Page 3 of Deep In Love
I flip my phone so she can decipher the tone for herself.
“Oh.”
One syllable with a thousand meanings.
The bell above the door chimes before Amy can add more, and she darts back to the counter.
My head lifts on instinct as two young girls, no older than thirteen, enter the coffee shop, but they falter a step when we make eye contact.
And just like that, the lemon poppy seed muffin I ate churns in my gut.
They each steal an uncomfortable peek at the brutal scar slashing across my forehead and down along my right eye socket, where it ends below my cheekbone. It’s raised where the uneven edges meet unmarked skin, and even years later, it’s still a deep mauve. The people close to me—Amy, my family, Cheryl—make it easy to forget about the scars that mark my skin, but strangers gawk without shame or remorse.
People believe they’re subtle with their glances, but each one burns like acid.
I dip my head to hide my trembling chin, but it’s futile, so I pack my things and disappear out the door. I’ve tried every remedy available to improve my appearance. Steroid injections. High-end makeup. Hell, I even cut my own bangs on a particularly bad night.
It didn’t conceal the scar, but at least for six months, people fixated on my horrifying bangs instead.
Some aspects of the accident’s aftermath have been easier to accept than others. I can handle aching joints before a treacherous rain and the uncomfortable pat down from TSA after I set off the metal detector. I’ve learned to manage my arthritis and banished my fear of driving, but I haven’t overcome the hurdle of my image. The scars are a soft spot—an insecurity so raw, even a look or comment causes an ache in my chest.
A balmy morning breeze rustles my hair as I head toward the biology building. Large glass windows and brick-red eco-conscious paneling—a juxtaposition to the older stone buildings surrounding it—come into view, and I pick up speed, rushing to my desk to see if Willy Wonka left a surprise for me.
Every morning, there’s a single dark-chocolate square, filled with gooey caramel, sitting on my desk.
I don’t know who leaves them, or why, but I refuse to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it’s a bright moment in my day. On particularly bad days, when the universe has cursed me, an afternoon treat will appear. I try not to think about how the mystery person knows I’m having a rough day, but rather just appreciate the kindness.
The chocolate, wrapped in blue foil, sits on my desk above a pile of strewn papers and crinkled sticky notes. I scarf it down in one bite.
Sometimes I wish I knew the secret identity of my Willy Wonka, because on days like today, when the world is heavy and every task feels impossible, the kind gesture reminds me there are slivers of light in every rainstorm.
A soft hum cuts through the fog of my sugar-addled mind.
Peeking around my monitor, I’m greeted by an all-too-familiar, cocky smile from Mateo Alvarez—fellow PhD candidate, thorn in my side, and, clearly, the universe’s favorite.
He’s been gifted every trait required to surviveandthrive in our world. His scientific work is inspired—even if it gives me an ulcer to admit it to myself—and he skates through life with a level of confidence I could never achieve. Charles Darwin would take one look at Mateo and scribble down “marvelous specimen of a man” in his notebook.
Pisses me off.
On the flip side, I defy his idea of evolution. I was not adapted to survive, and yet, here I am, alive and kicking.
Not by choice.
I can’t be an evolutionary biologist and disregard the idea of natural selection. That would be parallel to an assassin saying they don’t believe in murder. The juxtaposition is otherworldly. But thanks to modern medicine, my mother’s iron will, and a dozen pins and plates keeping me in one piece, I’m here to disappoint Charles, right beside tea sachets and unnatural rates of extinction.
When we meet one day, I’ll apologize profusely.
I’m not the only one defying his work, though. The other sycophant blatantly ignoring well-established theories?
None other than Mateo: the most arrogant man on the planet and a fossil fuel supporter (not confirmed, but I have a hunch). He’s six feet, two inches ofI’m smarter than you,with an infuriatingly attractive Spanish accent.
What theory has he thrown in the trash? That Satan doesn’t exist. He does, and Mateo is his chosen corporeal form.
His deep laugh skitters down my spine, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
“Something funny, Mateo?”
He sets down his coffee mug, an ostentatious vessel with “world’s best scientist” etched on the front. Whatever chump gifted it to him never met Charles or me, because he wouldn’t even be the world’s first- or second-best scientist.
