Corban and Molly were twins influence their parents’ comparisons of their children? How had that shaped Corban’s self-perception, and what did it mean for his ability to form relationships as an adult?
There was something else driving my curiosity. Something I didn’t quite understand. It was a feeling, an emotional response to the hurt I’d felt when he’d talked about his parents. There was a familiarity to it, and yet I couldn’t seem to untangle its meaning. All I knew was that I felt something—something big and deep.
I’d shied away from it last night, and I pushed it aside now. This wasn’t about me. It was about Corban.
The desire to better understand him had kept me up until my eyes had gone dry and the words on the screen blurred. I knew one night spent poring over research studies wasn’t enough to reach solid conclusions. But it had left me with a few potential insights, as well as numerous questions.
I’d printed out a stack of information—excerpts, overviews, graphs and charts. Data. Good, solid, reliable data on everything from attachment theory in adults to twin studies to psychological models of parent-child relationships. I gathered everything up, tucked it into a folder, and headed to work.
Corban wasn’t in his office when I arrived. I caught a few glimpses of him during the first few hours of the workday, but we were both busy.
Despite my other responsibilities, he was never far from my mind. I cast furtive glances at the folder sitting on the corner of my desk. The information buzzed in the back of my brain—data, theories, and unanswered questions.
Questions were the lifeblood of a scientist’s work. Words like what if and why were mainstays in our vocabularies. Even if our theories and experiments didn’t produce conclusive results—even when the questions were too big to be answered easily—they drove us to keep deepening our understanding of the world.
I wanted to know why. Why was Corban hurting?
By mid-afternoon, I still hadn’t found a moment alone with him. Perhaps I’d invite him to dinner again. I gathered up a few things and headed down the hallway, smiling at the thought. Dinner with Corban would be nice. He so enthusiastically enjoyed my cooking.
And we both enthusiastically enjoyed other things together.
I stopped in the copy room to make a few copies. The machine whirred, spitting out warm sheets of paper onto the side tray. I picked them up and took my original.
Corban came in and paused just inside the doorway. Warmth hit my cheeks and my stomach tingled with a rush of excitement. Memories of our first encounter in this room flitted through my mind, making my heart beat faster.
The urge to resist him—to treat him as my nemesis—had faded. Although I had no intention of repeating our first sexual encounter in this precise location, his workplace flirtations had become enjoyable and welcome. I smiled, ready for him to make a suggestive comment.
Or maybe even kiss me.
I hoped he’d kiss me. We could get away with it. No one else was around.
But his eyes didn’t shine with playfulness and no hint of a smile tugged at his lips.
“Are you finished?” he asked. “I can come back.”
I hugged the papers to my chest. “I’m finished.”
He didn’t say anything else. Just brushed past me to stand in front of the copy machine. Perhaps he was tired. I’d left his apartment late, and maybe, like me, he’d been up for several more hours.
It was tempting to launch into an explanation of the research I’d done. But I was hoping for a chance to ask questions. Standing in the copy room wasn’t particularly conducive to an in-depth discussion.
And his body language was sending me confusing messages. His shoulders were bunched, and he hadn’t made eye contact. I hesitated for a moment, but he didn’t say anything. No remarks about meeting here again or teasing comments about the buttons on my shirt.
Something was wrong.
My brow furrowed as I studied him from behind. I opened my mouth to ask if he was feeling well, but he picked up his copies and moved past me with barely a nod in my direction.
“Corban.”
He didn’t stop, so I hurried to catch up with him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just have a lot to do.”
I kept walking next to him. “I’m sure you do, but I can’t help but think something is bothering you.”
He stopped outside his office and our eyes met. He held my gaze for a few seconds, then looked away. “I’m okay. Just distracted, I guess.”
“Have