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He curled his fingers around the handle of the desk drawer where he'd stuffed his papers, but then release it again.
"Nothing." He bit into is sandwich, but suddenly he didn't feel quite so hungry.
"Right." Brooks said slowly, but didn't bother to argue. Maybe he knew better than that.
They finished their sandwiches in silence, and when the paper was stuffed in the trash, they both sat back in their chairs and surveyed each other.
"I always admired how hard you work." His brother broke the silence, and of all the things Garret had expected, that certainly wasn't one of them.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. You were always so driven. Focused on your goal. Never giving up. I always wondered how nice that must be to be so sure of yourself all the time."
Garret laughed. "Of the two of us, I think we know who is more sure of himself, and it is most certainly not me."
Brooks cracked a smile, "Oh, I'm a master of the ladies, that's not what I mean. I mean that you work really hard. And you deserve to...enjoy yourself. Think of yourself instead of the company for once. After all, if you take this company away, what have you got?" Brooks leaned further back in his seat, his eyebrows raised.
"I thought you didn't come here to talk to me about Rachael."
"Who said anything about Rachael? You're the one who thought of her." He stood, then reached for his jacket. "I wonder why that is, by the way. Of all the things to think of in the world..."
"You're not as clever as you think you are."
"And neither are you. The only difference between the two of us is that I know my short comings." He shouldered on his jacket. "Do you?"
"Thank you for the sandwich." Garret made the dismissal as clear as possible, but his brother still lingered in the doorway for longer than necessary, staring down at him as if he were deep in thought.
After a long pause, he said, "Any time." Then he turned on his heel and left.
When Garret was sure the coast was finally clear, he pulled open the drawer of papers again and spread them out in front of them. If he was honest, staring at them gave him no more pleasure than it had all day long. All he did was read he notes over and over again, and as much as he tried to convince himself that it was purely for research, he couldn't bring himself to focus on replication.
Instead, he studied the handwriting on the forms, the way the smooth curls of her handwriting clashed with his own blocky lettering.
He absently traced a "y" as he read over one question for what felt like the thousandth time.
What would you say most attracts you to the subject?
He breathed deep, scanning his own answer.
The subject shows traditional signs of humor and understanding. She is well kept, hard-working, and compassionate.
What had he been thinking giving this to her to read over? Like it was any other case study? He cringed at his own stupidity, then smiled as he looked over the notes Rachael had scrawled in the margins.
Ab
ove "well-kept," she'd written, "stop! You'll make a girl blush." Beside "compassionate" she'd simply drawn a picture of a stick figure rolling his eyes.
She was right, of course. His answer sounded like it had been auto filled by some kind of robot.
It doesn't matter. It's over now. We won't use these results and Rachael will be gone. One failed experiment is certainly nothing to obsess over.
He pulled the manila envelope from the corner of his desk and dragged it toward him.
Maybe his brother was right. He needed to let this all go. Rachael was gone, but he could still find a way to live. To focus on himself.
A week had already passed since their disastrous almost-wedding. Surely the refractory period would come to an end soon. Then he could stop picturing the way his things had looked in her house. Or the way she'd looked in the morning. Or how she'd felt...
Yes, then Tesla would stop moping around the apartment and he could bring himself to unpack his things.
