Cece’s eyes are earnest. Her fingers reach out for mine.
“You know me, Elsie: I hate giving credit to a dude who probably went to kindergarten at a French ch?teau. But you’ve been seeing him for, what, weeks? And I don’t know what it is precisely that you two have been doing for each other. But he just let go of a very shitty thing he’s been carrying around for half his life. And you . . . I feel like I know you better than I ever did before. And I’m thinking that maybe, I owe it a little bit to him.”
I look at Cece, letting her words swirl around me in messy, complicated, unpredictable patterns. Then they settle inside my brain, and I can taste their truth.
Four weeks ago I was a different person.
No: four weeks ago I was an infinite number of different people. I’ve put myself in a hundred tiny boxes, played a thousand roles, sculpted myself in a million smooth lines. But for the first time in memory I’m fighting against that, and . . .
What do you want, Elsie?
I squeeze my hand tight around Cece’s. Then I stand, pick up my coat, and run out the door.
* * *
? ? ?
There’s something new on the door of Jack’s office.
Under the “Jonathan Smith-Turner, Ph.D.” plaque and the “Physics Institute, Director” subplaque, someone taped a printout of the Annals article Cece showed me earlier today.
All two pages.
Including the citations.
One of which is an article of mine.
“Dr. Hannaway?”
I turn to Michi walking down the hallway. “Oh—hi.”
“Hi!” She smiles widely at me. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, I was . . .” I point at the door, which looks a lot like I’m pointing at the paper. I quickly lower my hand. “I was looking for Jack.”
“I think he went straight home after the faculty meeting.”
Shit.
No. Not shit. This is good. I can go to his place. I know where he lives. I’ve basically lived there, too, for a couple of weekends. So this is perfect—it gives me more time to think about what I’m going to tell him, since I have no idea. Why am I here? Just swept by the currents, like a salmon during mating season.
I shoot Michi a quick smile and speed-walk down the hallway. I think she yells after me that she followed me on Twitter, but I don’t stop to investigate. Instead I rehearse my conversation with Jack. Hi. Hey. Oh, hello. I’ve seen the article sounds like a good beginning. But I could also start softer. I was just in the area, and my dog ran away. Will you help me find it? It’s a black-and-white Newfie with a big lolling tongue, and yes, if I have to make up an imaginary pet, I’m going to choose a cute one—
I’m thinking so hard, I barely register that someone is calling me. And it takes a “Dr. Hannaway, is that you?” for me to recognize the voice.
I turn around.
It’s Volkov. And behind him, Ikagawa and Massey. At their side, Monica, Sader, Andrea, half a dozen more people whose names I don’t remember from my interview, and behind, an entire head taller, a million miles wider, only just stepping out of the conference room . . .
Jack. Of course.
Michi was wrong. Faculty meeting only just ended.
“Dr. Hannaway,” Volkov says fondly, like I’m his niece who should visit more often, and even though there are twenty people staring at me and I’d like to disappear into the woods, I actually lift my hand and smile weakly.
“Are you an ocean?” he asks. “Because you just . . . waved!”
Oh God. When did this become my life?
“Elsie?” Monica butts in warily. “Is everything okay?”
My heart slams with mortification. I bet she’s afraid I’ll make a scene. “Um, I . . .” I got lost. Forgot my colonics paraphernalia in the bathroom a few weeks ago. Have you seen a Newfie?
No. No. Come on, Elsie. Honesty.
“I need to talk to Jack,” I say in my newly found firm voice.
Jack.
Who has, by now, noticed me.
And is coming toward me.
Standing in front of me.
Towering toweringly with a puzzled, towered frown directed at me.
Deep breaths. It’s okay. This is fine.
“I didn’t know you two talked,” Monica says, looking skeptically between us.
“I learned a few years ago,” Jack tells her calmly, staring only at me. She’s little more than a fly buzzing around us. “And Elsie’s in the process of mastering the art of speaking for herself.”
I glare. His mouth twitches.
“Elsie, has Jonathan been bothering you? Because I—”
“No. Not at all. We . . .” I’m beet red. “We do talk.”
Her eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in suspicion. “Does this talking you have been doing have anything to do with Jonathan’s article?” she says. To whom, I’m not sure.
Jack keeps looking at me, silent for a stretched beat. “The article was overdue.”
“It certainly was.” Monica huffs. “Still, this seems . . . highly irregular.”
“Not highly.” He shrugs. “More like middle of the road.”
She stiffens. “Jonathan—”
“Monica?” Volkov calls from behind. “Will you help us with the meeting minutes?”
She turns away with a threatening look at Jack, and suddenly I’m very, very aware that coming here might not have been my best idea. For a number of reasons.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He cocks his head. “Why are you sorry?”
“I don’t know—I . . .” I gesture around us, then look, and it’s a bad idea. People are lingering in the hallway, and I don’t think they can hear us, but they’re sure looking, and I wouldn’t want to—
Wait.
No. I don’t care about people and what they think. “I figured you’d be in your office.”
“Nope. We could go,” he offers. “Though if we disappear together into my office . . .”
I nod. Okay, so I do care a bit about what people think. Just the right amount. Maybe I don’t want them to picture me bent over Jack’s desk. Maybe I’m still confused. I’ll think more on this later.
“Elsie?”
“Yes?”
He’s laughing at me. And I hate it. And I love it. “What are you doing here?”
“I just . . .” I clear my throat. “I know we had a really bad fight. And I didn’t answer your calls, because I was really mad. And I know you thought that that was it, and we would never meet again, but . . .”
“I didn’t.”
Oh. “Oh?”
“I was giving you the space you asked for.” He looks patiently amused. “And there was something I needed to do.”
“Right. The article. I know you wrote it because it was overdue, and not because of me, but—”
“Both.”
“—I still wanted to . . . What did you say?”
“It was overdue. And I did it for you.”
My mouth is sand dry. “For me.”
He nods, and his amusement shifts into something more serious. “What you said was true. And it was the right thing to do. But also . . . Elsie, there’s very little I wouldn’t do for you.”
My cheeks burn hot and ice cold. “I . . . Jack. I need to explain. I—”
My phone chooses the worst possible time to vibrate. I glance down at the screen—Mom—reject the call, and immediately look back up at Jack.
“Sorry, I . . . Honesty. We’re doing this with honesty.” I inhale. “I came because I have several honest things to say to you.”
His mouth twitches. “Please, do.”
“Right. Okay. Then . . . first of all, I hate that you didn’t like Twilight, and it invalidates all your other opinions—in movies especially, but not exclusively.”
More phone buzzing. Which I ignore.
“I see.”
“You need to buy curtains, because your apartment is way too bright, way too early. And your grilled cheese is good, but it could be better if you added aioli.”
“Of course.”
“And—”
The iTwat buzzes again, and—dammit.
“Mom,” I pick up. “Not now, please.”
“Elsie. Finally. Your brothers have been giving me so many headaches, and you’ve been AWOL. I need you to—”
“I said, not now,” I repeat impatiently. “I’m in the middle of something important. Lucas and Lance are adults—if they want to ruin their lives, by all means, let them. I don’t care, and I don’t care what Aunt Minnie says on Facebook. Please, stop calling me with anything related to that.” I hang up.
Jack stares at me with a stony, impenetrable expression.
“Um, sorry about that.”
“No problem. It was . . .”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Unhinged?”
“I was going to say hot. Elsie, look at me.” His tone is commanding, but in a way I don’t mind. “Why are you here?”
“Because I . . .”
I close my eyes for a moment. Take a million deep breaths.
“Because I accepted George’s offer. And I’ll be working here next year.” His smile widens with undeniable happiness—then stops abruptly when I add, “And because I hate you, Jack.” I feel something warm on my lips. Salty, too. “I hate you, and it’s pretty annoying, since I think I might also . . .” I shake my head. “And you’re right—I am terrified, scared shitless that the more you know me, the less you’ll like me, and I just . . . I loathe it sometimes.”