Junior Hesse settled into her desk chair in her perfectly organized cubicle. Neatly placed to her left was a picture of her parents, a candid photo taken on the porch of their San Francisco bungalow. Her mother's greying blonde hair framed the innumerable laugh lines from years of intimate moments with her father, whose muscular arm gathered her in an inseparable embrace. The background was a perfect sunset. An Instagramable sunset, the ones that continued to remind her why she chose to stay here, in her birthplace. On her right stood a picture of her younger sister, Jules.

She smelled the sterility of the research lab, a smell that had comforted her throughout her undergrad years as a premed student, and her recently completed masters degree in Biochemistry. She tried not to think about the rejection letter from med school that haunted her for the second year in a row. This genetics research position will not be the death of me. She thought to herself. This will be a year of growth.

Suddenly she shifted her weight, her ears erect and nostrils flared. She thought she heard… something that made her stomach drop slightly. Was it a Bombay Bicycle song? It couldn't be. She sniffed the rancid air. Liverwurst?

Jake.

It couldn't be. Jake Arbogast was the only person she knew who listened to that obscure London-based band and actually enjoyed the acidic taste of liverwurst. Jake, the guy who joined this world literally minutes after her and shared every single major life event with her, mostly against her will. She recounted every stuffed animal they shared custody over and high school memories in which he overshadowed her Quiz Bowl trophies with his football State Championship rings. He followed her to Stanford, but this research lab position? Every angsty adolescent emotion she experienced resurfaced, and she didn't like it.

Discretely (or to the best of her ability), Junior sat up from her chair, and scanned the rows of cubicles in the building, but not discretely enough because he saw her. He definitely saw her.

"Junior?" he garbled, his mouth full of sandwich. He was sitting in his own cluttered cubicle but immediately stood up. "I don't believe it!"

She groaned and slumped back in her chair and listened to his lumbering footsteps approach her cubicle.

"I don't believe it," he repeated, a little softer this time.

"Me neither," she grumbled, and turned back to face her idle computer screen.

"You haven't changed," he chuckled as he jumped onto the desk and scooted near her. The weight of his stocky build shook her parents' picture; she rolled her eyes.

She never really understood where he got his looks. His celebrity looks found no origin in his parents. He towered over his father. He had this rock star quality unmatched by all others. Every time Junior caught herself admiring it she punished herself.

"What brings you here, Jake?" she asked with little fluctuation in her voice.

"Oh, you know, another med school rejection letter leads to another year in question. Thought I'd dabble in fertility research this time. You?"

"Wait, the invincible Jake Arbogast gets rejected from medical school? Impossible," she tried to hide her genuine surprise with sarcasm.

"I guess so?" he scratched the back of his head and yawned. His trademarked casual cool. "It's okay, I'm over it. I'm comparing differential artificial insemination techniques. Back to you, what are you doing in this lowly place? I thought you'd be prepping for your first boards exam by now."

"It appears we're similar in more ways than one, Jake. Med school didn't work for me this time around, so my academic adviser suggested doing research in embryo research, freezing them to be exact."

Jake cocked his head slightly. "Well maybe our research will cross paths at some point?"

She let their eyes meet, briefly. His grey-blue eyes, the ones that established his heartbreaker status in 5th grade displayed such an honest care for her that was never present during their lives. Maybe spending two years apart—aside from major holidays— did a good thing for them. Did he know that his dangling foot was grazing against her thigh? Or was this his pseudo-flirt trick that she managed to shield herself away from and yet crushed plenty of girls in her friend group?

"Doubtful," she replied, cleared her throat and started to type an unnecessary email.

"Well, this year won't get too crazy will it?" he bantered back. She couldn't tell if there was honesty in his voice.

"Absolutely not," she said back, not sure if there was honesty in her voice, either.