“Together. Aren’t you two together?”
He laughs. “No. But we are close friends. And unlike Dora, her wife, I’m scared enough of her to let her drag me to see movies that bend the space-time continuum and feel several hours longer than they actually are.”
“Oh.” Oh. “During the interview, did she . . . know about me? That I was the other candidate?”
“Not until a few minutes ago. I wasn’t allowed to tell her who the other candidate was.”
“It’s just . . .” I scratch my neck, where heat is slowly creeping up. “Earlier, when I introduced myself, she seemed to know who I was.”
He freezes—a millisecond of hesitation—then resumes with his casual, stone-strong confidence. “I did talk to her about you. But that was long before your interview. I told her that Greg was finally seeing someone. And that I was struggling.”
“Because you disapproved.”
“Elsie.” His tone is patient but firm. “I understand if you are uncomfortable with what I told you. But I’ve never lied to you, and I’m not going to start now.” His eyes hold mine like a vise. “I was attracted to someone I shouldn’t have been attracted to. I felt guilty and frustrated, and I confided in George.” There’s a frog in my throat. An entire ecosystem. Five astral planes. Something glows and pulsates inside my stomach, and I don’t know how to even begin to respond. Luckily I don’t have to, because Jack adds, “Greg wanted to meet with you this week. I asked him not to.”
“Why?”
“Because I had to tell him that you wouldn’t get the job. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t slip up, and . . . I was planning to be the one who explained everything.”
I feel myself smile. “Not a good liar, is he?”
“I’m surprised he didn’t blurt out about your arrangement on your first date.”
“Yeah.” Me too, actually. “How is he?”
“Good. Fine. The tooth healed. We talked about . . . him. Honestly, he didn’t insult me nearly as much as he should have.”
“Lucky for you, you found me.” Your resident nutjob. Screaming abuse on the sidewalk.
“Elsie.” He’s doing that intense eye-holding thing again. “It’s fine.”
Nothing about this is fine, and it likely won’t be for a long time. But I nod anyway and stand. “Right. I . . . Sorry, again. Thank you for explaining everything. And for the hot chocolate. I should go home before the snow gets bad.”
He turns to one of the million windows. “Looks bad already.”
It does. The outside’s a whiteout of flurries, and my post-crying-jag exhaustion is swallowing me whole. Maybe I can throw a smoke bomb and disappear into the quantum vacuum. “Before it gets worse.”
He stands, too. “I’ll drive you.”
“What? No. The roads aren’t safe. I’ll just take an Uber.”
He lifts one eyebrow.
“With Cece,” I add, checking my phone. “No need to put you in danger if . . .” I trail off and go through my texts.
CECE: George assumes you’re staying with Jack???? Does she know something I don’t?????
CECE: Uber surge pricing is insane. George offered to drive me home, but we need to leave now or the snow will strand her car.
CECE: Pls text me to reassure me that he’s not making sausages out of your small intestine.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. This is fine. It’s okay.
“You need a new phone,” Jack says quietly, glancing at the cracked screen.
I need a new job. “I’ll take the bus, actually.”
“You think buses are running?”
“Hopefully.” I attempt a smile. He’s been nothing but kind, and he deserves a smiling, less-than-depressive Elsie. “Unless you’d like me to camp out on your couch,” I joke.
“Nah. You can take the bed,” he says without pause. Like he’s been thinking this through.
He can’t have been. “You’re not serious.”
“I’ll even change the sheets.”
“I . . . Why?”
He shrugs. “It’s been a while.”
“I meant, why do you—”
“Because you’re cold, Elsie.” He steps closer, and I can feel the hot glow of his skin. “Because you had a rough night, and probably a rough month. Because it’s not safe. And because I like having you around.”
I should probably try to process this, but I’m so, so tired. “Do you have a spare room?”
“I do. No bed in it, though, and according to my friend Adam, my air mattress ‘sucks ass.’?”
“Is that where you keep the skeletons of theorists?”
He smirks. Doesn’t deny it. “I’ll take the couch. That’s where I fall asleep reading theory articles every night, anyway.”
Maybe it’s a jab, but it makes me laugh. I glance at the sectional, which could comfortably house three of him and looks cozier than my childhood bed. I’m really not in the position to refuse this, though I make a last-ditch effort. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“Elsie.”
I hate it when he says my name like that. A little stern, amused, annoyed. Like I should be past my bullshit, even though I’m neck deep, drowning in it. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Do you need insulin? There’s a pharmacy down the block.”
Apparently I now discuss my meds supply with Jonathan Smith-Turner. Wild. “I just changed my pod. I’m good.”
He nods, and then . . . I guess it’s happening. I’m staring at his back and following him up the L-shaped staircase, like the neutron star of helplessness I’ve been reduced to. I try to picture waking up tomorrow. Squirting his toothpaste on my finger. Making my way downstairs, nonchalantly complimenting his orthopedic pillow, then throwing out a Laters! before venturing out into the blinding white.
I’m in the awkwardest timeline, but a proper freak-out will have to wait until I have enough energy.
“Bathroom’s in here,” he says once we reach the upstairs landing. He rummages in a linen closet, then plugs a night-light into the wall. For me.
My heart squeezes.
“That’s my office.” He opens a door. “And here’s the bedroom.”
Jack has a headboard, unlike other, more basic people (me). And a blue comforter, dark sheets that match the rug, and a bed that’s probably a few notches above king. Emperor? Galactic dominator? No clue, but I bet he had it custom-made. I bet the woodworker took a good look at Jack and said, “We’ll need the wood of a thousand-year Huon pine for a monstrosity like you. I shall head to Tasmania on my skiff at first light.”
The rest of the room is tidy and uncluttered—no dirty boxers draped over the leather chair by the window, no Clif Bar wrappers on the floor. The window takes up the entire east wall, and there’s one single piece of art: a framed picture of the Large Hadron Collider. The endcap of the Compact Muon Solenoid—a futuristic, mechanical flower.
It’s beautiful. I know that Jack did some work at CERN, and maybe he took it himself—
“I’ll change the sheets,” he says, brushing past me toward the dresser, and I realize that I’ve been staring.
“Oh, don’t. I’m not exactly picky, and . . .” I clear my throat. Whatever, it’s fine. “We can both sleep in here. I mean, the bed is huge.”
He’s giving me his back, but I see the moment the words land. The drawer is half-open, and his movements stutter to a stop. Muscles tense under his shirt, then slowly relax. When he turns around, it’s with his usual uneven smile. “Seems like a lot for you,” he says. A bit strained, maybe. There’s no dimple in sight.
“A lot?”
“Going from running away from me to sleeping in the same bed, in under one hour.”
I flush and look at my toes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run—I just . . . And I’m not, like, coming on to you.” I’d love to sound sharp and indignant, but it’s just not where I’m at.
“We’ve established that you don’t need to come on to me, Elsie. Do you want something to sleep in?”
“Oh.” I shake my head. “I’m good. I’m wearing leggings, anyway. I figured that if I had to suffer through 2001, I could at least be comfy.”
“I thought you loved the movie.” I give him an appalled look. Jack leans against the dresser, arms crossed. “It’s what your friend said,” he explains.
“Oh, no. I mean, she thinks I do. She thinks I’m into artsy movies, but I don’t really . . .” Tell her the truth.
I think Jack can read my mind. “Does she know how much you like Twilight?” he asks with a small, kind smile.
“No way.” I laugh weakly. “If anything, she might suspect I enjoy it ironically.”
“Ironically?”
“Yeah. You know, when you like something because it’s bad and love making fun of it?”
He nods. “Is that why you enjoy Twilight?”