Specifically me.
Yes, he was a taciturn, somber, brooding mountain of a man. He was private, an introvert. His temperament was reserved and aloof. I couldn’t demand that he like me, and had no intention of doing so. Still, if he could be civil, polite, even friendly with everyone else, he could have made an effort with me, too. But no—Levi Ward clearly despised me, and in the face of such hatred . . .
Well. I had no choice but to hate him back.
“You there?” Reike asks.
“Yeah,” I mumble, “just ruminating about Levi.”
“He’s at NASA, then? Dare I hope he’ll be sent to Mars to retrieve Curiosity?”
“Sadly, not before he’s done co-leading my project.” In the past few years, while my career gasped for air like a hippo with sleep apnea, Levi’s thrived—obnoxiously so. He published interesting studies, got a huge Department of Defense grant, and, according to an email Sam sent around, even made Forbes’s 10 Under 40 list, the science edition. The only reason I’ve been able to stand his successes without falling on my sword is that his research has been gravitating away from neuroimaging. This made us not-quite-competitors and allowed me to just . . . never think about him. An excellent life hack, which worked superbly—until today.
Honestly, fuck today.
“I’m still enjoying this immensely, but I’ll make an effort to be sisterly and sympathetic. How concerned are you to be working with him, on a scale from one to heavily
breathing into a paper bag?”
I tip what’s left of Finneas’s water into a pot of daisies. “I think having to work with someone who thinks I’m a shit scientist warrants at least two inhalers.”
“You’re amazing. You’re the best scientist.”
“Aw, thank you.” I choose to believe that Reike filing astrology and cristallotherapy under the label “science” only slightly detracts from the compliment. “It’s going to be horrible. The worst. If he’s anything like he used to be, I’m going to . . . Reike, are you peeing?”
A beat, filled by the noise of running water. “. . . Maybe.
Hey, you’re the one who woke me and my bladder up. Please, carry on.”
I smile and shake my head. “If he’s anything like he was at Pitt, he’s going to be a nightmare to work with. Plus I’ll be on his turf.”
“Right, ’cause you’re moving to Houston.”
“For three months. My research assistant and I are leaving next week.”
“I’m jealous. I’m going to be stuck here in Portugal for who knows how long, groped by knockoff Joffrey Baratheons who refuse to learn what a subjunctive is. I’m rotting, Bee.”
It will never cease to befuddle me how differently Reike and I reacted to being thrown around like rubber balls during childhood, both before and after our parents’ death. We were bounced from one extended family member to another, lived in a dozen countries, and all Reike wants is . . . to live in even more countries. Travel, see new places, experience new things.
It’s like yearning for change is hardwired in her brain. She packed up the day we graduated high school and has been making her way through the continents for the past decade, complaining about being bored after a handful of weeks in one place.
I’m the opposite. I want to put down roots. Security. Stability. I thought I’d get it with Tim, but like I said, relying on others is risky business.
Permanence and love are clearly incompatible, so now I’m focusing on my career. I want a long-term position as an NIH scientist, and landing BLINK is the perfect stepping-stone.
“You know what just occurred to me?”
“You forgot to flush?”
“Can’t flush at night—noisy European pipes. If I do, my neighbor leaves passive-aggressive notes. But hear me out: three years ago, when I spent that summer harvesting watermelons in Australia, I met this guy from
Houston. He was a riot. Cute, too. Bet I can find his email and ask him if he’s single—”
“Nope.”
“He had really pretty eyes and could touch the tip of his nose with his tongue—that’s, like, ten percent of the population.”
I make a mental note to look up whether that’s true. “I’m going there to work, not to date nose-tongue guy.”
“You could do both.”
“I don’t date.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“No, actually.” Reike’s tone takes on its usual stubborn quality. “Listen, I know that the last time you dated—”
“I was engaged.”
“Same difference. Maybe things didn’t go well”—I lift one eyebrow at the most euphemistic euphemism I’ve ever heard—“and you want to feel safe and practice maintenance of your emotional boundaries, but that can’t prevent you from ever dating again. You can’t put all your eggs into the science basket. There are other, better baskets. Like the sex basket, and the making-out basket, and the letting-a-boy-pay-for-your-expensive-vegan-dinner basket, and—” Finneas chooses this very moment to meow loudly.
Bless his little feline timing. “Bee! Did you get that kitten you’ve been talking about?”
“It’s the neighbor’s.” I lean over to nuzzle him, a silent thank-you for distracting my sister mid-sermon.
“If you don’t want to date nose-tongue guy, at least get a damn cat. You already have that stupid name picked out.”
