Love in Lingerie - Grayson Dolan & Alissa Violet

3

Her.

-Two months later.-

"I just don't understand how you didn't get it."

I let out a controlled breath, pulling my seatbelt across my chest and pushing it into the clasp. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't figure it out."

Damn Mensa and their "delightfully fun puzzles!"—puzzles that I had failed. We'd had four challenges in tonight's party, and I had failed three of them. Craig was—still is—dismayed by my results. Next week's event is a "fun team challenge!" which I'm assuming will mean that Craig's and my scores will be combined. That possibility seems to be the true root of his panic.

I glance over at him, watching as he flips on the windshield wipers and checks all three mirrors before shifting into reverse. His face is pale blue from the restaurant's sign, the fluorescent neon highlighting the thick mop of dark hair that is perfectly combed, despite the stress of the evening. I consider telling him the truth, and just as quickly discard it.

The truth is, I cheated on the Mensa admittance test. I found an online answer sheet and penciled in enough right answers to get me in, without arising any suspicions over a perfect score. I got my laminated card, slid my hand into Craig's, and walked into that damn event. I didn't think it would be so hard. I didn't realize that everyone would be so freaking serious about the thing. Each challenge had been timed, the correct answers written on a big white board in order of timing. In the air, competitive spirit had almost crackled with intensity. At the end of the night, Craig had placed second. The losers had been on their own board, a board that I dominated in depressingly consistent fashion. The only name lower than mine had been Chad, a scrawny guy with skinny jeans and a pierced tongue. Chad had been brought by his parents, and was a high school sophomore, a fact that Craig had pointed out three times.

"Maybe you have performance anxiety." Craig rolls the syllable of each word on his tongue as if testing their flavors. "Athletes suffer from it all of the time. Maybe it caused your brain to lock up."

"Maybe." I reach down, into my purse, and pull out a pack of gum. "Want some gum?"

"I bet there are exercises we could do online. We could time them, to try to recreate the environment. Or maybe food—you know, tryptophan relieves anxiety."

"Tryptophan?" I pull a stick of Big Red out and hold it toward him, his head shaking subtly, his hands remaining locked in their ten and two positions. "Like turkey?"

"It's a precursor to a neurotransmitter called serotonin, which helps you feel calm."

"I know what serotonin is," I say flatly, though—honestly—I don't. I mean, I sort of know what it is. Though I thought it had something to do with sunshine and skin. Or maybe that's melatonin. Or melanin. Something like that.

"It's not just in turkey," he continues, the van coming to a complete stop at a stop sign. There are no cars in sight, not so much as a falling leaf moving, yet he looks left, then right, then checks his rearview mirror. "It's also in chicken and bananas. Cheese, oats, peanut butter..." He continues to list food and I rest my head on the headrest, tuning him out. He's crazy if he thinks that I'm going to do a food prep for the next meeting. I'm not even certain I'm going to the next meeting. I'm not even home from this one, and I'm already dreading it.

"I've got an early morning tomorrow." I interrupt his continuing list of tryptophan foods, a list that is getting ridiculously long, and I don't know what is more alarming—how many foods contain tryptophan, or how many foods that Craig is aware of. There are times when it is convenient to date a brilliant man. There are other times, present moment included, when it is just really damn annoying. It'd be one thing if he was quietly brilliant, the sort of quiet and unassuming genius that keeps all of his worldly knowledge to himself. But Craig is more of the "let everyone know how much I know" type. He won't shut up about it. And tonight, I can't take any more of it.