Laurelin Paige: Hudson

I tapped my fingers rhythmically on the keyboard as I schemed. After the failure of my last study, I was eager to find success. Perhaps failure was too harsh of a word. My results hadn’t met my hypothesis, but I’d still gained information from the experiment, inconclusive as it was. I’d gotten the idea for the study after two classmates, Andrew and Jane, became engaged. They seemed to be lost for each other, dizzy in their haze of lust which they’d most likely mistaken for something more. I wondered—if they believed they were close enough that they should marry, did it mean their bond was unbreakable?

I set out to find the answer.

The three of us shared enough classes that it was easy to flirt with Jane in front of her fiancé. I did so casually at first, expecting some sort of reaction from Andrew. When none came, I upped my game. I touched Jane when we spoke, brushed my fingers against hers, played with her hair. I invaded her space. I whispered suggestive things to her—hell, dirty-as-fuck things that made her blush and her nipples stand at attention. A whole semester of this behavior and neither Jane nor Andrew had told me to stop. Shouldn’t there have been accusations? If not at me, then at each other? Were they spoken behind my back, unbeknownst to me?

Or did the couple truly have enough trust and affection for each other to withstand jealousy?

Or maybe they were looking for a threesome.

The lack of a conclusive answer was why I’d considered the experiment a bust. This time I wouldn’t settle for ambiguous results. Which meant I better start with a solid hypothesis.

I opened up my digital journal and started a new section which I titled The Rebound . It was a perfect follow-up to The Engagement . That study had tried to break up a couple without any prior history on my part. This time, the subject, Celia, had a prior infatuation with me. The question was, and I typed it in as I constructed it, Could a prior infatuation affect the status of a new relationship, if the previous object of affection suddenly returned the emotion?

Next, I entered in my hypothesis: If the subject truly believes the affection is returned, then yes.

How would I be able to tell if I’d succeeded? I paused to watch my younger brother, Chandler, do a flip off the side of the pool as I considered. If Celia believed I was interested in her she’d likely either a) tell me to back off, b) consent to a summer affair, or c) break up with Dirk.

I would not sleep with Celia—that was non-negotiable. I couldn’t have sex with women that didn’t attract me, and I most certainly wouldn’t have sex with a woman that knew me personally. That would mean letting her get close. And I never let anyone get close.

The only success, I decided, would be a break-up in the relationship.

I entered that into my document and sat back.

Now, I simply had to figure out my intended process. This was my favorite part—coming up with the plan. My heart rate kicked up a notch with the thrill. I’d have to put some study into it. Casual flirting would not cut it with this subject—she was only The Subject in my eyes now; to think of her as anything else would weaken my objectivity. I’d have to make a real attempt to show affection. It would be a challenge, but with true effort, I was sure I could win the subject over. Perhaps I could watch a few romance movies. Or ask Mirabelle—she seemed to think she was an expert on romance.

As if summoned by my thoughts, Mirabelle plopped on a deck chair next to me, her pink and black bikini seeming very mature for a girl her age. At least we were in the privacy of our own backyard. Were we to have company, she’d be wearing a cover-up, if I had any say in the matter. And I always had a say in the matter.

“Whatcha doing?” She peered toward my computer.

I swiveled slightly so that my screen was out of her view. “Nothing of importance,” I said. Then I changed my tune. “Actually, I’m working on a project. For a friend. Perhaps you could help?”

“Sure.” She grabbed the bottle of sunscreen that I’d brought out earlier and began slathering it over her petite body. “What is it?”

While I was sure she meant to sound aloof, I noticed the hint of excitement in her few words. If there were any reason in the world to learn how to love, it would be for Mirabelle. She adored me, as many younger sisters adored their older siblings. But unlike other big brothers, I did not deserve it. Yet she still persevered in her faith and affection. For that alone, I endeavored to try with her in ways I refused to try with anyone else. I went out of my way to give her attention—played tennis with her, took her for rides when the chauffer wasn’t available, protected her from our mother’s drunken ridicule. Asking her advice was just as much about boosting her as it was about helping me.

“Well,” I began, “he wants to know the best way to woo a girl—”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “And he asked you? Anyone with half a brain knows you know nothing about wooing anyone.”

I bit back the sting of her statement. It was true after all. “Exactly. So I’m asking you.”

“This isn’t really for you, is it? You aren’t interested in someone, are you?” She stopped rubbing the lotion into her arm and stared at me point blank. “You aren’t trying to woo Celia, are you?”

I made it a point to never lie. Even in my experiments, I had vowed to remain truthful. It was the way I maintained a bit of dignity despite my manipulative actions. So I spun my answer. “Now why would I try to woo Celia? You said yourself she wasn’t for me.”

“Just making sure.” She returned to massaging her skin. “Let’s see, women love the artsy, creative types of attention. Like write her a poem or draw her portrait.”

I blinked. I wasn’t artsy in the least. “Go on.”

“Then there’s the easy stuff—sending flowers, buying jewelry, giving gifts—”

I typed as she talked.

“But those are really lame if you don’t personalize them.”

I looked up from my screen. “What do you mean by personalize ?”

“Don’t just give roses. Those are boring. Give flowers that you know she’ll like or that mean something to her. The jewelry should be unique to her or something she’s admired.”

God, it sounded like romanticizing was going to require more detailed investigation than I’d expected.

“Basically, all a woman wants is for you to spend time getting to know her,” Mirabelle said, confirming my thoughts.

I chuckled. “As if you know what it’s like to be a woman.”

“Shut up. A girl, then.” She smirked at me, an expression she had down to a T. “You know girls are just miniature women, don’t you?”

“I’ve heard that somewhere.” I scratched the back of my neck, noticing sweat had gathered while I’d been sitting in the sun. “Then all I—” I caught myself and started again. “All my friend has to do is spend time with this girl?”

“And then show that he’s noticed who she is.” She frowned. “Does that make any sense?”

“It does.” Actually, noticing people was one of my talents. While trying to understand basic human emotion and behavior, I’d learned to study people with a fine eye. The application of my finds was what needed work. “I’m sure my friend will appreciate this advice.”

Mirabelle put on her sunglasses and settled back into her chair. “I wish it were for you though. You’d make an awesome boyfriend.”

I forced a smile, swallowing the nasty taste in my mouth. “Tell you what—I’ll save the notes for when I need them.”

I needed them now, but not the way Mirabelle assumed. I’d never need them that way. She was a bright kid, but she was absolutely wrong about one thing—I wouldn’t make an awesome boyfriend.