“You have diabetes.”
I look up. Oh, right. Jack’s still here. Watching me with a half-hawkish, entirely concerned expression. Taking up most of my future office in that visceral, present way of his. I need to get going with that Venus flytrap purchase.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Type 1?”
I nod.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I take another sip of my soda—which, I’m slowly realizing, is not Coke—and laugh. “Why would I tell you? So you can slip Werther’s Original in my tea?”
“Funny you mention that.” He doesn’t seem to be having fun. “Since I’ve met you exactly five times so far, and during two of those you suffered from some diabetes-related complication that required my help.”
“Eight more and I get a free sub?”
He snorts a laugh. “With this level of self-sabotaging, you don’t need outside help.”
I evil-eye him half-heartedly, too tired to bicker. “The only two times I’ve had glycemic attacks in the last year were in your presence. Maybe your superpower is making my pod malfunction.”
“You need to tell Monica.”
“Monica’s not going to like me any less because I have diabetes.” I think?
His eyes harden. “You think I want you to tell her to diminish your chances? You’re shitting on your chances all on your own, with the fainting around and the easily disprovable lies. I’m concerned about your health.”
“I take full responsibility for my health, and it doesn’t affect my work. I’m not required to share my status to—”
“You almost passed out.”
“My pump malfunctioned. It’s old and shitty and I need a new one. But they’re prohibitive without health insurance, so.”
Does he look guilty? Maybe. Maybe it’s just resting frown face. “Does Greg know about the diabetes?”
How socially acceptable would it be for me to burst into Greg’s corporate bonding retreat and drag him back to Boston by the ear? “He doesn’t need to know.”
Jack’s lips thin. “Is this part of your game?”
“My what?”
“This weird thing. Where you delete and remake yourself?”
“You are obsessed.” And disturbingly right. “Are you into conspiracy theories? Lizard people? Fictional Finland?” I take another sip. “God, this is bitter.” The label on the bottle is in a foreign language. “What is it?”
“Volkov’s favorite drink.”
“What?”
“He has his brother send a few cases over from Russia that he rations and cherishes like liquid gold. That’s the last bottle.”
I’d do a spit take if I could bear to drink another sip. “What?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll mention that you really needed it, Elsie. He won’t mind much.”
“No. No, no, no. Don’t tell him. Do not tell Volkov. I’m gonna find an import store. Buy a replacement. Where did you get this from? I can . . .”
I trail off. Jack’s dimple is back. He’s smiling.
Evilly.
“It’s not really Volkov’s, is it?”
He shakes his head.
“I hate you,” I say without heat.
“I know.” He grabs the bottle, takes a sip. Scrunches his nose in an almost cute way. Does he know my lips were right there? “Disgusting. I stole it from the student lounge. Only non-diet soda I could find.”
“You just stole from a grad student?” I laugh.
“Yeah. An unexpected low.”
I laugh harder—must be that sugar high. “How do you sleep at night?”
“I have a really firm mattress. Great for spinal health.”
Laughing again here. And so is Jack. I take the bottle back and sip again. I guess we’re both vaccinated. What’s the harm? “God, this tastes like paint thinner.”
“Or a plankton isopropyl alcohol smoothie.” Oh my God. I’m laughing even more. Do I have permanent brain damage? “Are you going to be okay?” His voice is suddenly softer. More intimate. He’s really standing closer than we need to be. At least he’ll catch me if I fall again.
“Yeah. I just need a second to recover.” Last sip. Is this compost juice growing on me? Maybe it’s just this place. The midafternoon sunlight warming the hardwood floor. The shelves waiting to be filled with my books. “And another second to marvel at the splendor of my future office.”
Jack shakes his head and smiles, almost wistful. “Sorry, Elsie. It won’t be your office.”
The thought is bloodcurdling. “You’re not sorry. And you don’t know the future. I’m outpunning you, Jack. The teaching demonstration—it went really well. And I didn’t even steal Volkov’s mother’s milk. I have a chance.”
He studies me for a long moment, silent. Then asks again, “Will you be all right?”
“Yeah, I just need a second to—”
“No, I mean . . . will you be okay? If you lose Greg—because I will tell him about you. And if you don’t get this job. Will you still be . . . fine?”
I can’t immediately decipher his tone. Then I do and burst out laughing.
He’s worried. He seems genuinely worried about my well-being and state of mind. Which is surprisingly nice and maybe a tad amusing, until I realize why: he’s convinced that I’ll fail. And that makes me feel . . . something. A mix of anger and fear and something else, reminiscent of the carefree joy that comes from dancing on the graves of enemies who dared to underestimate me.
“What will you do if I get this job, Jack?” I lean forward. My face is a couple of inches from his. “Pull out your hair? Ask for the manager? Leave the department and become a Zumba instructor?”
He doesn’t pull back. Instead he watches me even more intently, like I’m a critter in the palm of his hand, and I contemplate the possible scenarios, the same ones that must be filling his head, too.
Jack Smith-Turner and Elsie Hannaway. Esteemed colleagues. Office neighbors. Academic foes.
Oh, I could make his life so hard. Spread the rumor that he wraps his entire mouth around the water fountain. Put a nest of killer cicadas in the lowest drawer of his desk. Push him outside bare-eyed during an eclipse. The sky’s the limit, and I want to see him suffer. I want to see him lose. I want to see him sweat it. I want to see him cry, because he lost and I won.
But perhaps I won’t.
Because: “If you get the job . . .” He leans close. That slice of eye burns bright blue, and his mouth curves. “I’ll make do.”
“While crying yourself to sleep because I’m not George?”
“Not everyone wants you to be someone else, Elsie.” He’s wrong about that, but I can smell his skin. It’s good in a way that’s primeval. Almost evolutionary. I hate it. “And I definitely wouldn’t want you to be George.”
“And why is that?”
He presses his lips together. He’s even closer now. Surprisingly earnest. “It would be a waste.”
“A waste of what?”
“Of you.”
My heart skips. Stumbles. Restarts with a gallop. What does he even—
“Jack! Dr. Hannaway—here you are. My meeting just ended.” Volkov appears in the doorframe. “I’m so sorry for running late.”
Jack has taken a step back. “No problem,” he says, looking at me. “I just hope you wore something reflective.”
A moment of silence. Then Volkov registers the pun and starts wheezing. “Oh, Jack, you—you—” He chortles. Jack’s already walking out of the room, but he stops in the door for a long glance and a low “Goodbye, Elsie.” After a beat, he adds, “It was a pleasure.”
8
FRICTION
What do you mean, you think we should leave them be?”
Mom’s voice is so shrill, I glance around to make sure no one overheard her through the phone. Dr. Voight waves at me before slipping inside the auditorium—the one where I’ll give my research talk in fifteen minutes—and my stomach flips, omelet-style.
“It’s just . . . Lucas is very stubborn. Short of locking him in my dishwasher, I’m not sure how to stop him from acting up.” I hasten to add before Mom asks me to do just that, “And I think he’ll be okay if we give him space to sulk.”
“What about Thanksgiving?”
Uh? “What about Thanksgiving?”
“What if he’s not done sulking by Thanksgiving? Where do I seat him? What if he doesn’t show? Your aunt will say that I don’t have my family under control. That she should host next year! She’s been trying to steal this from me for decades!”
“Mom, it’s . . . January.”
“And?”
I spot Jack and Andrea coming my way, laughing, Michi and a gaggle of grads in tow. He’s one whole head taller than the crowd—like at every single Smith gathering—and wears a gray long-sleeved henley that manages to look simultaneously like the first thing he found in the laundry hamper and a high-end piece tailored to showcase that protein is his favorite macronutrient.
Haute couture by Chuck Norris.
I wish he didn’t nod at me with that stupid smirk. I wish he wasn’t amused by my glare.
“If by November things aren’t better, I’ll . . . look into rope restraints and cheap storage space, I promise. Gotta go, Mom. I’ll call you back tonight, okay?” I hang up to find a good luck email from Dr. L., who hasn’t quite mastered text messaging yet, and smile.