equilibrium

by Bree Atkins

The rules of compatibility are simple. Humans are either born Hypothermic or Febrile. Hypothermics are always cold to the touch, with an internal body temperature of 70 degrees or less. Febriles are always warm to the touch, with an internal body temperature of 120 degrees or more. Each person is fated to one soulmate, always one Hypothermic and one Febrile. When two soulmates touch skin-to-skin for the first time, their body temperatures regulate to 98.6 degrees. This is called the Equilibrium.

The glass rod rolls beneath Ela’s tongue and clanks against her teeth as she sits before her father. His hands leave tiny red marks on her wrists as he pulls black cotton gloves over her hands. He takes the thermometer from her mouth and examines the thin red strip of mercury hovering near the base of the tube. 

“68.2,” he mumbles under his breath, repeating the number until he flips to a blank page in his spiral-bound notebook and records it, writing the date next to the temperature, just as he had on every page of every notebook he filled since she turned thirteen. Morning. Evening. Sporadic afternoons.

“You’re a bit warmer this morning?” He phrases the fact like a question in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the accusatory tone toward his daughter.

Ela traces her gloved fingers around the hem of the tight black long-sleeved undershirt beneath her grey sweater, trying to close the gap between where the sleeves end and the gloves begin. 

“I guess. I hadn’t noticed.” Her father narrows his eyes and taps the thermometer against his knuckles, not satisfied with her answer. 

“Dad,” she stresses, “it’s by, like, a tenth of a degree. Don’t you think it would be more obvious if I had met someone?” 

Her father stays silent, opting instead to cross the room and rummage in the top drawer of her dresser. He pulls out a long pair of socks and tosses them to her, watching as she rolls up the legs of her jeans and pulls the socks just below her knee, then reaches beside her bed to grab her black laced boots.

“Do you have enough time to eat breakfast with me?”

Ela pulls her laces taut, shakes her head, and rises from the edge of the bed. She stands before the mirror and grimaces at her appearance, feeling bulky and ridiculous in her several layers of clothing. 

“The bus is coming soon. I want to get to the stop early.”

“So you can meet some Febrile?” Her father does not attempt to conceal his suspicion this time, crossing his arms tightly in front of him. 

“Daddy, please,” she sighs, voice tired, “please. I just want to be there early in case they get ahead of schedule. It’s the first day of the semester and I want to be on time. I’m not waiting for anyone.” She picks her backpack up from the corner and attempts to leave, but her father leans against her doorframe to block her. 

“Elanor, you know I only want what’s best.” He raises his hand to meet her face, holds it for a while, and smiles when it leaves a slight pink circle like heavy-handed blush on her left cheek. “For both of us.”

Ela clenches her teeth. For you, so I never get tied down by anyone—anyone but you—so I can take care of you forever. Because mom isn’t around to do it anymore.

“I know,” she says instead, with a close-lipped smile. “I do too. I just want to get to campus.”

Her father lets her pass and calls after her when she reaches the front door, warning her to be back in time for dinner. She shouts some kind of affirmation and shuts the door behind her, shrugging her backpack onto one shoulder, and speedwalks the four blocks to the bus stop. When she reaches the stop, she pops in her headphones to drown out the buzz of the busy street as cars whiz by and busies herself with the hem of her sleeve. In the lull between one song and the next, she feels a hot hand on her shoulder through three layers of clothing.

“Fuck!” She exclaims, eyes wide, hand on her chest—the girl opposite her laughs, teeth framed by Raisin Rage and a smiley. 

“Sage. You can’t sneak up on me like that.” Ela’s tone is stern, but her eyes are soft.

“Sorry.” Sage sits next to Ela and reaches for one of her earbuds, which Ela hands over with the tips of her gloved fingers. Sage puts the headphone in and leaves her hand outstretched until Ela takes it and rests her head on Sage’s shoulder. Sage kisses her fingertips, leaving plum-colored stains on the skin, and presses the lipstick print into the fabric of Ela’s gloves. 

“Missed you,” Ela admits. “I’m sorry. Dad’s been keeping me on a tighter leash these days.”

“Yeah, I figured when you didn’t respond to my texts for two days.” Sage’s voice is calm, but Ela does not miss the snark or subtle disdain for her father. “Had to wait forever for you to use your old phone to send me some kind of life.”

“He’s convinced I’ve met my soulmate and will run away from him. It’s been worse since midterms. I spent so much time on campus that he started getting suspicious.”

“You spent so much time at my dorm,” Sage corrects, laughing when Ela punches her thigh. 

“Still campus.”

Sage shrugs Ela’s head off her shoulder as the bus approaches. They step on and sit in the back together, Ela’s backpack wedged between them.

“I have an idea for you,” Sage says after a moment of comfortable silence. “I want you to hear me out.”

Ela squints, suspicious. Sage unlocks her phone and opens a picture of her dorm room. Sage’s side of the room looks the same as always, but the other side is barren, the sad blue mattress shining through in place of her roommate’s familiar light yellow bedding. 

“What does this mean?” Ela asks, cocking her head to the side.

“It means Ramona moved out,” Sage states matter-of-factly, grinning when Ela’s eyes meet hers. 

“And I have an idea for who I want to be my new roommate.”

“No. No way. My dad would have a come-apart,” Ela protests, but Sage shushes her. 

“Think about it. He would never guess. You have two phones already. You leave one at your house so he can’t track it. You move some of your stuff into the dorm gradually until you can finally get out of there. Who cares if he eventually finds out you’re staying on campus? What’s he gonna do, demand to get past the front desk and go search a bunch of college kids’ rooms?”

“Yes!” Ela exclaims, laughing incredulously. She cuts herself off when she sees that Sage’s expression has shifted. Like she’s offended. “Sage, you know I would if I could. I just can’t run away from home. It’s not a solid enough plan. It would just come back to bite me in the ass. Besides, dad needs me. I really don’t think he knows how to live alone. I don’t even think he knows how to make microwaved noodles.” 

Her attempt at shifting the mood fails, and Sage inhales sharply, fidgeting with the cord of her headphones.

“You’re 20 years old. I don’t even think it counts as running away at that point.”

Ela rests her head against the window and closes her eyes. 

“I don’t know, babe. I’ll think about it.” 

Sage goes quiet, playing with a loose thread at the hem of Ela’s sweater. Twenty minutes later, the bus stops down the block from the student center, and the two split off toward their respective classes. 

Ela attempts to absorb the information being hurled at her by her professor, but Sage’s idea and sour disposition have taken root in her brain. Her phone buzzes, and she checks it under the desk:

i have another idea. meet me at the student center at 2.

*****

Ela approaches one of the sticky round tables in the common area of the student center, smiling when she spots Sage sitting at one with her laptop in front of her, which she slams closed as soon as Ela sits down. 

“You said you had an idea?”

“I do,” Sage says, placing her elbow on the table. She holds out her arm like she’s preparing for an arm wrestling match. 

“I think we should hold hands.”

Ela snorts and holds out her hand, only to jerk back when Sage pinches the edge of her glove and pulls it off in one fluid motion.  

“What are you doing?” Ela hisses, stretching out her other hand. “Give it back!”

“Ela, come on,” Sage presses. “I think it’s time.”

Ela reaches out again for the glove but to no avail. She huffs, shifting her hands beneath the table.. 

“Why can’t we just stay the way we are now?”

Sage shrugs, fixing her eyes down to her lap. She places Ela’s glove down on the table between them. 

“I don’t know. It’s been almost a year. Don’t you want to be sure?”

Ela shakes her head, a grimace tugging at the corner of her lips. 

“We’ve grown up basing our love lives off the Equilibrium and planning around it. Do you know some people never even try to date because they think it’s useless? Think about how much they’re missing out on. They don’t even try to get to know one another. I think what we have is special. I think I’m really lucky to know you’re my soulmate without ever having to prove it.”

Sage smiles halfheartedly, not seeming entirely convinced. She props her elbow on the table again and holds her hand out invitingly.

“If you’re really sure, why wouldn’t you want to prove it?”

Ela’s eyes linger on Sage’s outstretched hand, but she doesn’t move. She wrings her hands in her lap, unable to come up with a counterargument. Sage wiggles her fingers a little bit, burgundy nail polish warping the sad fluorescent overhead lighting.

“Kind of leaving me hanging here.”

Ela lets out a shaky exhale and shakes her head. 

“Sage, you know I love you, but I’m scared. Can’t we just—”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Sage groans, “you have got to start taking initiative.”

Before Ela can react, Sage leans over the table and wrenches one of Ela’s hands from her lap, tightly interlocking their fingers.

*****

The bus ride seems longer this time. Ela leans her head against the window and watches the streetlights flicker on as the bus makes its way closer and closer to her destination. Finally, it screeches to a halt at the cold, familiar stop. She jumps out and trudges the four blocks to her doorstep, hands trembling just enough to make the keys rattle when she unlocks the door. Her father stands in the doorframe with the thermometer ready in hand, and, like muscle memory, she opens her mouth. The glass rod rolls beneath Ela’s tongue and clanks against her teeth. Her father takes the thermometer from her mouth and examines the thin red strip of mercury hovering near the bottom of the tube. 

“68.1,” her father mumbles under his breath as he scribbles down the digits. “False alarm this morning, huh?”

Ela forces a thin-lipped smile. “Looks that way.”

Photo of Bree Atkins

BIO: Bree Atkins (she/her) is a queer Southern writer. She was born and raised in Alabama, completing her Undergraduate degree in Creative Writing at The University of Alabama at Birmingham. She is now an MFA candidate at Louisiana State University. She has been published in Screen Door Review, The Torch, Sanctuary, and Aura literary magazines. When she is not writing, she enjoys being with her cat, Clary, frequenting concerts, loving her friends, and binge-watching the same shows over and over and over.