His condo is large, especially for downtown.
Two-story, 90 percent windows, open floor-y. There might even be a color scheme, dark blues and warm whites, but I can’t picture Jack using the word palette, so I chalk it up to chance. Still, the place is clean and uncluttered enough that I automatically take off my shoes at the entrance, then pad my way after him to the open-plan kitchen, hoping Jack won’t notice that my socks match in pattern (stripes) but not color (pink and orange).
I wish there were hints that he’s a closeted brony, or an avid collector of genital casts, but this place screams I might be an unmarried man in his thirties, but it’s not because I don’t have my shit together.
Then again: he might be unmarried, but he’s not quite single.
I sit gingerly at the wooden dining table and eye a bowl of fresh fruit; books and printouts of journal articles stacked neatly on the breakfast island; Jack’s large back, his muscles bunching under green flannel as he putters around the stove, quickly types something on his phone, and sets a mug on the counter. The snow is picking up, giant flakes swirling under the streetlight, and getting home is going to be a bitch. I could splurge on an Uber. Shouldn’t, though.
This is weird. So, so weird.
I should be too devastated to feel awkward, but like I said, I’m an excellent multitasker. Able to experience the existential dread seeping into my unemployed bones and to fantasize about crawling into a golf hole out of sheer embarrassment. Even worse, I’m so damn cold. I wrap my hands in the tear-sticky sleeves of my cardigan, slide them between my thighs, and close my eyes.
I take a slow, deep breath.
Another.
Another.
Seconds or minutes later, porcelain clinks against the wood. I blink up and Jack’s forearm is there, with its roped muscles, and the light hairs, and that cut of tattoo peeking from under the rolled-up sleeve. I’ve seen him half-naked, and I still don’t know what it’s supposed to be.
“Hot chocolate,” he says gently, as though I’m a skittish kitten.
It smells delicious, of sugar and comfort and heat. I watch a handful of marshmallows float happily around the top, and my mouth waters.
“Do you know,” I start, then shake my head and fall silent.
Food can be such an ordeal when your pancreatic cells have left the chat. I remember my last year of middle school, at Chloe Sampson’s birthday party—the most amazing sheet cake with buttercream frosting. Before eating a slice, the diabetes-havers (i.e., me) needed to know exactly what was in it, to counteract it with the appropriate dose of insulin. But who knows what’s in a slice of Costco cake? Not me. And not Mrs. Sampson. And not the Costco website or the customer service hotline, which Mrs. Sampson called while fifteen starving teenage girls glared at me for holding up the party, and . . .
Well. The point is, I’ve learned to say no to unexpected sugar, no matter how tasty looking. People don’t like nuisances.
“Thank you, but I’m not thirsty.”
“You need the carb count?” Jack sets the package with the nutritional info beside it. “To adjust your bolus?”
I tilt my head. “Did you just use the word bolus?”
“Sure did.” He takes a seat right across from me. Even the chairs in his house look too small for him.
“How?”
“I went to school. I know words.” He seems amused.
“You went to school for words like centripetal and brittleness and Rosseland optical depth. The only people who know stuff about basal insulin and bolus are doctors.”
“How fortunate, then.”
“Medical doctors. And people with diabetes.”
He stares for a moment. Then says, “I’m sure others do, too. Families of people with diabetes. Friends. Partners.” His voice is deep and rich, and I need to look away from the way he’s studying me.
So I take out my phone and quickly check my insulin, pretending I can’t feel his eyes on me. I lift my T-shirt to make sure that the pod didn’t get dislodged in the single act of exercise I engaged in during the last decade, and . . . Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I did this in front of someone who isn’t Cece. I want to ask Jack if he read up on diabetes after finding out about mine, but it’s possibly the most self-centered thought I’ve ever had.
I have about forty new notifications across five apps. All from Cece.
CECE: Where are you?
CECE: We’re going to the Starbucks across from the theater to wait for you guys to come back.
CECE: Pls, let me know you’re okay. I know this sucks but I’m with you. We can do this. We’ll move into a basement. I’ll pick up more Faux dates, you’ll be my sugar baby.
CECE: Jack texted George and told her you’re okay. She seems to think he’s trustworthy but idk. He looks like an oak tree on steroids with a six-foot-eight wingspan. Is he even human?
CECE: Elsie?
I answer with a quick I’m fine. With Jack. Go home, please. When I look up, Jack is staring.
I clear my throat. “Bad-faith interview. What does it mean?”
His expression darkens. “That would be any interview in which the outcome is, for whatever reason, predecided. Like positions that are advertised as open when they’re meant for a specific candidate.”
“The MIT position was created for Georgina?” I feel a pang in my chest.
“More complicated than that. The position was originally left vacant when James Bickart—an experimentalist—retired two years ago. He was, I believe, three million years old.”
I chuckle despite myself. “Sounds about right.”
“You know the type. Lots of tweed. Lots of distrust toward computers, lots of opinions on girls who wear nail polish despite the distraction of their male peers. I was still at Caltech, but I heard some stories. The position should have been refilled immediately, but there were issues with the budget. Then my grants and I moved here.” He pushes the forgotten mug closer. I’m impatient to hear more, but I take a sip to please him. The warmth spreading into my stomach is delicious. “I offered to help fund the position to hire another experimentalist—not out of some deep hatred for theorists, if you can believe it. I was hired by MIT to beef up their experimental output. Experimentalists are currently outnumbered, and we were filling a specific position. I mentioned the opening to George, and she told me she was interested in applying. She’s at Harvard right now, and physics academia is an old boys’ club everywhere, but . . . Harvard’s bad. So she sent in her materials, and . . . You said you’re familiar with her work. As you can imagine, everyone knew it was going to be her from the start.”
I can imagine it very well. Her thesis experiments were stepping stones to massive advancements in particle physics. Georgina is the epitome of inspiring.
“Then you applied. And Monica was so impressed by your CV, she decided to bring you in despite the committee recommending against it. It was pointed out to her that there was nothing you could have done during the interview that would have gotten you the job, but she insisted, reasoning that George already had an excellent position at Harvard and might decide not to accept an offer.” He sighs. “Even if George weren’t a rock star, you have to understand: she and I were in grad school together. We’ve had half a decade longer than you in the field. Half a decade worth of scientific output, publications, grants.”
You’re the ideal candidate, Monica told me the first night we met, but I wasn’t. I simply wasn’t. “Why did Monica . . . ?”
“She tried her all to hire a theorist. And I have to admit, she played her cards well by choosing you as her candidate.” He leans forward. I drag my eyes up to his. “Elsie, I was there for the final vote. George won, because she was best qualified, but everyone in the department was impressed with you. Which doesn’t surprise me, after I saw your talk and read your articles.”
“Right.” I press my fingers into my eyes. “My articles.”
“They’re excellent. And also . . .”
I look at him. “Also?”
He wets his lips, like he needs time to phrase something. “Sometimes, when I read them, I can almost hear them in your voice. Your personality.” He shakes his head, self-effacing, like he knows he’s being fanciful. “A turn of sentence here. A formula there.”
I thought we’d agreed that I don’t have a personality, I’m tempted to say. But I’m too tired to be bitter, and Jack . . . he’s been nothing but kind. I try for a smile. “I can’t blame you for voting for her.”
“I didn’t.”
My eyes widen.
“I recused myself.”
“Why?”
He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come immediately. “I had a . . . conflict of interest.”
“Because of George.”
He smiles faintly. “Because of you, Elsie.”
I have no idea how to interpret this. So I just don’t. “Aren’t you and Georgina . . . ?”
He cocks his head, confused. God, he’s going to make me say it.