“No—we can pretend that we’re an inch from marriage. I can put on my lotus septum ring and leave my tattoos out. I’ll wear my AOC top and ripped jeans. Think how much they’ll hate me!”

I can see how little he wants to smile, and how little he can help it. “No one could hate you. Not even my father.”

I wink at him. “Game on, then.”

20

VENTRAL TEGMENTAL AREA: ROMANTIC LOVE

LEVI’S FATHER, AS it turns out, is perfectly capable of hating me. And so are Levi’s mother and his eldest brother, who join us for dinner in a less-than-pleasantly-surprising plot twist.

But first things first. Before The Dinner there are days of intense prep for the upcoming BLINK demonstration. Bolts are tightened; stimulating frequencies are adjusted; Guy is prodded, poked, and shocked on his scalp.

He’s a trooper: the demonstration is about the helmet, but as test subject number one he’ll be front and center, and it’s clear that he’s nervous about it. In the past couple of days he’s been moody, anxious, and more tired than ever. I think he’s been keeping his fears to himself to avoid disrupting morale, which makes me want to hug him. The other night I stopped by his office to check on him: he startled like a coil spring and quickly closed all his tabs. I guess even astronauts de-stress on YouPorn?

Rocío and Kaylee are getting chummier and chummier. I overhear them in the break room while heating up the stir fry I made yesterday in an attempt to impress Levi with the one dish I can cook—which resulted in the painful realization that I can cook zero dishes.

“If she’s willing to say a few words about how the movement started, that would be amazing,” Rocío is saying. “She seems pretty private.”

“We could blur her face. Auto-tune her. Use a helium voice app.”

“Baby, that would undercut the seriousness of the message.”

“What about a Guy Fawkes mask?”

“I do love V for Vendetta—but no.”

“What are you guys talking about?” I ask, spearing a piece of carrot that manages to be at once burnt and undercooked. Amazing. This has to be a transferable skill set.

“You know #FairGraduateAdmissions, right?” Kaylee asks.

I drop my carrot back into the Tupperware. “Ah . . . vaguely.”

“It’s about guaranteeing inclusivity in the admission process. Student organizations are really active in the movement, but Ro and I are technically not students, so . .

.”

She

turns

her

laptop.

“We’re

making

the

#FairGraduateAdmissions website! Not ready yet, but we’ll launch it soon.

There will be information, resources, mentorship opportunities. And we’ll ask Marie Curie for an interview.”

I finish chewing and swallow. Even though I never put the carrot in my mouth. I must be eating my tongue. “Marie Curie?”

“Not the real Marie Curie! That would be hilarious, though!” Kaylee giggles at the misunderstanding for about half a minute. Rocío stares at her for the entire duration, heart-eyed. Ah, young love. “It’s the person who started the conversation. We want to launch the website with her interview, but she’s pretty anon.” She spreads her hands.

Her nails are an iridescent baby blue.

I clear my throat. “She might agree to do it via email.”

“This is actually a great idea!” Ro and Kaylee exchange an offensively impressed look. Then Kaylee licks her thumb and wipes something from the corner of Rocío’s eye. “Hang on, baby. You have a smudge.”

I walk out of the room holding Rocío’s gaze and mouthing, “Goodbye, baby.” I cannot overstate how much I love this relationship development.

With so much at stake for Friday, everyone’s too frantic to notice that Levi has taken to bringing coffee to my workstation; to making sure that I don’t go too long without a break; to smiling faintly and asking if I’m going to pass out whenever a bug flies into the lab; to teasing me about the little mounds of treats I leave for Félicette.

I have noticed. And I know he’s just being a friend, a kind person, an awesome collaborator, but it hurts a little. Not hurt hurt. But those pangs?

Those little twinges I experience when Levi stares at me? When we’re running together and he effortlessly matches his pace to mine? When he leaves me the yellow vegan M&Ms because he knows they’re my favorites?

(Yes, they taste better than the red.) Well, those little twinges are starting to get a bit painful. Knifing at my general chest area.

Weird. Odd. Strange. Peculiar. I make a note in my Reminders app: Visit primary care doc in Bethesda. I’m overdue for a checkup.

Anywho. Work’s fantastic, sex is even better, and

#FairGraduateAdmissions is about to shake things up in academia, the last bastion of the medieval guild apprenticeship model. Things are going great, right?

Wrong. Let’s loop back to The Dinner.

The first hint that it might possibly not go super well (or, as I think of it, my first Uh-Oh™) comes when I find out that Levi’s family suggested having dinner at an upscale steakhouse. And when I say “suggested,” I mean decided. I’ve no problem with people eating meat, but the complete disregard for Levi’s dietary preferences seems less than fatherly.

The smell of grilled steak envelops us the second we step inside. I glance up at Levi and he says, apologetic, “I’ll make you dinner afterward.” Which causes a bit of a . . . tsunami inside me. Seriously. The pangs? Those are nothing. I’m being swept over by a ridiculous surge of affection for this vegan man whose probably annoying parents invited him to a steakhouse, and whose first concern is that I don’t go hungry tonight. It’s a warm feeling that threatens to explode inside my chest, which is why I stop him in the entrance with a hand on his gray button-down and pull him to me for a kiss.

We don’t exactly kiss in public. And even in private, I’m not usually the one who initiates contact. His eyes widen, but he instantly bends to meet me halfway.

“I’ll also, um,” I murmur against his lips, “do stuff for you. Afterward.”

Whoa. Very sexy, Bee. Very smooth, you

temptress.

He flushes with heat. “You . . . will?”

I nod, suddenly shy. But we kiss, and that’s my second Uh-Oh™. Because a throat clears behind us, and I immediately know whose it is.