I
GET DR. L.’S EMAIL— UNFORTUNATELY, I AM OUT OF TOWN THIS
week, but let us meet next Monday—before a Physics 101 student ambushes me to tell me about this super-cool movie he just watched and ask me if one could theoretically invert time (damn you, Christopher Nolan), and after one of my chairs calls me to let me know that yes, there is an opening for me next year, but adjuncts will take a pay cut because of something something taxes, something something the dean, something something the exploitation of non-tenure-track faculty members is the
backbone of the capitalist model of academia.
A boy with something that sounds a lot like the whooping cough hacks on me on the bus, icy, slippery rain starts falling the second I get off at my stop, and somehow only one of the gloves Cece knit for me in her short- lived craft phase can be found in my pocket. There is a lot going on. A lot. But I don’t care. Because above Lance’s toilet-paper-long text asking me to find out if Dana is going to that U2 concert with Lucas, there’s another message: a picture of the Hadron Collider model I saw on Jack’s desk, and then just five words.
Would look great in Jell-O.
I smile. Reply I’m thinking cherry and then make my way through UMass’s Physics Department.
JACK: I forgot that every first Monday of the month we do this thing at George’s. Want to come? Or I can pick you up, and we can make scientifically accurate grilled cheese and watch the Cullen family featurette at my place.
I’m grinning so hard, I almost run into the water fountain. E L SI E : I need to grade twelve bajillion essays JACK: Do what I do. Give them all As.
E L SI E : Do you really?
JACK: I sprinkle in four Bs and two Cs and call it a curve.
This time I do walk into the water fountain. A different one.
E L SI E : No wonder they kiss your ass so hard. Does the thing at George’s have a dress code?
JACK: If it does, I plan to ignore it.
E L SI E : Henley?
JACK: What’s a Henley?
E L SI E : It’s the name of the shirts you wear every single day.
JACK: They have a name?
Wow. Men.
E L SI E : Text me George’s address. I’ll meet you there when I’m done.
• • •
GEORGE’S DOOR OPENS TO A ROUND YOUNG WOMAN WITH A
knockout smile who hugs me warmly and welcomes me into the largest, most beautiful apartment I’ve ever seen.
“They’re in the living room,” she tells me over the chatter coming from down the hallway. There is a slight accent, and I remember George mentioning that her wife is a Greek finance guru. “I’m going upstairs to have an edible and listen to Bach with noise-canceling headphones. Have fun.”
The first person I find is Andrea. She’s in the kitchen when I walk by, transferring tortilla chips into a big bowl.
“Oh.” She looks up at me. “You’re . . . here.” Her smile is surprised.
Vaguely tense.
“Hi.” I decide to step inside, hoping to project This doesn’t need to be awkward vibes. “How are you?”
“Good.” She crumples the empty chip bag. “It’s cool that you’re okay with being at George’s place, considering.”
“Oh.” I flush. So much for not awkward. “Yeah. I—”
“Andy,” someone behind me interrupts, “George wants to know if—” It’s Jack, of course. Who stops midsentence just like I did, as if completely losing track of the rest of the world. “Dr. Hannaway. You’re late.” He says it like he’s been waiting for me. Like he spent our time apart thinking about the moment he could tease me again, like I’m the first thing on his mind and the last thing he lets go of, and before I even know it, I’m matching his
step forward, I’m pushing up on my toes, I’m pressing my lips to his, I’m smiling against his mouth.
It’s such a small kiss, but my heart pounds, and so does Jack’s when I lay my palm flat against his chest. I pull back, less than an inch, to look at his eyes. It’s like the weekend changed something about the people we are. Something fundamental in the shape of my brain and his, too. His lashes are fanning down: he’s staring at my mouth and angling his head again, and—
“What did George want to know, Jack?”
Shit.
I fall back onto my heels and turn to Andrea, mortified. I glance at Jack, expecting to find his usual unbothered self, but he’s still staring at me, looking a little shaken, like I’m his magnetic north.
He clears his throat. “What wine you want.” “What are the options?”
He seems confused. “Ah, red. And . . .” He shrugs, one arm wrapping around my shoulders, like being in my space is second nature. It feels right.
“Let me guess.” Andrea rolls her eyes. “White?” “Sounds right.”
She huffs, picks up the tortilla chip bowl, then steps right between us to march out of the kitchen. We watch her walk away, all blond waves and excellent posture, and then—Jack steps closer again. Very close. Maybe too close. He leans down to kiss my forehead.
“Hi.”
I can’t look away from his eyes. “Hi.”
We stay like that, silent, for what’s probably too long. I can smell his clean skin, his woodsy shampoo, the red flannel I chose this morning from his closet. I don’t feel like saying anything, so I don’t, not for a long time, not until he asks, “You ready to play?”
“Oh. Play . . . what?”
“You’ll see.” His smile makes my heart vibrate. “You’ll love it, too.” He’s right. Even if for a moment, after Jack’s friend Diego has explained
Blitz Go to me—“Usual rules, but ten seconds per move”—I consider asking to be left out of the tournament.
“That’s very little time.” I chew on my lip. “Maybe I shouldn’t—”
“Just go with your instincts,” Jack whispers in my ear. He can, because he’s right behind me. Or maybe it’s vice versa: I’m the one who’s sitting between his open legs, because I’ve counted eighteen people in here, and not nearly enough seats. “She can sit here with me while I play my first match,” he tells Diego. “To learn.”
Everybody can see how Jack’s hand slides under my shirt and flattens against my abdomen, a solid, pleasant weight against my skin. The way he forgets to move because he’s busy staring at me. “Dude,” Diego calls him out the second time it happens.
“Right,” Jack says, unruffled, and I spend the next two turns blushing and fidgeting in his lap, till his grip tightens on me and his words in my ear are a distracted “Be good.”
Something scalding and liquid blooms inside me.
Jack still wins. And I must get the hang of it, because I win mine, too. I win a practice match against George, who bought four types of cheese because Jack told her it’s all I eat. I win against Sunny. I win against another person whose name I don’t recall. I win against Andrea in just a handful of moves. “Easy to advance when you’re the only sober person in the room,” she mutters, some teeth behind it, but when I say “You’re not wrong,” she bursts into laughter and tips her glass at me, and I’m sure I imagined the hostility. There’s wine, beer, shots, academic horror stories, a whiteboard in front of George’s fireplace with the brackets written on it, and somewhere around midnight Blitz Go becomes my favorite thing in the world. I’m having fun. Genuinely having lots of fun.
When Sunny announces the final match, her words are slurred. A frame with George’s wedding photo is poorly balanced on her head. “The two people who haven’t lost a game yet are . . . Jack, of course—fuck you, Jack, for making our lives so boring, you periodic-motion poster child—and, drumroll please . . . Elsie! Elsie, please, at least once in my life I want the opportunity to see this smug-ass face lose at something.”
“I lost at number of urine sample jars on my desk,” he points out.
The frame drops softly into the carpet. Sunny grasps my hand. “Avenge me, Elsie. Please.”
I nod solemnly, taking a seat on the side of the black. Jack picks up a stone and leans back in the chair, eyes glued on me, the blue as bright as the sea, a small smile on his lips.
“And so we meet again,” he says, loud enough for everyone, and I tune out the way his friends whistle and cheer for me, how they fall silent as we squeeze every last second from each turn. Whenever I look up, Jack’s already looking at me. I remember the first time we played, at Millicent’s house, and wonder if it was the first of many. Wonder if Jack owns a board. Wonder if he keeps it in his study. Wonder why, when he looks at me, I forget how scared I am to be seen.
Wonder why when I win, he seems as happy as I feel.
“Well played,” he says, ignoring the way everyone is ribbing him for breaking his eight-month streak.
I nod. Suddenly, again, I’m all heartbeat.
I duck inside the bathroom, high on victory. When I slip out, George is right there, scaring the shit out of me. “Jesus.”
“I fully own that I followed you,” she says, leaning casually against the wall.
“Were you listening to me pee?”
“No. Well, yes. But it wasn’t the primary purpose. Just a pleasant bonus.” She grins. “I thought I’d harass you about the job offer.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “I don’t have an answer yet. Sorry.”
Her eyes narrow. “Is Jack trying to influence you one way or the other? Because I will use the cattle prod on him. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course he’d try to convince you to take the job. I’m reasonably sure that ninety percent of his spank bank is fantasies of driving you to work and buying you a latte on the way.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t—” “What are your thoughts?”
I swallow. Then I glance around the hallway, as though George’s niece’s macaroni art might hold the key to my academic future.
It does not.
“I . . .” I take a deep breath. “I would love to say yes.” George blinks. Then smiles. Then repeats, “Yes?”
“But”—I force myself to continue past her face-splitting grin—“I can’t formally accept until I talk with my advisor. Don’t worry, though,” I add quickly, because her smile is fading fast. “I’m sure I’ll get his approval next week! I’ll explain how much I want to take the job, and he’ll agree that it’s the best choice.”
George stares for a second, looking considerably less excited. “Okay.” She nods. And when I’m about to leave, she adds, “For the record, I’d love to continue being your friend. Even if you end up not accepting.” Her smile is a little strained. “Now peace out. I gotta pee, and no, you can’t listen, you weirdo.”
I’m making my way back to the living room, wondering why it feels like George just resigned herself to me not taking the job, when I overhear it.
“. . . slumming it with the theorists now?”
It’s Andrea’s voice from the kitchen, and I stop in the hallway. I can see only about half of Jack: broad back, light hair curling on his neck, large hands storing dirty dishes in the dishwasher. I should go in and help clean up, but something tells me to skulk around like I’m corporate-espionaging in a Bond movie.
“Excuse me?” he says, confused. “So, does she know?”
“Who?”
“Elsie.” A quarter of Andrea appears in my field of view. Just her smile, small and private, pointed up at Jack. “Does she know that you despise people like her?”
“Andy, are you drunk?”
“A bit.” She laughs nervously. “Aren’t you? Elsie must be rubbing off. She must be a great lay, if you fucked over Pereira and Crowley for her. I guess she’s hot, in a bland way—”
“They fucked over themselves. And you should go back to the others,” Jack says firmly. “You’re more than a bit drunk if you think telling someone that their girlfriend is bland is a good idea.”
“She’s not your girlfriend.”
“She is if she wants to be. She can be my damn wife if she wants to be.” Jack’s losing his usual cool. For all his commanding presence, he’s rarely truly irritated, and Andrea knows this, too. There’s a fracture on her face, masked by another weak laugh that hurts my ears.
“A theorist, Jack? You having a slow year?” “Are you serious—”
“You lost to her at Go,” she says, petulant even as she tries to keep her tone light. I should be offended by what she’s saying, but something’s stopping me. Something heartbreaking. “You never lose at Go. You said you’d never lose at Go.”
“I never said that.” Whatever I recognized in her tone, Jack did, too. His voice softens.
“I bet you lost on purpose. If that’s how bad you want her—”
“She won it fair and square.” They’re talking about something else altogether. Something that has nothing to do with Go or anything that happened tonight. She cares about him deeply, I realize. More than that. “Even if I had lost to her on purpose—it has nothing to do with you.”
“I think it does.”
“Andy.” He sighs. “I’ve been honest about how I feel. You said you understood—”
“Jesus, Jack. She’s a theorist.”
“She’s a better scientist than you or I will ever be. You’re hurt, and I’m trying to cut you some slack, but you’re way over the line—”
“Why are you her champion now? You’re you and—she makes up stuff.
Is it because you’re sleeping with her?” “It’s because I know her work.”
“But you’ve been saying shit about people like her for fifteen years. You’re the entire reason her field was discredited—you ruined careers,
Jack. And now you’re telling me she is the person you’re willing to feel
something for?”
“That’s it,” Jack orders. “I’m done.” “You—”
“I’m serious. We can talk about this when you’re sober. But you need to give me some space before I say something I regret.”
“If—”
“Andy.”
A second later, Andrea appears in the hallway, eyes shining with tears. She looks at me for a painful, uncomfortable moment, then moves past without a word. I press my shoulders against the wall, trying to stop the centrifuge in my brain.
Does she know that you despise people like her?
He doesn’t despise me. Does he? No. Honesty, right? No, Jack doesn’t despise me.
But it’s not surprising that Andrea would believe that. It’s exactly where I believed he stood, approximately two meltdowns in his apartment ago. He’s Jonathan Smith-Turner. What he did to theoretical physics one and a half decades ago is in the Library of Congress and has a Wikipedia entry.
“What are you doing?” George says, appearing in the hallway.
“Oh, nothing. Just . . . looking at this art.” I point to a flower painting to my right.
“Do you want it? My wife made it with her ex at one of those paint-and- sip things. I’ve been trying to get rid of it.”
I laugh shakily. “Um, maybe next time.”
She enters the living room and I go to Jack, who’s staring out the window, back stiff and muscles coiled.
“Grumpy because you lost?” I ask, even though I know he’s not. I just want to watch the tension leave his body. Because maybe it’ll leave mine, too.
“Elsie.”
I heard you, I should say. Do you really despise— You said “girlfriend”—
What did she mean, when—
But there’s no time. He leans forward, hands around my neck, and kisses me deep for a long time. People walk by, make jokes, give us looks, but he doesn’t stop. I don’t want him to, either.
“Everything okay?” I ask when he pulls back.
He looks away. Grabs his bottle from the counter and drains what’s left. “Want to leave?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
The ride to my place is quiet. I feel cold everywhere except on my knee
—where Jack’s hand rests, his grip just a bit tighter than casual. I’m not sure why I invite him upstairs. Maybe I know what needs to happen. Maybe I’m just trying to hold on to him, to prolong that point of contact.
Cece’s not home, probably out on Faux business, and I’m vaguely relieved. Our place is messy, because the last time we cleaned was when Mrs. Tuttle came over to convince us that the green stuff on the wall was totally paint, totally not mold. I try to see the apartment through Jack’s eyes, but to his credit he doesn’t act too Smith about the conditions I live in. Instead, he does something so Jack, my chest almost explodes with it: he picks up the top of the credenza like it weighs nothing. His biceps strain against the flannel as he puts it where it belongs, perfectly centered on the bottom part.
Three seconds. For something Cece and I have been putting off for three years.
“Nice place,” he says, dusting off his hands on his jeans. I laugh softly. “It’s not.”
He leans against the table where I’ve worked, eaten, laughed, cried for the past seven years. “Then you really should move in with me.”
I laugh again. I should thank him for the credenza. It’s just . . .
“I wasn’t joking. This place is . . .” There’s a bug, belly-up on the floor. “Don’t those live in tropical areas?”
“Mmm. Our working theory is that this place is a 4D nexus where multiple climate regions exist at once and . . . Were you serious? About moving in?”
He shrugs. “Would save you money.”
“Pretty sure half of your rent is more expensive than half of this.”
“I don’t rent. So you wouldn’t have to pay me. I don’t care about that.”
Right. He doesn’t care about money. Because he has money. “I can’t leave Cece,” I say lightly. “Want to take her in, too?”
“I have an extra room.”
I snort. And then realize the look he’s giving me.
Like he’s serious serious. And waiting for an answer.
“I can’t move in with you,” I tell him. “We’re not even . . .” We’re not even what? I look away. I feel like total shit, and I cannot understand if he’s joking, though he must be, but he looks weirdly earnest, and . . .
A few steps over the cheap vinyl and he’s standing right in front of me. I’m trapped between him and the kitchen sink, and strong fingers come up to my chin, angle it back.
“I think we are.”
My heart trembles. That blue slice cuts into me like a knife, and what comes out of me is “Andrea wouldn’t agree.” I didn’t mean to bring her up. In fact, I actively meant to avoid the topic forever. But I guess this honesty thing is a little addictive.
Jack closes his eyes and swears softly under his breath. “You heard her.” “I . . .” I free my chin, and he understands that I need space. He takes a step back, but I still cannot breathe. “I didn’t mean to. I . . .” I exhale. “Yes,
I did.”
Jack sighs. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to her when she’s calmed down.”
I nod, and it should be the end of it—a resolution, nicely wrapped. Instead I hear myself ask, “What about Crowley and Pereira? And Cole. And the rest of your students. Will you talk to them, too?”
His lips press together, expression shifting to something opaque. Like he’s bracing for something. “What is this, Elsie?”
All of a sudden, the million balls that have been lazily rolling around in the back of my head for the past two weeks are bouncing against my skull. And they hurt. “Do you know what the problem is? That these people— they admire you. They really, really like you. Your students, your
colleagues, your friends. They all want to please you. And for most of them, pleasing you means showing that they dislike what you dislike. And just like that, everything goes back to that Annals article.”
He exhales. “Elsie—”
“To be fair, I did the same.” I begin pacing around the kitchen. “I like you so much, I’ve been avoiding thinking about it for as long as I could. And to give you credit, you’re good at letting me forget. You never feel like the person who wrote it, which makes it easy to pretend that you didn’t exist before I met you, that your past actions don’t matter. But what Andrea said today . . . I owe it to my mentor to remember. I can’t forget that Laurendeau was the editor of the Annals at the time. That he was censured. And . . .” I feel the same mix of anger and embarrassment I always do when I think about what happened. “The thing is, Jack . . . you go through life with your man-with-money confidence, never second-guessing your actions. But there were lots of unintentional victims to what you did—”
“Laurendeau wasn’t that,” he says flatly.
“Yes, he was. His career was hugely impacted by—” “He wasn’t unintentional.”
“He . . .” I stop pacing. The words don’t immediately sink in. And when they do, I’m still left confused. “What?”
Jack wets his lips. “Laurendeau was the target.” “I don’t understand.”
“I wrote the article because I wanted Laurendeau’s career to be over.” His throat moves. “It was everything else that was unintentional.”
My mind spins a million circles, then halts abruptly. “Everything else?” “I didn’t want to become the poster boy for the rift between theorists
and experimentalists.” He throws up one hand, impatient. For a moment I sense hesitation, but his eyes harden, stubborn in a way that’s almost . . . young. Seventeen again. “I wasn’t making a statement. All I wanted was Laurendeau out of physics—and I failed, clearly. Since after screwing over my mother, he’s been busy fucking up the life of the single person I’ve ever been in love with.”
What did he . . . His mother? The single person he . . .
“I—”
“He was my mother’s main collaborator, Elsie. He was the reason she couldn’t go back to work after I was born. He was the reason she felt—it was the most important thing for her, Elsie. Her work defined her, and he took it away and—” His voice rises and rises and then abruptly stops, like he suddenly realized how loud he had gotten.
“Why did he . . . ?”
“Because he was envious. Because he felt superior. Because of control.
He’s like that with you, too.”
“What?” I shake my head. “No. No, he helps me.”
“To the point that you don’t feel allowed to accept your dream job without his permission? This is not a normal mentor-mentee relationship.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jack simply doesn’t get it. Dr. L. is the only reason I was able to get into grad school. The reason I was able to pursue my dreams. The reason I’m not currently unemployed.
Jack takes a step forward. “Laurendeau has isolated you and made it impossible for you to realize it. Just like he did with my mother.” He rubs his forehead, and I wonder when he last talked about all of this. “It’s all in her diaries.”
“Oh my God.” I cannot believe it. “Is that why you wrote the article?
Because of those diaries?”
He exhales a humorless laugh. “No. I wrote it because I went to Northeastern and tried to report Laurendeau. I was told that I couldn’t file a complaint, because I wasn’t the victim. It fizzled into nothing. And Elsie, I was . . .” His eyes hold mine for a second, and I see everything. He was young and he was tired. He was sad. He was angry. He was lonely; he was alone; he was the odd Smith out. He was helpless. He wanted revenge. “Then I wrote the article.” His big shoulders rise and fall. “I used what I knew of physics to make it believable, and I still didn’t think it’d get accepted. But somehow it did, and when I read that Laurendeau was removed as editor . . .” He shakes his head. “It didn’t make me feel any better about the fact that I couldn’t remember shit of my mother, or about the things Caroline did to me.” His eyes are full of sorrow. “So I stopped
thinking about it. And whenever someone reminded me, I ignored them. Until I met you.”
My expression hardens. “Because I kept bringing it up.”
“No, Elsie.” His voice is calm, firm. “Because the idea of Laurendeau doing to you what he did to my mother terrified me.”
I scoff. “Why didn’t you warn me, then? We talked about him. About your mother. You had countless opportunities.” There’s a piece of me, somewhere in the back of my head, that knows how much Jack’s admission of vulnerability must have cost. But the larger piece thought this was the first relationship in my life based on honesty, and now . . . I feel incredibly stupid. “You lied to me. Over and over.”
“Would you have believed me if I’d told you?” he asks, taking a single step closer. “In fact, do you believe me now?”
“I . . .” I glance away, suddenly flustered. “I believe that you believe it. But . . . maybe you misinterpreted the diaries. It must have been a misunderstanding, because he would never . . . I owe him so much, and . . .” Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is precisely why I didn’t tell you. You idolize him and weren’t ready to hear any of this. If I’d brought it
up, I would have hurt you, and you would have pulled back.”
“That’s not for you to decide! And anyway, why do you think I spent my life lying to people, Jack?” I explode. “Why do you think I never told Laurendeau that I hate teaching, or Cece that her movies are worse than a Windows screen saver, or Mom that I’m a real fucking human being? Because I’m afraid that if I hurt them with the truth, then they’ll leave me. Why is it only a good excuse when it comes to you?”
I walk away from the table, away from Jack. Take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down, staring at the streetlights shining over the rooftop snow.
Jack lied to me. After everything, he was the one to lie to me. Not about a movie or wanting to get sushi—he lied to me about something huge.
“Here’s what I think, Jack,” I say into the Boston skyline, angry, dejected. “You enjoy calling people out on their bullshit, but no one ever calls you out on yours.”
“My bullshit?”
I turn around, not sure what to say. And yet when I look at him, it’s right there on my tongue.
“When you were a teenager, you did something impulsive out of anger, and that . . . that, I can understand. But after, you went on to have a brilliant career that gave legitimacy to your actions—and you still never bothered addressing them. Even after you grew up and should have known better.” I wipe my cheek with the palm of my hand, because I’m crying. Of course I am. “Your actions . . . your actions hurt lots more people than Laurendeau. And while you didn’t think much about the article, I thought about it every day for over a decade. It had terrible consequences for something that I really, really love, and you know what? I’ve done my best to avoid thinking about it, but I don’t know if I can keep on doing that. I don’t know if I can stop being angry at you. I don’t know if I . . .” My voice breaks and my eyes flood, and I cannot bear to be here, with Jack, a second longer.
“Is that what you are? Angry?” His hand cups my cheek, forcing my eyes to his blurry face. “Or are you just scared? Because you’ve been more honest with me than ever before?”
“Maybe.” I pull away and see it in the twitch of his fingers that he wants to chase me, but no. No. “Maybe I’m scared. And maybe you’re a liar. Where does that leave us?”
He gives me a long, undecipherable look. “I don’t know. Where?”
You know where we’re going, here, he said, over and over. And I said no, and then I said yes, and it is where I want to be. But he asked me for honesty and lied in return, and he did beat everything I stand for to a pulp, and I just—
I need space. I need to think. “You should leave, Jack.”
He lets out a breath and moves closer. Like he wants to wrap himself around me. It’s in the way his muscles coil, that impulse to take care of me. “Elsie, come on. You’re not—”
“I am.” I’m starting to sob. I want him to touch me, but I cannot stand for him to be here. “You always talk about what I want, Jack. You helped
me learn how to ask for it. Well.” I force myself to look him squarely in the eye and show him that I mean what I say, even though I’m not sure I do. There’s a burning heat in my chest, scalding, painful. “Right now, I don’t want to be with you. I need you to give me some space.”
I see it in his eyes, the moment he realizes that I’m telling the truth. And the second he’s gone, I feel it in my bones like nothing before.
