered the kitchen, intent on reloading her plate and harvesting some gossip.

Emma welcomed the interruption. "Thanks!" Aware that he hovered in the corner of her eye, Emma stepped farther from Greg and closer to Catherine. "It's something I've been playing at on paper."

Greg had stepped closer to them now. Catherine's eyes sparkled a bit, and took on an assessing light.

Bringing a guest who wasn't a relative to one of these lab things was bad for anyone. The speculation, the pressure, and the sizing-up of the prospective significant other were never easy. Every interaction had to be watched and assessed. Observations exchanged. Analysis and gossip discussed. All so that the group could make their collective decision on whether the interloper was worthy enough of their lab mate.

It was worse with Greg. Everybody was predisposed to love him, just because he was a hot-shot. Not that she cared if Greg was "worthy". He wasn't a date. He was just…she hadn't deliberately invited him in retaliation for Friday's never-ending evening, but it would have been nice if he could get a taste of what she had felt in Hollywood.

It frustrated her that within five minutes of his arrival, he'd lost that luster of movie star and became everybody's best friend. He had all the women melting when he said their names (which he'd picked up and remembered within three minutes) in that intimate gravelly tone of his. All the men treated him as the missing part of their puzzle, a long lost drinking buddy. His predilection for the Boston Red Sox was lamented/praised/held in joking contempt, his opinions upheld as paradigmatic as textbook.

She wished he didn't look like he was enjoying himself so thoroughly. He'd sat back and laughed throughout the evening, relaxed and perfectly at ease with people it'd taken her at least a few weeks to warm up to. It was disgusting.

Catherine laughed. "I bet you have a cooking lab notebook, don’t you?"

"How else is anybody supposed to keep track of everything?"

Catherine postulated the contents of the notebook. "'To a 1.6-liter pan heated to approximately 120 degrees Celsius, 30 mils of extra virgin olive oil was drizzled…'"

"'Generous heating yielded a kilogram of perfect-tasting rice pilaf,'" Elinor completed as she entered and grabbed more of the pilaf herself.

Emma shook her head with a shy cocky smile. "What can I say? It is perfect every time."

"They always say that great chemists make great cooks," Elinor explained to Greg. "I had never met a chemist for which that was true until Emma."

"You combine and heat. What else?" Emma added some ranch to the plate.

"Three words, Emma: 'salt to taste'. Gets me every time."

"You're a salt fiend. One day, we're going to find a bunch of deer licking you to death," Catherine warned. "For me, I can never tell when the meat's done. So I just get dry chewy cardboard."

"I've got to get this out to Henry. Be back in a bit," Emma gestured.

Greg watched her leave the kitchen. Her chin was lifted, but her back was stiff. "She's upset over something," he said quietly.

"She's just stressed out," Catherine said.

"Who could blame her? Jane's got her working 'round the clock on the coupling paper and she still has another pile of applications to finish," Elinor helped herself to more carrots.

Greg watched through the window. Emma handed the loaded plate to a grateful Henry, who took a piece of carrot, dipped it in a generous amount of ranch dressing and held it out to her. She gave a teasing, wary look, but took the bite anyway. While she chewed, Henry must have said something humorous, because it had her covering her mouth, trying to prevent the carrot from escaping.

Greg loved that Emma had this network of people who so obviously cared for her. While she didn't seem to say much in general, they completely adored her. And, he could see from the way she fondly smiled at Henry, she adored them.

"I'm sorry, Greg, but I just had to ask," Catherine was saying.

"Anything," Greg replied.

"Is it true that you're on campus filming a thing on Feynman? Because I would completely worship you if you did. That is, I already adore you. In. A. Non-stalker. Way."

Elinor laughed. Greg grinned. "Yes, I'm on campus for Feynman."

"That is so cool!" Catherine enthused. "I don't think there's a person on campus who doesn't completely worship him."

Greg shifted. "It's certainly been interesting."

When it looked like her curiosity was in no way sated, he continued, "I've never done a biographical piece, so it's been quite a bit more challenging to go to work," he chuckled ruefully. "The production team has tried to be helpful. They've handed over memoirs, videos of his lectures…it's just…" he ran his hand through his hair.

He felt a gentle hand on his back and turned. He was surprised to see Emma standing behind him, smiling quietly. "I've been sent to tell you that if you like your steak medium-rare, you ought to go and save your meat now."

Greg smiled with relief and took Emma's hand in his, entangling warm fingers with her cold ones. They had an unfamiliar texture, so he examined them carefully.

"I haven't had time to go out and get more lotion for my hands," Emma said, pulling at her hand.

Greg continued to examine. There was a scab on her right thumb. He looked up, question in his eyes.

"I was careless in lab yesterday," Emma said breathily.

"That won't do. You have to be careful."

Catherine and Elinor might have sighed, swooned, or sang; it didn't matter. The concern in his eyes made her feel warm all over. Emma replied softly: "I will. I'm trying to."

"Don’t you have Bunsen Burners? I think I used one of those once upon a time..."

Startled, Emma nearly upended her flask of precious catalyst. She glared at the intruder. "You know, you ought to be wearing safety glasses...." Emma said, gathering her wits. "And Bunsen Burners are for high school chemistry labs and biologists who need to sterilize things. They’re not at all safe for overnight heating."

"So what do you use?" Greg made no move towards the bin of safety glasses at the door.

"Baths of hot oil," Emma smiled, walking around him to grab a pair of safety glasses and handing them to him.

"Well, that sounds so much safer," Greg rolled his eyes as he put on the fluorescent pink frames. And she wondered how he could wear them without seeming silly or nerdy.

"You roll your eyes. But chemists aren’t klutzes, you know..." she gestured as she settled down to weigh her catalyst again. "Most of us, anyway," she qualified with a shrug. "Did we have something planned today?"

He'd never caught her like this, her slight frame wrapped in the neatly-buttoned lab coat, gloves on, intent careful look in her eye. "No, I just got the rest of the afternoon off and was wondering if you were up for a cup of coffee..." He felt like a sheepish teenage boy with a crush. And despised himself for it.

All the same, a frustrating afternoon of decided non-progress had been more than he could take. Capped off with the disturbing phone call from Victor, who had told him that he had been passed over for Adrien Brody in casting of Three Dances and an Engagement, a part that he'd been sure he'd get. He needed to get away. Strangely enough, instead of hopping into his hire car and driving far away, he found himself at the door of Emma's lab. Asking her to take a little time out for him.

Emma considered the question seriously. Turning him down would have been more convenient, as she had another two enantioassays to set up, but she hadn’t seen him for a few days. And she was going to take a coffee break soon anyway, she reasoned. "I need fifteen minutes to get to a stopping point."

"All right then," he leaned against the bench counter.

She nodded dismissively at him, but he showed no intention of leaving. And so, she continued to work.

"So what have you got there? It’s quite pretty," he gestured to the sparkly purple substance that Emma was weighing out.

She turned to him in both annoyance and surprise. Not sure how much detail he actually wanted to hear, she started with the basic answer: "It’s chemistry," she answered succinctly.

Greg wondered just how often her family actually talked to her about her work. "No kidding, what is it, though?"

She began slowly, unsure. "It’s this catalyst I’ve been working with." Because he seemed to expect her to go on, she did: "My advisor, Jane, is really famous in synthetic chemistry because she came up with the idea for it. It’s not that easy to make, but it’s so useful." He was intent. Losing a bit of hesitancy, she continued. "We’ve shown that it can be used for a variety of reactions. Industry calls it 'Austen6' (it’s the sixth generation) but it’s full name is actually (R,S)-3,2-dimethyl..."

Greg could didn’t know the meaning of the "R,S" or "dimethyl", nor what made a "generation" of a catalyst, but that didn’t matter. He wished he could understand her chemspeak, but it was enough for him to be able to watch her speaking, watch her doing.

He knew, without a doubt: this was what he had been looking for this afternoon. He'd been uninspired and tired, and at a loss as to where to find his inspiration. And somehow, he had known where to find it: there was excitement in her eyes. Urgency in her words and actions. Her cheeks were flushed with energy and joy. And while she was by his experience a rather succinct person, it seemed almost impossible to stop her now.

She lost the mantle of hesitation and gained momentum. It was here that she was most comfortable. Most happy. Most herself. She grabbed the flask into which she’d just added her purple glitter, and moved towards another end of her lab area, still explaining her goals for the experiment she was currently setting up.

Her movements were efficient but by no means brisk or abrupt. There was an almost elegant beauty to it. Her hands worked her tools expertly and deftly, and really, he hadn’t expected her to be so...Emma.

She skillfully attached various hoses, clamps, glassware to each other and she switched on an apparatus and turned to him. And gifted him with the most radiant smile he’d ever seen. And he’d found that he liked that smile very much; he’d never seen the likes of it anywhere.

She grabbed a sharpee out of her labcoat pocket, and drew down the glass shield of the hood she’d been working at, and started drawing pictures and talking about them.

She was genuinely relaxed and happy in lab and not many he knew could boast such pride and joy in their daily toils. Himself included. At this moment, she currently had a beauty that was more complex than the aesthetic vision she presented in a sophisticated gown on Hollywood Boulevard. It affected him deeper, at a more basic level.

He found it completely adorable. Beautiful. Sexy.

And it wasn’t just how a few golden hairs escaped from the knot she’d tied her hair back into to tickle her neck and shoulders, or how some of the strays fell to her lips. Or how charming she looked when she, irritated, pushed those strands behind her ears once every ten seconds. It simply lifted his heart to see her thus. Made him ache to touch the live energy.

Really, it was quite startling.

Shaken, he tried to concentrate on her words....

...to find that she was trying to speak to him. "Greg? Greg?"

And Greg, always ready with the next line, found that he was speechless. And embarrassed.

"My fault. Shouldn’t have gotten carried away, I guess," Emma shrugged. "Anyhow, the reaction’s set up. It looks like you’re in need of a caffeine fix..." she chuckled.

He smiled back, and followed her out the door, still thinking over what he'd seen. He was still in a confused haze when she gasped. "I forgot!"

They were outside the building. Greg watched her run off. She hadn't wound down yet; it was incredible. Quicker than he could blink she was back in and out with a book in her hands.

She looked uncertain. He felt something thud in his brain. "I have this for you. I don't know if it'll help." She handed over a well-worn copy of a book protectively wrapped in brown paper.

He took the book, opened it, and checked the title page. What Do You Care What Other People Think? Further Adventures of a Curious Character

"I heard you talking the other day at the BBQ with the Elinor and Catherine. You said…" she swallowed. Nervous but determined, she kept her gaze firm and leveled on his. "I read this book and loved it. I know that people had given you copies of Feynman's lectures and memoirs," Emma went on quickly, "but…I took notes. I thought that maybe if you saw what a scientist saw, you'd know why he was so special."

Greg flipped through the book, and sure enough, entire passages were underlined or highlighted. Questions and observations were written in the margins in Emma's neat miniscule hand. In several colors, indicating the book had been read over and over. Pages were folded over, worn from being flipped to. Post-its were jammed into the book on every other page.

He was overwhelmed. He ran his hands gently along the spine, across the protective cover. He felt the need to hold her and tell her she did good. Hug her for her thoughtfulness. Push her away for her nosiness. He checked her face, the down-turned eyes and small apprehensive line of her lips. She looked nervous for his reaction. Was it that she feared he'd reject her, or that he'd embrace her?

He took her right hand, running his fingers along the dry, scaly surface. She'd forgotten to get lotion again. And pulled her along, putting an arm around her. "We'll be late for lunch."

After a few steps in silence, during which she walked quickly, uncertainly, he finally mustered up his reply. "Thanks."

"What do you mean, you’ve never danced before?" he asked in shock.

Emma shrugged as she took another sip of champagne. "Look at the life I lead, Greg. Does it look like I should be dancing so often?"

"Not even at a wedding? Or one of those high school gymnasium dances that American teenagers are so fond of?" he asked.

"Nope," she shook her head. "This may come as a shocker," she began sarcastically, "but I never went to high school dances, and most of my friends aren’t married."

"That’s ridiculous."

"Greg, everything about this situation is ridiculous."

Emma scanned the ballroom and watched the formally dressed guests converse and dance. A layer of conversation sat above the layer of jazzy music that emanated from a small band at the end of the room. Everything sparkled.

It wasn’t much better than last week, but she felt much more comfortable. Maybe it was because she'd had such a great day in lab, so she felt somewhat justified in taking the evening off. Maybe it was because this time, her blue chiffon dress slipped around her like a gentle breeze instead of a medieval torture device. Maybe it was because they sat with a bunch of doctors, chairmen, and rich people instead of just movie stars. Or maybe because there was no Janette around and she had Greg’s attention completely to herself.

Her hair was still molded into another sculpture, but Emma had managed to restrain Liz to just gel this time. The shield of makeup still made her feel completely unnatural, but it wasn’t so warm tonight that she felt that her face was melting off.

All in all, better. Much better.

"What did you plan on doing at Isabella’s wedding?" he asked.

She focused her gaze on him and shrugged. "Sit around and look bored?"

"That won’t do. You’re going to have to dance. Weddings are all about dancing."

"You don’t have to dance at a wedding," she replied reasonably. "And it looks easy enough," she gestured to the dangers on the floor. "I’m not stupid enough to attempt dancing at a tempo faster than lento. So that leaves slow dancing, which looks like you hold hands and sway."

"There’s a lot more to slow dancing than that," he said.

"You sound like you’re threatening to show me," she observed.

"I’m not threatening. Come on."

Emma glared at him, willing him to forget about it.

He laughed. "Tell you what. We dance for about twenty minutes and then we can go."

"Really?" she stood up.

"Most women would never want the evening to end, you know," he teased.

"Then you should have brought one of them," she replied. "Come on."

She took his hand in a sure grip and eagerly led him past the talking tables to the dance floor, where she spun around to face him. She felt silly that the swish of her skirts made her feel so dainty and elegant. She held out her hands and allowed him to place one on his shoulder and hold the other in his grip.

Having ascertained that they now had achieved the correct placement of arms and hands, she smiled to him for a corroborative acknowledgment.

The Look tangled her up.

And then Emma realized why romantics and lovers alike loved to dance.

It was…

It was a scientific observation, of course.

Elevated heartbeat. Elevated temperature. Elevated sense of...everything.

She had an enhanced sense of sight. Despite the dim light, she could see that his eyes weren’t all blue, there were flecks of silver deep within. She could see his dimple, only in his left cheek. A slight break in his nose. She had an enhanced sense of hearing. She could hear her quick heart beat, shallow breathing. Even the soft muffle of her dress brushing against his trousers. She had an enhanced sense of being. Her nerves oscillated intensely and nearly popped out of their places where he touched her. She could feel the synaptic communication within her spine acutely.

It wasn't the first time she felt an overwhelming physical attraction. But the other times, other men had been different; there'd been a thrill, a joy, an anticipation. She'd felt so much…lightness. Sometimes energy. Urgency.

This was different. There was the energy. It was charged with apprehension. It was the same apprehension she felt some times when lowering her liquid nitrogen dewars, fearful of finding liquid oxygen condensed in her traps: she couldn’t help but feel that something was going to explode.

It should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. It was really quite enjoyable, and pleasant, and...

Her head spun when she tried to look away from him to the people around them, so she kept her eyes focused on his. She felt warm, but her hands did not dampen. She just felt the heat rushing to her head. His hand on her waist made her realize its exact curvature. And it seemed that his hand around hers made her realize that as tall as she was, she could still feel very...small. She wondered if he could feel the overwhelming rush she did.

His embrace made everything around them a bit smaller. Insignificant. She could feel something inside of her dissolve away and something dark settle in. Something was different, different in a very bad way. And it wouldn’t go away when they stopped. She tried to take a breath; the shallow intake was full of the troublesome smell of him.

And maybe if her brain was working, she'd have stopped herself with the realization of what might have been happening. But rather than analyzing the situation or thinking about the consequences, she allowed herself to step forward because it felt natural.

Slowly, he wrapped her closer and she laid her head against his chest, feeling her head ache with too much sensation. She simply held on, because, after all, less than twenty minutes from now, they’d be leaving.

Twenty minutes wasn’t long. Twenty minutes wouldn’t do a thing.

She breathed softly and closed her eyes, allowing herself to drift away.

Chapter Five

Posted on Wednesday, 7 March 2007

Date: September 10, 2005
From: Elinor C. Dashwood (dashwood@caltech.edu)
To: Marianne K. Dashwood (lovewhispers@hotmail.com)
Subject: Re: Gregory Knightley!!!!

Marianne,

I'm going to tell Mom to stop your subscription to Us Weekly. You can't call my lab and tell my lab mates it's an emergency just to ask me those kinds of questions.

But yes, Greg Knightley's at Caltech. And has been around our labs. I think he knows someone that knows someone that knows someone that knows Emma and they've been hanging out. Something like that. I don't really know. It's none of my business, so I don't ask.

And no, I am way too busy to allow you to come and crash right now.

Love,
Elinor

Oh, she was stupid. So incredibly stupid.

Emma bit her stinging, chapped lip as the words danced on the screen before her. How was she supposed to read the stupid thing if the words couldn't stay still? She had to focus. Focus.

This was going to be good. Great, even. It was. It had to be.

"I didn't realize anybody would be here."

She must have been hallucinating. She could have sworn someone was talking to her. Maybe she was that desperate for a distraction.

"Emma?"

Emma turned her tired gaze from the computer screen. Her eyes slowly adjusted. Her head spun. Once. Twice. Nope, there was someone standing in the doorway. "Edward."

Edward Ferrars, all 6'5" of him, gave a small smile as he strode in, went to the drawers of her bench, and took out a few 14/20 septa. A few septa. Out of her drawer.

Disgust at herself happily found another target, and anxieties were temporarily dropped as another issue was quickly pounced upon. Now she knew the identity of her septa thief. How could he be so nonchalant about it?

Ok, so the septa were group materials; they had been purchased with Austen Group grant money. Still, Emma kept her stuff out of plain sight for a reason; she liked to know she had somewhere to go to whenever she needed things, even when the stockroom was closed. That Edward Ferrars had discovered it and was shamelessly exploiting it…

Emma bit the inside of her cheek as she once again caught the time in the corner of her computer screen. 4:15.

It was the hour. It was the stress. She wasn't going to take it all out on him. Not at all professional. Plus, Edward was a nice guy. Normally. Clueless and very selfish and probably the type to also leave a mess at the balance, sign up for NMR time without using it, certainly the spawn of--Emma bit the inside of her cheek again. Clueless at times, but nice. Ok, selfish, too, she added for her own gratification. Not spawn. He just didn't work normal hours often enough to know that Emma was very particular about having people take her things.

Maybe she ought to leave a note. A sign. A mousetrap.

Maybe she ought to rearrange her stuff.

She blamed the lateness of the hour for her delay in having this momentous revelation: perhaps he'd also taken the twenty-three scint vials, seven 2-drams, thirteen stir bars, five needles, and 3.5 mLs of d-chloroform. (Not that she'd been keeping track.) The suspicion ripened and rotted in her mind. If that was the case, then perhaps: "Edward, did you by chance borrow my Dean-Stark trap a few weeks ago?"

Edward paused as he walked out the door and leaned against the door, thinking. "Ah! Yes, I did. I'm sorry. I guess I should have left a note," he smiled apologetically.

He had a charming boyish smile. It's what helped him get away with having such a messy bench when Elinor Dashwood, who was even more OCD than Emma (or so Emma told herself), was his bay mate.

Maybe if Emma had been in a better mood, she would have allowed herself to be charmed and taken it in good stride, but she was so very, very frustrated and tired and she'd already been working so very hard at not biting his head off. Succinctly, she enunciated through gritted teeth and tense lips. "Well, I'd appreciate it if you could return it to me soon; I've been needing it for a reaction."

"Ah," Edward nearly combed his fingers through his floppy hair, but realized that he was wearing gloves at the last minute. "I'm done using it, but I haven't cleaned it yet," he said in explanation.

Emma groaned, internally, but was not at all surprised. Most of Edward's stuff sat in the sink so that he could rinse it with acid, acetone, water, and oven-dry it whenever he needed it. No one ever thought about stealing his stuff. "Why don't you just drop it off over here. I can take care of cleaning it."

Edward looked unsure. "Are you sure? I feel like I ought to-"

"Just drop it off." After a second, Emma tempered the quick remark with a polite smile. Sure. Now he thinks about other people.

Edward nodded, obviously oblivious to his colleague's inner struggles to remain collected and polite. "Will do."

Emma slumped back into her seat as her colleague exited the room. Great. Now she could pick up the self-loathing where she'd left off.

No, she rested her wrists on the laptop casing and held her fingers over the keyboard. She was going to finish this application. She scanned the screen, trying to find where she'd left off.

If only she hadn't ducked out for dinner with Greg tonight. She'd known. Hadn't she stood at her desk, looking over her planner, and seen that blasted item on her to-do list: "compile Wellesley application and submit"? And hadn't she seen, marked in bright red pen on the next date: "W. app. must be o'nighted by end of today"?

Things were out of control. How'd they get like this? Staying up until four, contemplating killing Edward Ferrars for taking a few septa. She was under-caffeinated, beyond exhausted, completely frustrated, and, she scowled to admit, wanting to cry.

Wanting to. But not actually doing it.

The first twenty-five applications had all gone out without a hitch. Like clockwork: the boring details, the teaching statement, the research proposal: all overnighted in a nice fat manila envelope a week before the deadline. For her own records, each application had its own folder, the face of which displayed an itemized and checked-off to-do list. They'd all been filed away alphabetically just in case she needed them for future reference.

The last ten applications sat on the corner of her desk in an unorganized, bulky pile. More than ten, if she counted the several copies she'd had to print, as she'd lost and then found previously printed sheets.

These were being overnighted the day before their respective deadlines.

She should have started on them earlier. Why hadn't she? She swallowed back the panic as many reasons immediately came to mind. The coupling paper: why was Jane so freaking picky about the papers? Harriet's research report: when would the girl learn how to write? A backlog of reactions: never finished, an ever growing list that spanned pages in her mind. Isabella's stupid wedding and the centerpieces, guest list, dress measurements. And Greg.

She wasn't a whiner. No pain, no gain.

Gotta pay your dues.

If she spouted one more of these insipid-

She sighed. "Focus, focus, focus…"

Why dinner with Greg? Why? She didn't want to blame him, though she was tempted; it was her own fault. She should have just told him she was busy and asked for a rain check. He'd even asked if she was busy, especially after glancing at the various sheets of paper scattered around her desk.

But no. In a split second, she had decided that she hadn't wanted to apply to Wellesley anyway. She'd already applied to twelve schools in the New England area and certainly one more was overkill. Thirteen was unlucky anyway. And of course, Wellesley didn't have a grad program, so she'd be limited to getting undergrads, when they weren't busy with classwork, activities, and dates. Undergrads who could be smart and hard-working, like maybe a female version of Will Darcy, only less cocky. Or undergrads who could be completely scatter-brained and unable to multitask, like Harriet Smith.

Thirteen was unlucky anyway?! What kind of stupid excuse was that? And undergrads or no, this was a job. And hadn't she already asked Jane, Bill, and the others to take time out of their day and write and send recommendations? Saying great things bout how responsible she was? And just how would it look-

How could she have been so thoughtless? Reckless?

She'd let herself go. It had slipped. It had never slipped before. Emma looked resentfully at the pile of papers.

Had she completely lost track of her priorities? Had she completely lost track of her brain?

And she knew how it had happened. It wasn't like she'd been unaware and this had snuck up on her; no, she'd let herself get swept up and swept away. By, by…and what was she doing, letting go like this? For what? For what? For wh-

And what did all this mean? Where was it going? Where are we going? What was I thinking-

"Here's the Dean-Stark."

Startled, Emma put a hand to her chest as she forced herself to calm down. Edward held the salt-crusted apparatus in his gloved hand. There were a few yellow spots and vacuum grease smeared on the outside. And he was holding it out to her like he expected her to take it.

"Ah, you can put it in my sink," Emma gestured.

Edward nodded. "Of course, how thoughtless of me. You can't take it now."

Edward put the piece into the sink and turned to her. "So…that's it," he shrugged.

"Yes," Emma nodded.

"Great," Edward quickly exited, clearly intent on setting up/working up whatever reactions he had in his hood.

Emma took another deep breath. Edward's interruption this time snapped her out of her wasteful panic mode. Wasteful.

How could she not see it before? Obsessed with doing nothing, she'd done exactly that (or, more accurately, not done. Whatever. Not important.).

She took a deep breath. A second.

What was it that her mother said? One thing at a time.

Logic started to puncture through the haze of confusion and self-doubt. Clear, cold logic.

Ok. New goal. She'd work, and not worry about things. That's what she'd always done before, when she'd felt a bit lost. The work would hold her. What's more, if she worked hard, then she could finish. And move on to the next item on her to-do list. After she got some sleep.

Now that sounded reasonable.

She was being silly and letting the hour get to her. She cracked her knuckles, and stretched her hands above her head to crack her elbows. A quick arch set the tension in her back free. The popping sound and subsequent loosening of her muscles soothed her. She was going to release this.

There was still a buzz of apprehension, but this time, when she looked at the computer screen, the words stood clearly against the white background. Looking at the word file, she assessed her situation quantitatively: she had seven paragraphs to get through for this statement. And a quick glance over the research proposals. Research proposals she'd already looked at countless times, that she'd submitted all over the place already. Then she'd take the statements, the forms, and tuck it all in an envelope.

That wasn't so bad.

Not so bad. And that's all I have to do tonight.

She was letting her hang-up over two paragraphs make her question everything, and there was no reason for her to do so. No reason whatsoever, she laughed embarrassedly to herself.

She was so glad she didn't have an audience.

This application would be finished in time. She still had plenty of time before the post office closed tomorrow.

There was nothing to worry about. It was just a close call. For her sanity's sake, she'd make sure she wouldn't have any more of these 4 a.m. sessions to be sure. And if she went back to her normal schedule and got enough sleep and worked hard enough on each step, she'd get everything back together and be back into her old pattern.

She had to.

"Well, I like the red. She looks hot."

"But the yellow makes her look more elegant."

"No way. Dowdy."

"How can you say that? She looks like a princess."

"…of pastries."

"Huh. Now that you mention it, she does look kind of like a cream puff."

"A parading profiterole."

"Well, I still say elegant."

"Everyone's a critic," Emma declared wryly, as she entered the break room.

Elinor jumped back and tucked the magazine behind her. Liz and Becky remained exactly where they were, leaned against the fridge. Catherine and Jane E glanced at each other guiltily.

Emma rolled her eyes. She couldn't presume to understand the obsession people had with the lives of the famous. Emma didn't have the time or inclination to read or hear about someone else's problems, especially anyone so wholly unconnected to her. She had enough problems of her own. And little enough time to deal with them. Nevertheless, Liz and Becky Sharp often spent whole lunch hours absorbed in the pages of color photographs and scintillating reports of some gossip magazine. She was disappointed that Elinor and Catherine had also gotten sucked in. Was this the future of chemistry?

Emma waited while Liz stepped out of her way before reaching into the fridge to grab last night's leftovers. A quick glance in Jane E's direction had the first year dodging out of the way quicker than Emma could blink. Emma put the container in the microwave, set the timer, and started it.

The girls were all watching her. Quiet. Waiting.

Emma gestured. "By all means, continue," she turned to examine the various structures and notes scattered across the whiteboard.

The girls looked at each other again self-consciously. Even Liz deigned to blush.

"Oh. This is too rich. She doesn't know!" Becky exclaimed.

Emma turned back to the microwave, but before she could go back to minding her own business, the suspicion took root. Something was up. And it had to do with their magazine. And possibly her.

Reluctant to waste her time, but all the same concerned, she turned and held her hand out to Elinor.

Elinor hesitated but handed the magazine over.

Us Weekly. The cover salaciously promised details on the last days of Rachel Bates's marriage. Emma hesitated, but opened the magazine.

It was clearly the thing to do, because the girls stood straighter, got a bit closer around her, and watched her carefully. Emma didn't know what she was looking for, but the suspicion started coagulating into half-baked denials. It wouldn't. It couldn't. What. Not what I want.

"It isn't bad. It's great. You look fantastic," Jane E blurted out.

It wasn't the reassurance Emma had been looking for. Emma started flipping through the pages faster, frustration building as she still had no clear idea what she was looking for. With Jane's words, the precipitated thoughts sunk into her stomach.

The microwave cheerfully chirped its completion of its assigned task as Emma had the very surreal experience of actually seeing herself in a magazine.

She could recall the near delirious joy the first time she seen her name, as first author, on a JACS communication. She was so excited she could have sworn she was luminescent; the feeling was that intense!

To see her name in print here…

There was a solid plexiglass wall. The tension, nerves all froze at this moment. Somewhere out there, she was reacting. Emma simply stared.

The article occupied half a page. There were a handful of pictures and some text that she could not settle herself down to read. And while she knew what was there, it simply wasn't processing. It was as if a few neurons had been fried.

The pictures acquired their color and significance. She recognized the dresses first. The red dress that came with the shoes she'd nearly tripped several times in. The itchy and heavy purple that made her feel flushed and overwarm all night. The frothy yellow whose straps slipped if you so much as breathed.

All displayed on a woman that she did not recognize but realized must be herself.

That dispute was quickly settled with the even more disconcerting and invasive picture of her and Greg sitting at a table outside the Broad, her tired body leaned against his, in a half-hug that she hadn't even been aware they'd made.

When was that? She scowled to herself.

Steeling herself, she forced herself to read the paragraph that accompanied the pictures.

Chemistry for Knightley?

Since they took a walk down the red carpet together for the premiere of Dutch Department, Gregory Knightley, 32, and Emma Woodhouse, 29, have kept Us wondering; just how close is Knightley planning on getting to his future in-law? (His brother John marries her sister Isabella in December.) The British actor has been sighted with Woodhouse at premiere and party alike, where the couple appears to enjoy each other's company. Sources close to the actor have told Us that while on location at the California Institute of Technology campus (in Pasadena) filming Feynman, he's spent nearly every moment off-camera he can get with her (she is a chemist on the campus)! "Greg's never been happier," says the Knightley friend. "It looks like he's found it!"

Slowly, her mind tore itself from its suspended state. The questions coalesced: how did they get these pictures? What had happened to her privacy? Was this what it was like to be around Greg?

"Greg's never been happier"? Would she just be known as "that woman with that movie star"? It was one thing to be treated as arm candy at industry functions, but was this the face she wanted the public to see? That she wanted her colleagues to see? That she wanted her interviewers to see?

No. She didn't want any of this. Just like she hadn't wanted to go to that first lunch to begin with. Or the premiere. She hadn't wanted to spend time with Greg. And then she had. And she'd just been carried away. And forgotten the real world. The real world with application deadlines and stupid dishy magazines.

How could she not see this coming? It would have made sense to realize this was going to happen. What did she think they were doing with the pictures they were taking on the red carpet? Why hadn't she been more careful? Less stupid? Less carried away?

Emma shoved the article back into Elinor's hands. Moving quickly to the microwave, she opened the machine and reached for her food. She swore and pulled her hands back when she burned her hand on the hot plastic. After a quick examination to confirm that the skin was intact, she grabbed a paper towel and used it to bring out the container. She lifted the lid and stirred the food inside.

She turned and moved towards the door of the break room. The girls watched her, expectant.

Emma shook her head and exited quickly.

"So I was asked the other day by a colleague what I thought about Greg Knightley."

Emma bit into her bottom lip as she closed her eyes and sank into the couch. No. Not Mom too.

Was it just too much to ask that someone be left out of the loop? After all, it had penetrated and haunted almost every single interaction she'd had for the past forty-eight hours.

But Donna Sheridan was a busy, focused woman; she didn't waste time on frivolous gossip. She lived in a bubble.

So when Emma returned her mother's phone call, she'd been sure she'd find that quiet, non-Greg-involved haven. She'd been eager to have a conversation about her applications and the interview calls she'd received. An inquiry on her reactions.

She'd had a fantastic result with dichloromethane that no one seemed to care about.

But the bubble had been popped and Emma once more was thick in Gregland.

Donna elaborated on her loss of innocence: "Once we worked out that they weren't asking my opinion of him as an actor, I figured it was because he was, after all, John's brother and my future son-in-law of sorts. But you can imagine my surprise when my colleague flipped open a magazine and showed me-"

"I know," Emma said, fiddling with her ponytail. She needed to trim it; there were a few split ends.

Donna waited to collect her thoughts. "When were you going to tell me?"

The hurt that laced her mother's question worked quickly into Emma's gut. The guilt was effective and cold. Emma found herself rubbing at her stomach. "There's nothing to tell," Emma said, tiredly.

"Nothing? You have seen these pictures, yes?"

Emma nodded. Realizing her mother couldn't see her, she replied her affirmative. "Yes, I've seen them. And I know what it looks like. But things aren't really like that between us."

"So what, exactly, is the nature of your relationship with Gregory Knightley?"

In contrast to her lab's teasing remarks, or Isabella and her father's encouraging enthusiasm, Donna's question had a clinical, forthright air.

It was a language Emma spoke, and it demanded an honesty with which she was hesitant to approach the situation.

"We're friends. Very good friends," Emma said, tentatively, wondering what Donna wanted to hear. Emma and her mother had never really discussed the details of Emma's romantic life before, and Emma didn't know how Donna would react to it.

Her heart was beating shallowly and quickly. Her hand trembled, so she transferred the handset to her shoulder and clamped it down with her jaw. Emma got up to pace the floor.

Her mother remained silent over the line. Because she didn't want to be caught in a lie, Emma added once more, with enthusiasm: "Very good friends."

"Emma, you're not trying to hold back on me, are you?"

"No!" Great. If you said it any louder, I'm pretty sure that China could have discerned that you're lying. Emma determinedly gentled her voice. "No, I'm not. He's going to be Isabella's brother-in-law! And he's just a very…determined person."

This time, Emma withstood the silence bravely. She wasn't going into the embarrassing details of how she had actually found herself in the middle of this troublesome close friendship before she knew what was happening.

"Emma, honey, look," Donna voice took on a sympathetic, worried tone. She only used "honey" when she wanted to make sure you knew she loved you no matter what; Emma felt somewhat mollified but a bit apprehensive. "You can tell me the truth: have your priorities changed?"

The torrent of confusion that'd been hanging over her head the past two days threatened to morph into actual words and sentences. Saying everything aloud would be cathartic, but also tantamount to surrender, though, wouldn't it? "No! They haven't changed at all."

Donna was hesitant to respond, but stepped it up. Emma felt even guiltier that she was meeting this bravery with cowardly artifice. "I'm telling you, before you wander too far in: the road you're walking is hard enough. This-"

"This is not something I want to do," Emma asserted once more. "I already know."

"Are you sure? If you're not honest with yourself now, I'm promising you this will lead to a lot of…complications."

Clinical depression.

Two hurt daughters.

An abandoned, lonely husband.

Mortgages and debts.

Feeling held back.

The pain of complete and utter failure at the road you'd taken.

The horror of being criticized, pitied, shamed, and hated for it every step down, and, eventually, every step back.

The exhausting struggle of reestablishing your feet on the road you meant to take. And to keep on walking.

Emma didn't have to ask her mother how she had come to this conclusion, or even to enumerate the consequences; Emma had lived it. And in contrast to her sister, who reconciled herself to the fact that they just weren't enough, Emma understood that it had nothing to do with their family, and had everything to do with the way their mother was built.

The way, Emma suspected, that she, herself, was built. But unlike her mother, Emma wasn't going to let herself lose sight of the goal. She wasn't going to let herself get confused.

This was the closest she and her mother had ever come to talking about the situation that took their family apart, and Emma could sense her mother's hurt. Apology.

Preferring to bear the guilt than accept other's, Emma swallowed the emotion and replied gruffly, "I do not have, nor do I intend to have, those kind of complications in my life."

"Sometimes, we can't help ourselves," Donna sighed. Emma could sense the older woman had more to say, but did not quite know where to start. Or if she ought to. Predictably, she backed off.

Emma picked at the lint on her sock. "Look. I've got to get back to lab soon."

Donna wasn't ready to just let the situation be. Emma could sense it.

In contrast to the past, she was trying to be delicate. To step carefully.

For what? Emma cracked a few knuckles as she tapped her feet on the floor.

Emma usually found herself impatient with the small misunderstandings between herself and her father, her sister. They never really comprehended her problems or difficulties. Understandable, considering they didn't spend more than half their days in a laboratory, immersed in the stuff. But whenever they cornered her into giving more than a sentence on her troubles, they'd always try and help by overthinking the situation and offering senseless solutions. Emma hated that she resented them for it; they were only trying to be helpful. But they didn't understand.

It was strange to be directing the irritation towards her mother, whom she'd always pictured as always on her side. After all, her mother had gone through these things. And surely she understood that some problems had to be dealt with privately.

At length, Donna finally agreed to let the situation go. "Well. I guess that's all I'm going to get."

Emma almost laid herself bare right there. Instead, she nearly choked as she tried to swallow past her dry throat. "For now," she conceded.

Her mother was silent once more. Emma tapped her foot once. Twice.

"All right then. Well, take care. I love you."

"I will. Love you too, Mom." Emma pressed the "off" button on the phone and stretched out her tired limbs on the couch.

She'd never realized that the ceiling was stucco.

She was tempted to close her eyes and simply shut everything out for a few hours. Rest in mindless oblivion.

It was easy to slip into a restful world at the moment. It was stuffy and hot in the second floor apartment, encouraging her to simply sink into the heavy air and let the lethargy saturate her. She should have opened the curtains when she'd come home for lunch; the light filtered through the drawn curtains and cast the room in a dark, creamy, and dreamy glow.

She could hear the gas stove in the kitchen and the gentle whir of the boiling water; she had to get up soon to put in the pasta.

All the same, she didn't want to.

This was the first time she'd been alone, truly alone, for a week.

A time to simply be. And not think of Greg.

Not that, in all this mess about him, he'd actually been around to merit being thought of.

Emma groaned into a couch cushion as she tiredly resigned herself to her fate: she wasn't going to stop thinking about him, was she?

Forget the dichloromethane. Forget the possible vac transfer she was planning on doing after lunch. Forget the application to the University of Arizona. No, she was going into insecure relationship mode.

But really. Where was Greg in all this? How was he doing? Perhaps taking precautions for his own privacy, or perhaps being so completely sick of her, Greg had been a bit more distant lately. In fact, he'd avoided the lab all week, and had only called once a few days ago to see how she was dealing with her newly found and completely unwanted fame. But aside from that, he was gone.

Ok, so she'd been relieved; she didn't want to have the situation get worse, which it most certainly would if they were seen together. All the same, she was startled that she missed him, missed that tension. Missed the possibilities. Even the frightening ones.

Specifically the one where underneath the tired exasperation and frustration she felt towards the situation, and all the reasons she ought not to want to be around him, what with location, life style, and oh, personality differences, what everybody saw in those pictures was actually completely and utterly true: she really was romantically interested in her future movie star brother-in-law.

Which, in itself, just added its own unexpected, unwelcome bitter twist. And another annoying thing to deal with.

She was a piece of work, Emma concluded as she forced herself from the couch to prepare her lunch; you could tell she was in research, what with that glaringly wide, mean masochistic streak.

Continued in Next Section