Page 41 of Felix

“You use a stick to create a new path. But you need repetition,” he says, dragging the pencil along the thinner line again and again until it starts getting wider. “Repetitive conditioning reroutes the water, but not until the pathway has been carved out enough. The stream not only needs a big enough trough to support it, but it also needs an outlet at the end.”

“And what’s that?” I ask.

Emil blinks at me, the smallest of smiles curving his lips. “Hope.”

My heartbeat hitches and then races ahead as Emil runs his hand over the comforter, smoothing it back out. His hair is falling messily over his forehead, his glasses have the effect of making his eyes look even bigger than they are, and the fact that he doesn’t seem to realize how absolutely astounding that simple, one-word answer was has me shaking my head in disbelief.

“What is it you want to do with your degree?” I ask.

He looks at me in something akin to surprise. “Oh. Um, research.”

I nod, leaning back onto my elbows. Emil’s gaze drops to my stomach, his throat bobbing once before he looks away.

“The same kind of research you’re doing now?”

“Probably not the same exact topics, but yeah, same idea,” he answers, fidgeting with the pencil in his grip. “There’s so much to learn. So much to understand about behavior, psychology, the way our brains work. I just want to be a part of it.”

“I can see it,” I tell him.

“What?”

“You in a white lab coat. Those glasses on your nose. Making some grand discovery and shouting ‘eureka!’”

He huffs a laugh. “Maybe someday.”

“Definitely someday.”

Emil shifts, poking the comforter with the end of the pencil. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Another, you mean?”

He snorts. “Yes, another. Smartass.”

I shoot him a grin. “Go for it.”

“Why do you spend so much time in front of your window? Is that where your TV is or something?”

My lips quirk. “What, I can’t be sitting there simply because it has the best view in the house?”

It takes Emil a second to realize what I mean, and then he huffs, cheeks reddening. “Yeah, no. There’s another reason.” Before I can express my disapproval for the way he so easily dismissed himself, he takes another guess. “Is it your computer?”

“It’s a sewing machine,” I answer. “That’s what’s beside the window.”

“I…” He makes an aborted sound. “Seriously?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” I ask, amused by his apparent shock.

“It’s just…” His eyes trail over me almost absentmindedly. “I had it in my head that you were this eighty-year-old grandma. I guess I wasn’t that far off the mark.”

My mouth falls open slowly. “You thought I was eighty? And you were doing the things you were doing in front of me? What if I had a heart attack, Specs?”

He barks a laugh, eyes twinkling. “Would’ve been a good way to go, I presume.”

I huff, shaking my head. “Okay, we’re gonna circle around to that later, but back up a second. What’s wrong with sewing? It’s not only for grandmas.”

“Sure,” he says with a shrug.

“Specs…”

---