I DON’T DISLIKE HIM
RUE
And you’re assuming they were referring to Florence, because . . . ?”
I watched Tisha’s forehead crinkle on FaceTime and nodded. It was the same question I’d asked myself a handful of times since
yesterday.
Or one hundred.
“Because I have exactly two friends. And if it’s not Florence . . . is there something you want to tell me?”
“Good point,” she conceded.
I scratched my temple. I’d slept poorly and fitfully, my brain an agitated mess of Conor Harkness’s taunting voice, white wine filling my glass, and the way Eli had rested his chin over my head as he stirred the boiling water. At some point early in the morning, right before falling asleep, I decided that I needed some distance from Eli. To help my body process what he could do to me.
“I looked them up,” I told Tisha. “As much as I could. Most of the hits regarding those four—”
“Eli and his Harkness friends?”
“Correct. Most hits are about their recent finance work, but with some digging—”
“Define ‘some’?”
“A couple hours of exploration of digital archives. Tisha, I can place three of them—Minami, Hark, and Eli, at UT ten years ago. In the chemical engineering department.”
“What about the other one?”
“Sul. Still at UT, but in chemistry.” I pressed my lips together. “I’m not the best at reading interpersonal dynamics—”
“Understatement. Please continue.”
“—but I think that the original friend nucleus was Minami, Hark, and Eli. Sul became part of the group when he married her.”
“I can see that.”
I was glad Tisha thought so, because I wouldn’t have bet a string of used dental floss on my own analytical skills. “They did overlap with Florence at UT. Minami got her PhD from Cornell eleven years ago, with a dissertation on biofuels, so she must have been a postdoc there. Hark’s mentor was Dr. Rajapaksha.”
“Who?”
“Some guy who retired before our times, even though he was still young. And I found an old page about Eli. It misspelled his last name—only one l
—and that’s why it took me a while. His mentor was also Dr. Rajapaksha. And in his first year Eli won some kind of early-career grant for his work. Guess what on?”
Tisha’s forehead wrinkled even more. “Please, tell me it’s not biofuels.” I couldn’t do that, so I said nothing.
“Okay.” Tisha blew out some air. “Could they have been at UT when Florence was, and involved in her area of work, and not have crossed paths with her? Would that be possible?”
I worried my lower lip. “I don’t think that there were any faculty I wasn’t aware of back in grad school. But one of my thesis committee members called me Rhea throughout my defense, and I doubt he’d recognize me if we met at the supermarket.”
“But what if you launched a hostile takeover of his lemonade stand?”
“I . . .” That’s where the tangle of my thoughts became unteasable. “In that case, I cannot imagine that he wouldn’t at least do some research on me.” Tisha nodded, and I continued, “It’s possible that that’s exactly what Florence did. Maybe she had no memories of them until she researched them.”
“And forgot to update us.”
“Or maybe she simply hasn’t had the time or energy to look them up.” “Only one way to find out.”
I nodded. “My performance evaluation meeting is tomorrow. I’ll ask then.”
“Good plan. Except, how are you going to bring up the fact that you were sharing a meal with those people?” I winced. “I guess you could just tell her the truth. ‘Florence, my monthly dose of shitty orgasms is currently being provided by Eli Killgore—nothing personal.’”
I glanced at the pepper plant on my windowsill. “Oh, wow.” Tisha whistled. “Not shitty, then.”
Not shitty. More like magnificent, and nuclear, and probably sex redefining. At least for me.
“What’s he like?” Tisha asked. “Eli, I mean.” I massaged my temples, trying to stave off the mortification, and she quickly followed up with “It’s not—Rue, I’m not trying to be accusatory. If despite my advice and your common sense you’re still seeing this guy, I’ll support you through your questionable choices because I love you and because you’ve done the same for me. The least you can do is share the filthy deets.”
“Right. He’s good. Very good.” It’s the whole damn point, to see you lose it. “He’s a little . . .”
“What?”
“Bossy.”
Tisha’s eyebrows rose. “In a bad way?”
“No.” I wasn’t sure I was ready to get into the weeds of it, yet. Not that Tisha wouldn’t cheer me into buying my own set of flogs.
“Okay. What else? What’s he like as a person?” “I don’t know him as a person.”
“You’ve spent some time with him. You must have talked about something. What did you find out?”
Nothing, I nearly said, but the word was swallowed by an avalanche. College athlete. Sister, friends, dog—they all love him. Honest, but never cruel. Not put off by how awkward I am, my silences. Formerly engaged. May be destined for tragedy, just like me. Easy to talk to. Almost a pro scientist. Would have been good at it, too. Has some horrific stories— almost as horrific as mine. Teases me, but never like he’s laughing at me. Kind. Funny. That undercurrent of unease that seems to permeate most of
my social interactions—it’s just not there with him. Great cook. Great to cook with. Effortless. “That I don’t dislike him.” Not at all.
“Hmm. He is cute in that ‘I play rugby on Sundays’ kind of way.” “Hockey. He plays hockey.”
“Sure. He’s also a finance bro. Did you talk about cryptocurrency?”
“No. We talked about . . .” We tell each other the kinds of stories that we couldn’t tell anyone else, because they’d make people uncomfortable, or sad, or feel like they need to laugh politely, minimize, comfort. We share horrible things that we have done, that have been done to us, and then wait and see if the other is going to be so appalled that they’ll finally leave—but somehow that never happens. We don’t make small talk. We cut through the flesh and show the stories that live in our skeletons. “Cooking. He likes to cook.”
“Wow, that’s convenient.” Tisha’s eyes seemed to pierce through me. “And, just to reiterate . . . this is still just sex?”
I nodded without letting myself think about it too hard, but there must have been something in the air, because on Monday morning I received a text from Alec.
Tonight we’re closing early for maintenance of the HVAC system. The rink will be empty, and Maya and Eli Killgore will come over to skate. I figured I’d ask
if you wanted to join.
And in case you’re wondering: yes, Dave is trying to set you and Eli up. He seemed to believe you two hit it off when you exchanged one and a half words at the fundraiser. But don’t worry, Eli’s a good guy. He’ll leave you alone.
Alec had been so kind to me, it was next to impossible to be annoyed at him, which only left room for amusement. I was heading to see Florence, so I made a mental note to decline later. Spending non-naked time with Eli didn’t seem wise.
“Hey, stranger. Why do I feel like I haven’t seen very much of you lately?”
I smiled and took my customary seat in Florence’s office, crosslegged in my favorite chair. Quarterly performance evaluations were never something for which I bothered working up anxiety. Florence was supportive, and I was good at my job.
“Just busy finishing up the provisional patent.”
Florence took off her reading glasses. “It’s in the lawyers’ hands?”
“Yup.”
“They might be waiting for my approval on that—I’ve been swamped, but I’ll get it done tonight.”
“Perfect.” I attempted a small smile, and Florence cocked her head. “You look tired. Is everything okay?”
“No. I’ve been sleeping poorly.”
“You don’t have to stay,” Florence told me reassuringly. “These things are just formalities. Go get some rest—you remain my best employee. Want a raise?”
“Always.”
“I’ll talk to accounting.”
I chuckled, unfolded my legs, and made myself ask, “The Harkness situation. Is it solved?”
My question seemed to surprise her. “What do you mean?”
“The investors to buy back the loan, did they come through?” “Not yet. Close, though.”
“What’s the holdup?”
“Usual bureaucratic shit.” She shrugged. “No need to worry.” “And then they’ll be out of our hair?”
“I hope so.”
“Did you . . .” I swallowed. “Did you know that the Harkness founders are chemical engineers? At UT. Grad students in the department when you still taught there.”
Florence was briefly motionless. Then she picked up a pen, clicked it twice, and put it down again. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “I looked them up online.” Not false, but not the whole truth. I wish I could have said that Eli was forcing me to hide things from Florence, but I needed to take accountability. It was my own inability to stay away from him that had turned me into a liar. “Is it possible that you crossed paths? Briefly, maybe? They were working on biofuels, too.”
More stillness. Another shrug, stiff this time. “No. Categorically, no. I would remember if we had.”
Why are you denying this so vehemently? Why does it feel like you’re hiding something?
“Rue, is this . . . Has Eli Killgore contacted you? Put strange ideas in your head?”
I shook my head. Who’s hiding something now, Rue?
“Listen, I can tell that you’re nervous about Harkness. And I appreciate that you worry about me. But there is absolutely no need to research these people.” She leaned closer, so close that her green eyes shone. Her cold hand took mine. “I know that this whole legal business is unsettling, and maybe it’s making you second-guess things you know. But the truth is, when I was at UT, I worked so hard on my tech, in off-campus labs, that I barely showed up in the department. And if I’ve crossed paths with Harkness before . . . well, that explains why they’re targeting Kline so aggressively. Maybe they’ve been keeping their eyes on us all these years, waiting to pounce. But them knowing me doesn’t mean that I knew them, and honestly, they’re dicks. I don’t care to know where they’re from, or what their story is. I just want them gone from my life.”
It made sense. So much sense, all my questions were answered. So much sense, I turned my palm and squeezed hers. “I get it,” I said, feeling a million pounds lighter than when I’d entered this office. “And you’re right.” Florence’s lips stretched into a reassuring smile. “Stop worrying, okay?
I’ve got it all under control.”
I nodded. Stood, almost lightheaded from relief. Made it to the door.
“Rue,” Florence called. I looked at her from over my shoulder. “It’s getting long again.”
“What is?”
Florence pointed to the left side of her own head. “Your undercut. Might be time to trim it again.”
“Yeah. I think you’re right.” “Where does time go?”
I had no answer. So I smiled my goodbyes, and went back to my office, putting the matter out of my head—until that night, when I got into my car and heard a weird sound.
