Use Comic Sans? Write in primary colors?
“Mmm.” Guy bites his lip and looks around. Rocío is coding away on her laptop with AirPods in her ears. “I heard Kaylee say that it’s an authorization problem.” “Authorization?”
“For the funds to be disbursed and new equipment to be brought in, several people need to sign off.”
I frown. “Who needs to sign off?”
“Well, Boris. His superiors. Levi, of course. Whatever the holdup is, I’m sure he’ll fix it soon.”
Levi is as likely to be the holdup as I am to make a mistake while filing my taxes (i.e., very), but I don’t point that out. “Have you known him long? Levi, I mean.”
“Years. He was very close to Peter. I think that’s why Levi threw his name in the hat for BLINK.” I want to ask who Peter is, but Guy seems to assume I already know. Is he someone I met yesterday? I’m so bad with names. “He’s a fantastic engineer and a great team leader. He was at the Jet Propulsion
Lab when I was on my first space mission. I know they were sad to see him transfer.”
I frown. This morning I walked past him chatting with the engineers, and they were all laughing at something sportsball he’d just said. I choose to believe that they were just sucking up to him. Okay, he’s good at his job, but he can’t possibly be a beloved boss, can he? Not Dr. Wardness of the intractable disposition and wintery personality. And since we’re talking, why the hell did they decide to transfer someone from the JPL instead of having Guy lead?
Must be divine punishment. I guess I kicked lots of puppies in a past life.
Maybe I used to be Dracula.
“Levi’s a good guy,” Guy continues. “A good bro, too. He owns a truck, helped me move out after my ex kicked me out.” Of course he does. Of course he drives a vehicle with a huge environmental footprint that’s probably responsible for the death of twenty seagulls a day. While chomping on my vegan donut. “Also, we sometimes babysit playdates together.
Having beers and talking about Battlestar Galactica vastly improves the experience of watching two six-year-olds arguing over who gets to be Moana.”
My jaw drops. What? Levi has a child? A small, human child?
“I wouldn’t worry about the equipment, Bee. Levi will take care of it. He’s great at getting stuff done.” Guy winks at me as he stands. “I can’t wait to see what you two geniuses come up with.”
Levi will take care of it.
I watch Guy step out and wonder if more ominous words were ever uttered.
• • •
FUN FACT ABOUT me: I am a fairly mellow person, but I happen to have a very violent fantasy life.
Maybe it’s an overactive amygdala. Maybe it’s too much estrogen.
Maybe it’s the lack of parental role models in my formative years. I honestly don’t know what the cause is, but the fact remains: I sometimes daydream about murdering people.
By “sometimes,” I mean often.
And by “people,” I mean Levi Ward.
I have my first vivid reverie on my third day at NASA, when I imagine offing him with poison. I’d be satisfied with a quick and painless end, as long as I got to proudly stand over his lifeless body, kick it in the ribs, and proclaim, “This is for not answering even one of my seven emails.” Then I’d casually stomp on one of his humongous hands and add, “And this is for never being in your office when I tried to corner you there.” It’s a nice fantasy. It sustains me in my free time, which is . . . plentiful. Because my ability to do my work hinges on my ability to magnetically stimulate brains, which in turn hinges on the arrival of my damn equipment.
By the fourth day, I’m convinced that Levi needs some miracle-blade stabbing. I ambush him in the shared kitchen on the second floor, where he’s pouring coffee into a Star Wars mug with a Baby Yoda picture. It says Yoda Best Engineer and it’s so adorably cute, he doesn’t deserve it. I briefly wonder if he bought it himself, or if it’s a present from his child. If that’s the case, he doesn’t deserve the child, either.
“Hey.” I smile up at him, leaning my hip against the sink. God, he’s so tall.
And broad. He’s a thousand-year oak. Someone with a body like this has no business owning a nerdy mug. “How are you?”
His head jerks down to look at me, and for a split moment his eyes look panicked. Trapped. It quickly melts into his usual non-expression, but not before his hand slips. Some coffee sloshes over the rim, and he almost gives himself third degree burns.
I’m a cave troll. I’m so unpleasant to be around, I make him clumsy. The sheer power I hold.
“Hi,” he says, drying himself with kitchen paper. No Fine. No And you?
No Boy howdy, the weather’s humid today.
I sigh internally. “Any news about the equipment?”
“We’re working on it.”
It’s amazing how good he is at looking to me without actually looking at me. If it were an Olympic discipline, he’d have a gold medal and his picture on a Wheaties box.
“Why exactly is it not here yet? Any issues with the NIH funds?”
“Authorizations. But we’re—”
“Working on it, yes.” I’m still smiling. Murderously polite. The neuroscience on positive reinforcement is solid —it’s all about the dopamine. “Whose authorizations are we waiting for?”
His muscles, many and enormous, stiffen. “A couple.” His eyes fall on me and then on my thumb, which is twisting around my grandmother’s ring.
They immediately bounce away.
“Who are we missing? Maybe I can talk to them. See if I can speed up things.”
