I shake my head. “Just thinking.”
“Thinking of . . . ?”
“You know, during my interview, I was picturing how it would be if I got the job. Working with you. And I had these painstakingly intricate fantasies.”
His interest is piqued. “Did I pack you sandwiches in a Twilight lunch box?”
I laugh. “Oh, no.”
“Were you wearing that red dress from Miel, and I bent you—”
“No.” I can still blush—amazing. “It was mostly me harassing you into quitting in disgrace.”
“I see.” He looks intrigued. “What were you going to do?”
“Oh, you know. Jell-O your office supplies. Spread the rumor that you poop in the urinals. Frame you for white-collar crimes. Those kinds of things.” His expression is delighted. “I mean . . . I could still do it.”
“You could.”
“Some would say I should.”
“Some would.” He kisses the corner of my smile. “Maybe next year,” he says, and it sounds low and hopeful, a promise nestled inside it, and I realize that I’d love to accept George’s offer because I want to work with her, because I want to dedicate my brainpower to liquid crystals, because I want to not spend eleven-fifteenths of my time commuting between campuses, and because I want to have enough money to surprise Cece with little hats for her ugly, murderous quill-nugget. But this man, who was going to be the absolute worst part of my dream job, might still turn out to be the thing I want the most.
To no one’s surprise, I end up staying. And because of what happens on the following day, it turns out to be a pretty good decision.
23
FREEZING POINT
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.
ELSIE: I need to grade twelve bajillion essays
JACK: Do what I do. Give them all As.
ELSIE: 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.
ELSIE: 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.
ELSIE: Henley?
JACK: What’s a Henley?
ELSIE: It’s the name of the shirts you wear every single day.
JACK: They have a name?
Wow. Men.
ELSIE: 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.