best counter
Search
Report & Feedback

Chapter no 4

Not in Love

NOT

ENEMIES

 

RUE

There are two main reasons I called this meeting,โ€ Florence

Kline said, and if she was in the grip of even a tenth of the panic her employees seemed to be experiencing, no one would have been

able to guess.

Then again, Florence was like that. Steel nerved. Yes-can-do. Indomitable. A rising tide. Iโ€™d never seen her doubt herself, and no private equity firm could force her to start.

โ€œThe first is to reassure all of you that your jobsย areย safe.โ€

Murmurs of relief scrambled around the room like ants in sugar, but many remained unconvinced.

โ€œThere are no plans of reshuffling. I am still the CEO of this company, the board remains unchanged, and so does your employment situation. If youโ€™re not pocketing printer ink, you can expect your professional life to remain constant.โ€

Thatย had most people laughing. And it was, in a nutshell, the reason Florence Kline had built a successful company in just a few years. Being the inventor of a promising biofuel made her an outstanding scientist, but Florence was more than that. Florence was aย leader.

As well as one of my closest friends. Which meant that I knew her tells well enough to doubt most of the words currently flowing out of her mouth.

โ€œSecond: the representatives from Harkness, our new lender, areย notย enemies. Harkness has a long history of uplifting tech and healthcare startups, and thatโ€™s why theyโ€™re here. Their objective is, of course, to conduct due diligence and make sure that their financial interests are met, but our workโ€”yourย workโ€”has always been impeccable. Theyโ€™ll be setting up meetings with some of you, and you should make them your priority. And I want to make sure that you recognize them if you see them around: Dr. Minami Oka, Dr. Sullivan Jensen, Mr. Eli Killgore, and Mr. Conor . . .โ€

โ€œRue?โ€ Tisha asked in a low whisper.

I didnโ€™t reply, but she continued anyway. โ€œThat driverโ€™s license you sent last night?โ€

I nodded. The floor beneath my feet was gone, dropped to the core of the earth. I was sliding right through it, and nothing was going to break my fall.

โ€œThe pic of that guy . . . his face.โ€

I nodded again. It was, undeniably, a memorable face. Striking.ย Attractive, Iโ€™d told him, meaning it. Short, wavyโ€”no,ย curlyย hair, just this side of too wild. Square jaw. Strong, aquiline nose that sat somewhere between the Roman and Greek civilizations, deep in the Adriatic. Long vowels and the occasional dropped consonant.

โ€œAnd his name. Killgore.โ€

Iโ€™d teased him about that, and it had felt like a first. Joking around with people required a degree of ease that usually took me decades to reach, but with Eli it had been simple, for no reason that I could discern.

He was just some ordinary man, and last night heโ€™d exuded the same energy he did now: nice guy, radically unafraid, fundamentally comfortable with himself and others. Heโ€™d kept it well into our car ride, that unsettling calm. Meanwhile, Iโ€™d been barely able to tear my eyes from him, my hands shaking as I stepped into the circle of his warm, woodsy scent to write my number on his palm.

โ€œThat man on the stage. Itโ€™s him, right?โ€ I nodded one last time, unable to speak.

โ€œOkay. Yeah. Wow.โ€ Tisha made to massage her eyes, then remembered her elaborate makeup. โ€œThatโ€™s quite a . . . I believe the scientific word for it is โ€˜coinkydink.โ€™โ€

Is it? Could it be?ย Acid rose in my throat, because I wasnโ€™t sure coincidences of this magnitude existed. Had Eli known who I was? Where I worked? I stared, hoping an answer would appear on his face. He was

wearing glasses today. Dark rimmed. The most ridiculous of Clark Kentโ€™s disguises.

โ€œI canโ€™t believe they sentย fourย lender representatives,โ€ Jay said, breaking through the fog in my brain.

I turned to him, dazed. โ€œIs that weird?โ€

โ€œThey donโ€™t evenย ownย us yet, do they? It seems like a lot of resources to expend on a company they havenโ€™t even acquired, butโ€โ€”he shrugged

โ€”โ€œwhat do I know? Iโ€™m just a humble country lab technician.โ€

โ€œYou were born in Lisbon and have a masterโ€™s degree from NYU,โ€ Tisha pointed out. โ€œMaybe they just like to travel together, entourage-style. Share an omelet chef and a CVS card.โ€

โ€œAre the four . . . are they all employed by the private equity?โ€ I asked. โ€œI just looked up the Harkness websiteโ€”they are theย founding partners.

I understand that they want to send someone to check on whether the covenants are being metโ€”โ€

โ€œTheย whatย now?โ€ Tisha sounded done with this fucking day. I could vigorously relate.

โ€œYou know, those promises you make when you sign a contract? They give us the money; in exchange we deliver a partridge in a pear tree? Why are theย partnersย here, though? Why not send a VP? Is Kline that big a deal for them? It just sounds a bit sus.โ€

Tisha and I exchanged a long, heavy glance.

โ€œWe need to talk to Florence,โ€ I whispered. โ€œIn private.โ€

โ€œDo you still have the keys to her office? From her birthday, when we stuffed it with those โ€˜youโ€™re old as shitโ€™ balloons?โ€

I stood. โ€œI do.โ€

โ€œGreat. Jay, see you later.โ€

โ€œIfย I donโ€™t get fired, and lose my visa, and end up deported out of the country.โ€

โ€œYeah.โ€ Tisha waved him goodbye. โ€œTry not to walk into the sea, okay?โ€

We left the room just as Florence invited everyone to keep calm and return to their workplaces.

 

 

It had all started with fermentation. Which, admittedly, was a less-than-enthralling

topicโ€”even for someone like me, with a relentless passion for chemical

engineering and an unwieldy interest in the production of ethanol. Still, a couple of boring chemical reactions had changed the trajectory of food microbiology, and Florence Kline was the person who got credit for that.

Less than a decade earlier, Florence had been a professor at UT Austin with a really,ย reallyย good idea for how to perfect a process that could cheaply convert food waste into biofuels on a mass scale. Because she was a faculty member, UTโ€™s labs had been at her disposal, but Florence had known that any sort of discovery made on campus grounds, using campus resources, would end in the university owning the resulting patent. And Florence wasย notย about that.

So sheโ€™d rented lab space at a nearby facility. Sheโ€™d done her own work. Sheโ€™d filed her own patent, and founded her own company. Others had trickled in later: private grants, angel investors, venture capitalists, a handful, then dozens, then hundreds of employees. The company had expanded, perfected Florenceโ€™s revolutionary tech, and brought it to market.

Then, about four years ago, Iโ€™d jumped on board.

Florence and I both lived in Austin at the time, but by a fluke of fate we first met in Chicago, at the annual conference of the Society for Food Technology. I was dutifully standing by my poster, wearing a frumpy cardigan and a pair of Tishaโ€™s slacks that dug too tightly into my waist, and was bored out of my mind.

Alone.

The academic networking game required a healthy number of interpersonal graces, of which I had none. In fact, by the time I reached grad school, Iโ€™d been set in my ways for over a decadeโ€”ways that entailed concealing my shyness, self-consciousness, and general inability to offer rewarding social interactions to another human being, mostly behind a standoffish facade. But people wereย hardโ€”to read, to understand, to please. At some point in my youth, without quite meaning to do so, Iโ€™d gone from being incapable of carrying out a conversation to coming across as though I did notย wantย to be approached for conversation, not ever, not by anyone and not under any circumstances. I still remembered the day in middle school when the realization dawned on me: If people perceived me as aloof and detached, then they would want to keep their distance. And if they kept their distance, then they wouldnโ€™t notice how nervous and blundering and inadequate I was.

A net win, in my humble opinion. A form of masking, in my therapistโ€™s professional one. She thought I was hiding my real self and squashing down my feelings like jumbo marshmallows, but it had been so damn long, I wasnโ€™t so sure there was anything to hide inside me. The disconnect I constantly felt toward the rest of the world was unlikely to go anywhere, and whether it wasย realย or not, it shrouded me with a comforting sense of security.

It did, however, have some downsides. For instance, people werenโ€™t exactly lining up to hang out with me, which in Chicago had made for a fairly solitary, tedious conference. It didnโ€™t help that Iโ€™d firmly refused to change my presentation title (โ€œA Gas Chromatography and Mass Spectrometry Investigation of the Effect of Three Polysaccharide-Based Coatings on the Minimization of Postharvest Loss of Horticultural Cropsโ€) to my adviserโ€™s preferred โ€œThree Microbes in a Trench Coat: Using Polysaccharides to Keep Your Produce Fresher, Longer,โ€ or my coauthorโ€™s suggestion, โ€œTake a Coat, Itโ€™ll Last Longer,โ€ or Tishaโ€™s appalling โ€œIf You Liked It, Then You Should Have Put a Coat on It.โ€

I knew that science communication was an important job, crucial to building public trust and informing a wide array of policies, but it wasnโ€™tย myย job. I had no talent for enticing people to care about my work: either they saw its value, or they were wrong.

Unfortunately, the overwhelming majority appeared to be wrong. Iโ€™d been dozing off from boredom and considering ducking out early when a woman stopped by my poster. She was much shorter, and yet imposing. Because of her assertive air, or maybe just the sheer mass of her red curls.

โ€œTell me more about this microbial coating,โ€ she said. Her voice was deep, older than her looks. She asked many pertinent questions, was impressed at all the right parts, and once I was done with my spiel she said, โ€œThis is a brilliant study.โ€

I already knew that, so I wasnโ€™t particularly flattered, but I thanked her anyway.

โ€œYouโ€™re welcome. My name isโ€”โ€ โ€œFlorence Kline.โ€

Florence smiled. โ€œRight. I keep forgetting that weโ€™re wearing name tags, and . . .โ€ She looked down at herself, where there was no lanyard. No tag. No name. Then back up to me. โ€œHow did you know?โ€

โ€œIโ€™ve read up on you. Well, on your patent saga.โ€

โ€œMy patent saga.โ€

I had no idea whether Florenceโ€™s case had been legitimately high profile or just felt so because of the circles in which I moved, but the facts were simple: Despite the incontrovertible proof that she had independently developed the biofuel tech, UT still claimed ownership of her (very lucrative) patent. Lawyers had gotten involved, which would have heavily tilted the scale in favor of the university, but Florence had been able to turn things around by bringing the matter to the media.

I was no PR strategist, but it was obvious that the framing had been brilliant: a woman, aย female scientist, was being stripped of her lifeโ€™s work and intellectual property by some greedy Texas bureaucrats. The news had picked up steam, and UT had backtracked faster than a yo-yo.

โ€œYou were able to maintain ownership of what you created,โ€ I told Florence, truthful. โ€œI thought it was very impressive.โ€

โ€œRight. Well, thatโ€™s nice.โ€ She seemed to be wondering whether she was being patronized by a grad student nobody who was clearly wearing someone elseโ€™s too-small pants, so I didnโ€™t mention that I would have known about Florence even sans patent scandal, because her name was brought up often in UTโ€™s chemical engineering department, usually in the hushed tones reserved for those who were deeply resented for managing to free themselves from the ruthless academic clutches of teaching Biophysics 101 every third semester.

โ€œYou seem like a great scientist,โ€ Florence said. โ€œIf you apply for jobs, do consider Kline.โ€

I thought about it for a handful of seconds, but dismissed the idea. โ€œBiofuel is not really my area of interest.โ€

โ€œWhatย isย your area of interest?โ€ โ€œShelf life extension.โ€

โ€œWell, itโ€™s pretty closely related.โ€

โ€œNot as much as Iโ€™d like.โ€ I sounded inflexible and stubborn, and I knew that. But I also knew what my endgame was, and could see no value in pretending that nonnegotiable things were up for debate.

Compromise was never my forte. โ€œI see. Want to stay in academia?โ€

โ€œNo. Iโ€™d like to do something thatโ€™s actually useful,โ€ I said solemnly, with a self-importance Iโ€™d manage to shake off in the second half of my twenties, but whose memory will make me cringe well into my eighties.

Florence, however, laughed and handed me a card. โ€œIf youโ€™re ever looking for an internship, aย paidย internship, shoot me an email. Iโ€™d be open to hearing about your project ideas.โ€

I had grown up poor, poor in a way that meant duct tape on skinned knees and the flavor of ketchup on toast and prayers that Iโ€™d soon stop getting so tall, because Iโ€™d reached the end of my hand-me-downs. Thanks to scholarships and my PhD stipend, Iโ€™d recently graduated from poor to broke, which was downright inebriating, but I still wasnโ€™t the type to turn down money.

That summer, I did shoot Florence an email. And I did begin an internship at Kline, and then another, and a few more. I worked in research and development, manufacturing, quality assurance, even logistics. Above all, I worked with Florence, which turned out to be life altering in the best possible way.

Before her, all of my mentors had been menโ€”some of them great, supportive, brilliant men whoโ€™d made me into the scientist Iโ€™d become. But Florence was different. Something closer to a friend, or a brilliant older sister who could answer my reaction kinetics questions, pat my back when my experiments didnโ€™t work out, and later, once Iโ€™d graduated, provide me with the means to do the kind of work I wanted. I didnโ€™t fuck with emotions, not if I could avoid it, but it didnโ€™t take a therapist and months of navelgazing to tease out what I felt for Florence: gratitude, admiration, love, and quite a bit of protectiveness.

Which was why I absolutely loathed the deep lines that halved her forehead when she walked into her office.

โ€œShit on a tit!โ€ Florence clutched her chest, startled. After a calming breath, she eyed us with an indulgent expression: the way Iโ€™d helped myself to her orthopedic chair, and Tishaโ€™s enthusiastic mouth shoveling of the peanut butter pretzels on her desk. โ€œWhy, donโ€™t be shy. Make yourselves at home. Break your bread.โ€

โ€œTheyโ€™re not even good,โ€ Tisha said, scarfing down two more.

Florence closed the door and smiled wryly. โ€œThank you for your sacrifice, then.โ€

โ€œAnything for you, my liege.โ€

โ€œIn that case, could I bother you to key a couple of peopleโ€™s cars?โ€ She dropped her tablet on the desk and massaged her bloodshot eyes. She was young for the size of her success, barely in her forties, and tended to look

even younger. Not today, though. โ€œTo what do I owe the pleasure?โ€ It was clear that she was pleased to see us.

โ€œSeemed like you might be having a shit day, so we let ourselves in.โ€ Tishaโ€™s blinding smile displayed no shame.

โ€œI do love a pity visit.โ€

โ€œWhat about recon visits?โ€ Tisha laid her chin on her hands. โ€œAlso a fan of those?โ€

Florence sighed. โ€œWhat do you guys want to know?โ€

โ€œSo much. For instance, who the hell are those Harkness people, and what the hell do they want?โ€

Florence glanced back to make sure the door was closed. Then exhaled slowly. โ€œFuck me if I know.โ€

โ€œAnticlimactic. And a bit less informative than I expected. Wait, I know that look. Fuck you if you know,ย butย . . . ?โ€

โ€œWhat I say doesnโ€™t leave this room.โ€ โ€œOf course.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m serious. If anyone hears of this, theyโ€™ll panicโ€”โ€ โ€œFlorence,โ€ I interrupted, โ€œwho would we even tell?โ€

She seemed to briefly consider our lack of meaningful relationships and then nodded reluctantly. โ€œAs you know, they bought our loan. Neither the board nor I had any say in the sale, and Harkness only ever interacted with the lender. We only communicate through lawyers.โ€ She sighed. โ€œAccording to legal, the most likely case is that Harkness bought the loan because they want full control of the fermentation tech.โ€

โ€œThe tech is yours, though.โ€ I scowled. โ€œThey could take the company, but not the patent, right?โ€

โ€œUnfortunately, Rue, the techย isย the company. More accurately, the patent is part of the collateral for the loan.โ€ She grabbed one of the chairs and took a seat. โ€œThe problem is, whenever we borrow funds to expand our operations, we have to make certain promises.โ€

โ€œOf course. Theย covenants,โ€ Tisha said with the tone of someone whoโ€™d appeared on godโ€™s green earth with a genetic knowledge of the myriad facets of bankruptcy law and hadย notย learned the word five minutes earlier, courtesy of a twenty-three-year-old lab technician. Florence gave her an approving nod, and Tisha made a show of dusting herself off.

I shook my head at her.

โ€œSome of these covenants are straightforwardโ€”provide financial statements, noncompete, that kind of stuff. But others are . . . harder to interpret.โ€

I scratched my temple, already suspecting where this was going despite the heights of my managerial ignorance. If both parties approached a contract in good faith, muddy covenants could be resolved with a simple conversation. But if one party had ulterior motives . . .

โ€œNow that Harkness owns the loan, they still donโ€™t own the company, but they have the right to enforce those covenants. Which gives them the right to come in, snoop around, and find something to complain about. If you ask them, theyโ€™ll say theyโ€™re just making sure weโ€™re using their capital in the best way, like good little borrowers.โ€ Florence sank back in her chair. Her posture was exasperated, but not defeated. โ€œThis has been in the making for weeks.โ€

โ€œWeeks?โ€ Tishaโ€™s jaw dropped. โ€œFlorence, you should have told us. We could haveโ€”โ€

โ€œDone nothing, and thatโ€™s why I didnโ€™t tell you. Legal has been fighting, but . . .โ€ She shrugged.

โ€œThey are trying to take the tech away from you.โ€ I leaned forward, a frisson of some intense emotions I couldnโ€™t immediately name stirring inside me.

I was concerned. Or angry. Or indignant. Or all of the above. โ€œThat seems to be the case, yes.โ€

โ€œWhy? Whyย yourย tech and not a million others?โ€

Florence widened her hands. โ€œIโ€™d love to spin an elaborate tale in which I once abducted Conor Harknessโ€™s dog to traffic him to pelisse makers, and his sudden interest in Kline is just a tassel in his revenge master plan. But I think it simply has to do with the earning potential of the biofuel.โ€

Tisha turned to me. โ€œRue, did Eli mention anything about Kline when you two met last night?โ€

โ€œHang onโ€”Eli?โ€ Florenceโ€™s eyes widened. โ€œYou metย Eli Killgoreย last night?โ€

If Iโ€™d been the fidgeting type, this would have been my time to squirm. Luckily, Iโ€™d long trained myself out of that kind of stuff.ย Robotic, Iโ€™d once heard another grad student whisper after I was cold-called in bio-nanotech class and neglected to display whatever the appropriate amount of distress was.ย Stone-cold bitch, my fellow ice skaters had said, because I was the

only one not to burst into tears when our team missed the podium by a fraction of a point. โ€œI did.โ€

โ€œHow?โ€ Florence scowled. โ€œWas it a date?โ€

โ€œHa. Aย date.โ€ Tish waved her hand and ignored the narrow look I gave her. โ€œThat would imply a degree of emotional availability homegirl could only aspire to after a heart transplant.โ€

It was true enough. I wasnโ€™t sure Iโ€™d ever been on a dateโ€”in fact, I was sure I hadย not. โ€œWe matched on an app, made plans to meet last night. Nothing physical happened.โ€ย Even if it feels like it did.

My hookups were pleasurable but ultimately insignificant parts of my life, and with the exception of Tisha, who was my built-in safe callโ€”If you ever get abducted, Iโ€™m going to cheese grate the guyโ€™s dick and rescue you in no timeโ€”I never discussed them. Everything Florence knew of my sex life came from Tishaโ€™s occasional jokes, but it must have still been a pretty thorough overview, because she seemed befuddled by the idea of me going out with some guy andย notย getting laid. โ€œWhy not?โ€

โ€œLong story. Vince is involved.โ€

โ€œI see.โ€ Unlike other men, Vince was a frequent topic of conversation among us.

โ€œWhat a dick,โ€ Tisha muttered. โ€œIโ€™ve let years of him parentifying you and holding you responsible for the utter fuckup your mother was slide, but now heโ€™s cockblocking you? Not on my watch.โ€

โ€œI guess a line has to be drawn,โ€ I murmured. โ€œDamn right.โ€

โ€œDid he say anything about me?โ€ Florence asked, alarmed. โ€œWho?โ€ I cocked my head. โ€œVince?โ€

โ€œNo, Eli. Did he say anything about Kline?โ€

โ€œNo. He . . . I donโ€™t think he knew I worked here.โ€ย Or did he?

Florenceโ€™s eyes narrowed. She parted her lips to add something, but Tisha was faster. โ€œListen, Rue, when you next see himโ€”โ€

โ€œI wonโ€™t.โ€ I remembered the blossoming heat in my chest this morning, when I found myself wondering if a man would call for what felt like the first time in decadesโ€”maybe ever. The way heโ€™d studied me last night, as if amused by his own inability to untangle me. His warm skin when Iโ€™d kissed him on the cheek, freshly shaven and yet already stubbly. โ€œNot now that I know what he does.โ€

โ€œIt might be for the best,โ€ Florence said slowly. โ€œBut not as easy as you think.โ€

โ€œWhy?โ€

โ€œHarkness is going to be here for a while. Contractually, they can ask to be briefed by the head of every research and development project. And they did.โ€ Florence picked up her tablet, tapped at it several times, and then held it out to me. On it, there was a list. And on the list, there was my name.

When I looked up, Florenceโ€™s mouth was a thin line. I could read nothing in her voice as she said, โ€œEli Killgore will be doing some of the interviews.โ€

You'll Also Like