“No, I made homemade pasta sauce,” Larissa said sarcastically. “Who do you think I am?”

  “A woman in her mid-thirties who cannot cook,” she replied. “And is it okay? We don’t have to use the library now, and you don’t have to try to find an office on campus.”

  “It was a great idea, yeah. Thank you for thinking about it. So, how is Samantha?”

  “Good, I think. We didn’t talk long. I’m adding garlic to this.” She pointed to the sauce. “And to this.” She pointed to the meat.

  “Go for it. You’re the chef,” Larissa replied.

  “I’m a decent cook. You’re just a terrible cook, so you think decent cooks are chefs.”

  “I’m good at other things,” Larissa argued. “I’m great at loading the dishwasher, and I run a good vacuum.”

  Harlow laughed and said, “Yes, you do. Other things, too. You use a mean coaster.”

  “I only use the nice coasters. I throw the mean ones on the floor I just vacuumed.”

  Harlow’s laughter continued as she grabbed minced garlic from the refrigerator.

  “And sex,” Larissa added.

  Harlow nearly dropped the tiny glass jar she had just grabbed and said, “I’m sorry. What?”

  “I’ve been told I’m good at sex.”

  “You… have?” she stuttered as she opened the minced garlic.

  “Yeah, a few times.”

  “A few…”

  Harlow accidentally tipped the jar over the ground beef, and the oil from the garlic went in first, causing the pan to sizzle. Then, a massive amount of garlic dumped out of the jar and into the pan.

  “Shit.”

  She set the jar down quickly and pulled open a drawer to get out a spoon.

  “Who told you that you–”

  “All three women I’ve been with,” Larissa said.

  “All three?”

  “Well, not all of us have had a dozen serious relationships and several shorter ones.”

  “No, I just meant that they all specifically told you that you were good at sex? They used those words? Not exactly romantic.”

  She scooped a pile of minced garlic out of the pan, let some of it fall into the sauce, and put the rest back into the jar to worry about later.

  “Not exactly, no, but that’s what they meant.”

  “Oh. Well, good… then.”

  “I bet you’re pretty good at it, too.”

  Harlow turned to her best friend with wide eyes and asked, “Why do you think that?”

  “Because you’ve had a lot of it, and generally, more experience in something makes a person better at it. If a doctor performs their first surgery, they’re okay, but after performing the same one a hundred times or a thousand, they’re better, right?”

  “You think I’ve had that much sex?”

  “I don’t know how much sex you’ve had. It was just an example.”

  “Can we talk about something else? Not sex and maybe not surgery while we’re preparing dinner.”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Interviews. Do you have any more applicants?”

  “Yes. Surprisingly, offering them a hundred bucks per person for a one-hour interview and the possibility of a one-hour follow-up did it.”

  “And you can afford that?”

  “I don’t pay rent, Harlow. My car was old when I got it and is paid off. I work twenty-five to thirty hours a week, so yes, I can afford it. And it’s worth it anyway. I think this is the right approach: start with existing couples, ask them how they fell in love, and maybe add in others later. It was a great idea. Thank you. I’m giving you co-author credit on the book, by the way.”

  “Oh, I don’t need that,” she said and pulled out a spatula so that she could push the meat around. “Just a dedication to your hot, sexy, beautiful, gorgeous, funny, kind, amazing, best friend, Harlow. That’s all I need.”

  Larissa laughed and asked, “Are you hoping to get dates out of this book or something?”

  Harlow turned back to the stove and didn’t answer the question. She just stared down at the pasta, wondering if Larissa had put salt in it.

  CHAPTER 3

  “It’s only couples. Should it be only couples?” she asked after pushing her plate away.

  “That’s where you said you wanted to start,” Harlow replied.

  “Yeah, but it’s love. People should be able to answer my questions even if they’re not in a relationship currently. Like you, for example. You’re single, but if I asked you how long it took you to fall in love, what would you say?”

  “Which time?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I,” Harlow said, chuckling, before she pushed her own empty plate of pasta away and leaned forward over the table a little. “It’s different every time.”

  “But that doesn’t help me.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Harlow laughed a bit harder. “How long did it take you?”

  “Me?”

  “The two relationships you’ve had, or maybe including the third woman you slept with, too. Not sure if you were in love with her.”

  “We don’t talk about sex, do we?” Larissa asked, realizing it at the same time.

  “Our own? Not really.”

  “But why? A lot of friends do.”

  “We’re not a lot of friends, I guess,” Harlow said.

  “That’s interesting, too, though. Some friends, no matter how close they are, never talk about that stuff, and others want all the details. I wonder what makes the difference.”

  “That’s for book two, maybe,” Harlow suggested.

  Larissa smiled at her and said, “Maybe. There’s a whole group of underserved people, as you put it, and we happen to be part of that group. We could interview friends and ask–”

  “Larissa?”

  “What?”

  “Stay focused on this book for now and stop avoiding my question.”

  “The love thing?”

  “Yes,” Harlow said, laughing a bit louder this time, and then took a drink of her water.

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever been in love. I have never said that to anyone, at least. I can recognize the chemical and hormonal changes in the body and say that I was maybe deep in like with both women I dated, but I don’t think that I was in love.”

  “Never? Really?”

  “No. But I know you have.”

  Harlow looked down at the table for a second and said, “Yeah.”

  “So, it’s different every time?”

  “Yes, I think so. You’ve spent so much time with your nose in textbooks; you hardly even watch anything on TV or read the classics to see how love is portrayed, at least.”

  “I watch TV with you,” Larissa argued.

  “Oh, please. You usually just have your phone or laptop with you, reading something for school or science-related, while I watch whatever’s on.”

  “True. I want to do things with you, but–”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m not picking on you, and it also doesn’t bother me. But does it mean you’re missing things, Lou. You are thirty-five, and you’ve never been in love. I know you’re focused on school, but once you finally have your doctorate, then you’ll be focused on teaching. It’s like, right now, you’re focused on this book, so you’re sitting at home all day or sitting here when you’re not working, I guess, but I doubt you’ll meet anyone there or at the school library, where you’re usually alone in a study room. I don’t want you to be alone.”

  “I have you.” Larissa smiled.

  “Yeah, for now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Not like that.” Harlow shook her head. “Not like I’m going to stop being your friend or something. But I will find someone one day. At least, I hope I do.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, feeling like an idiot for not thinking about that.

  “I was with someone for two years, and it didn’t work out, which, I think, you and I both knew would be the case for a few months now, but I’m hoping I can find someone it will work out with, and we’ll have a house together and all that.”

  “I’d be the third wheel.”

  “No, because you… You can find someone if you actually try. You could go out or get on an app or, really, just walk down the street indicating with something rainbow-colored or shaped that you’re into women, and I swear, women would flock to you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s not. You’re gorgeous, Larissa. You’ve got this whole hot nerd thing going on that lesbians would eat up. You’re smart. Dense when it comes to common-sense things and, apparently, love, but very smart otherwise. You’re even funny sometimes.”

  “Gee, thanks,” she replied sarcastically.

  “You’d find someone. You just don’t leave here much unless you have a specific purpose, and people on missions are hard to hit on.”

  “What?” Larissa laughed loudly.

  “If you’re in the grocery store, kind of just perusing the fruits and veggies section and walking slowly, not paying much attention to your cart, a woman could walk up to you and pretend to be doing the same thing. She could say, ‘The cucumbers look good this year, huh?’ or something equally lame like that, and there’s the conversation starter. But if you’re on a mission, pushing that cart up and down an aisle, paying attention to the shopping list on your phone, she won’t talk to you about the cucumbers.”

  “Oh, my God. This is a whole series of books.” Larissa picked up her phone off the table to make a note. “There’s the first one, but then, there’s the friends talking or not talking about sex thing, and the how to pick up or get picked up. The whole concept could be–”

  “Hey, stop for a second,” Harlow interjected.

  “What? Why?”

  She looked up from the note she’d started to type.

  “I only got you the one-month membership. Let’s just work on this one and think about your dissertation after that. Then, if you want to write fifty books, you can.”

  “I just made a note of the concept. I’ll put it away for now, though.”

  “Good.”

  “But tell me, on average, how long does it take you to fall in love?”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever done the math, but I guess I can leave that to you. Wait. Is this for the book? Like, one of the interviews?”

  “No, Harlow. This is me talking to my friend at dinner. I’m curious. We’ve never really talked about how you fall in love. You tell me you meet someone, you’re dating, it’s going well, and then, one day, it’s either over, or you tell me you’re in love, and she knows or doesn’t yet.”

  “Right. Well, I’ve only told three women that I loved them.”

  “Only three?”

  “Just because I have relationships, doesn’t mean I’m in love. Most of them end before we get there, but I would say the first time I told someone I loved them was before I met you.”

  “We met when you were nineteen.”

  “I know. I was in love in high school. You know that.”

  “But was that real love or teenage love?” Larissa asked.

  “What’s the difference? I was a teenager, but it felt real to me.”

  “When you’re in high school, your brain’s not even fully formed yet. You have no idea who you will be in five or ten years.”

  “Well, the brain’s not fully formed yet stuff aside, that’s always true: you don’t know who you’ll be when you’re forty, for example. I don’t know who I’ll be in five years. Yeah, I was young. She was, too. She was my first in all ways. Maybe that’s childish or not real love to some people, but it is real when you’re in it. And now that I’ve been in love as an adult with a fully formed brain, I can see that some things are different, but not the thing that matters most.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we had to sneak around to be with each other, and I don’t have to do that sneaking around anymore, but the feeling of very much knowing that I’d met this person whom I wanted to spend all my time with and never let go – that’s the same. I fell in love with her after being friends first for a while, but we were kids for most of that friendship, so I’m not sure you can really use this for your whole timeline question. My two adult relationships, where I said those words, I was probably five months in on one of them and seven on the other.”

  “Seven months?”

  Harlow nodded.

  “That seems long,” she noted.

  “Who else have you interviewed to tell you different?” Harlow tossed back.

  “No one yet, obviously. But why do you stay with someone for seven months if you haven’t said that yet?”

  “Sometimes, it takes longer to realize it. Other times, it takes longer to say it, but you’ve known it for a while; you’re just not ready to verbalize it. There are a lot of factors here, Lou. Do you maybe want to get your computer out and get this down? Your knee is shaking so hard under the table, the water in our glasses is moving like there’s an earthquake.”

  “Can I?” she asked excitedly.

  “Go ahead. I’m giving you twenty more minutes. Then, we’re going out.”

  “Out where?” she asked as she stood and walked over to the living room, where she’d left her computer earlier.

  “Out for a drink,” Harlow said.

  “Why are we going out for a drink?”

  “Because I told you that you need to start getting out more. You can have water, if you want. It’s just about getting out of the house.”

  “I don’t want to get out of the house right now. I have applications to review. Three more came in. I saw the emails on my phone a minute ago, and I need to get people scheduled for interviews if we only have a month in the space you rented.”

  “You can’t take a break? For, like, an hour?”

  “I don’t think so. The faster I do this, the faster I can get things out of my mind and work on the paper with the real science in it. When I first came up with this concept, I really thought I could produce some kind of formula using science and that it would help people find their partners, but I don’t know.”

  “There’s no formula for that, and you know it.”

  “Yeah, not one that would work for everyone. But maybe there’s something that can help some people.”

  “Why is that important to you?” Harlow asked.

  “I don’t know. It seemed like an interesting concept to me. I’m a scientist; I like to explore concepts and theories.”

  “Larissa, people aren’t concepts you can mess with and manipulate like you do in a lab.”

  “I don’t work in a lab.”

  “You know what I mean.” Harlow shook her head and smiled at her. “If you do write this book, I think you can find moments where the science can go, but it should be on the stories people share with you. You can find your similarities and commonalities, but differences, too, and maybe that’s a good thing. No gimmick or catch. You’re not selling them a book that will guarantee they can meet their perfect soulmate in a certain period of time or if they only do one thing. You’re telling stories.”

  “People learn from stories,” she said, nodding in agreement. “It makes sense.”

  “So, let’s go out and make some stories of our own. I’ll even buy you a drink. Maybe we can talk about something other than this.”

  “Like how your workday was?”

  “Yeah, things like that.”

  “How was it?”

  “Nice try. You can ask me that when we’re there with drinks in our hands.” Harlow laughed.

  “Why can’t we talk about it here?”

  “Because I need to get out of the house, Lou.”

  “I’m not keeping you here. I can do the dishes if you want to go.”

  “I want you to go with me.”

  “Can I pass tonight but promise I will go out with you in the future?”

  “The future will need to be narrowed down.”

  “This month?”

  “Better than this year, I guess,” Harlow said. “And, yeah, you’re doing the dishes. I’m going to get dressed.”

  Harlow finished her water and stood up from the table. Larissa knew that she had disappointed her, but she didn’t need to go out how Harlow seemed to need sometimes, and she certainly didn’t want to go out. She’d much rather sit on her sofa and read the applications for her interviews.

  She’d posted the details online on three different sites as well as a job board for the school, hoping she’d get a wide range of people applying and not just the ones only interested in the small amount of money she’d promised them for an hour or two of their time, and Harlow had helped her write the description because she had told Larissa that her first version sounded too sciency, which Larissa had explained was not a word.

  With these few new applicants, she now had well over twenty people who had applied, and she decided to start with couples because they’d be able to recall the feelings of falling for their partners most easily, in her opinion. She wanted people who had been together for hardly any time at all, people who had been together for a while, and people who had met or gotten together under different circumstances. That would give her a good place to begin, and she could work with what they gave her and go from there.

  As she looked at the most recent application, though, her eyes widened. There were three names on it, and the story of how they’d met involved an existing couple asking a third person to join them in their relationship. Larissa hadn’t considered the possibility of including more than just couples or singles in her book, but as the world changed around people, love changed, too – or, maybe, how people allowed themselves to experience it changed – so she made a quick note to include them. Once she was done reviewing every application at least two times, she had a list of ten to follow up on, or, she guessed, ten love stories she wanted to know more about.

  She figured that at least a few people would back out, but if she had five to seven interviews to start with, she could always keep the posting up to get more applicants later. For now, she set about writing a templated email that she could send to everyone she wanted to talk to, and she hit send on the emails before closing her computer. Then, she looked up, expecting to see Harlow standing there, telling her that she was about to leave, but Harlow wasn’t there. The house was quiet, too. Larissa checked the clock on the stove when she walked into the kitchen to get the dishes done and only then noticed that it was after ten. They had finished dinner around seven-thirty. She had been at it for two and a half hours and hadn’t even noticed Harlow leaving.