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“Sisters?”
“No.”
“Odd. You look uncannily similar to someone my brother used to date. I believe her name was...” He taps his finger on the table. “Pity I can’t recall.”
I flush, looking around shiftily. Most people are too busy deciding what to order with department funds to pay attention. I burymy face in the menu and take a deep breath.Ignore Jack Smith. Jack Turner. Jack Smith-Turner. Donotgo on a rampage and stab him with your salad fork.
Actually, what I need is to explain to him the situation. That I’m not a con artist. Get him off my case. Yes, I need to—
“Jack, how’s the ferroelectric nematic experiment going?” someone asks from the other end of the table.
“Great. So great, I’ve been considering a leave of absence.” He makes a show of tapping his chin. “A couple of years backpacking, maybe.”
Volkov laughs. “No luck, then?”
“Nope.” His brow furrows. “We’re doing something wrong. Can’t figure out what, though. How’s Russia this time of year, Sasha?”
More people chuckle. “If you feel you must leave us, who are we to stop you?” Monica mutters. I scowl into the salads page: Jack has no business going from total asshole to charmingly self-deprecating.
“Things will turn around, Jack. You know that experimental physics is... experi-meantto be hard.” Volkov snickers at his own joke. “Theoretical physics, too. Doesn’t it sometimes make you...theory-eyed, Dr. Hannaway?”
Laugh, I order myself.Be charming. Be convivial. Top of your game.“It sure does.”
“Good one,” Jack says. “Sasha, have you heard the one about Schrödinger’s girlfriend?”
Volkov rubs his hands. “No, do tell!”
“It’s my favorite. Schrödinger’s girlfriend is simultaneously a librariananda theoretical—”
I snap my menu shut, embarrassment and anger pounding up my spine. Am I having a rage stroke? Is my nose bleeding? “Excuse me for a moment.” I stand, forcing myself to smile at Monica andVolkov. I need air. I need to regroup. I need a second to think about this mess of a situation without Jack jabbing at me. “I, um, petted a dog earlier. I’ll wash my hands and be right back.”
Volkov seems pleased at my sudden concern with hygiene. “Yes, yes, good idea.Lathersafe than sorry.” He guffaws like he’s on nitrous oxide. I love a good pun; I really do. But not when my one chance at financial freedom is being sabotaged by my fake boyfriend’s evil brother.
I’m several feet away when Jack’s voice makes my stomach twist. “You know, I petted acat. I think I’ll join Dr. Hannaway.”
The restrooms are across the restaurant, at the end of a long, dimly lit hallway decorated with ficus and monochrome pictures of Paris. I left the table first and should have a considerable advantage, but Jack catches up with me in a handful of steps, without even the grace to look winded.
I brace for him to say something devious and offensive. It’ll be my excuse to trip him—who needs sex when you can watch Jack Smith face-plant on the floor? But he remains silent. Strolls by my side, grossly unconcerned, like he doesn’t have a worry on his mind.One of his power plays, Monica said earlier, and I grit my teeth, wishing I had some power to bring to the playground. If I get this job, I’m going to make his life impossible: put his science equipment in Jell-O, cut my nails on his desk, lick the rim of his cup when I have a cold, sprinkle tacks on his—
End of the hallway. He opens the door on the left—men’s restroom—and I head to the right—ladies’. Free from this pain, finally. Except that I make a crucial mistake: I turn around for one last resentful glance, and Jack’s standing there. With a waiting expression.
Holding the restroom’s door open.
I exhale a low, confused laugh. Is this an invitation? To the men’s restroom? To... to what, sit on the urinals for tea and hors d’oeuvres? Is hebananas?
No.Iam bananas. Because for reasons that warrant a brain scan and comprehensive neuropsychological evaluations, I take him up on it. I barely glance around to make sure that an MIT chancellor is not coming down the hallway, and step inside.
The bathroom’s deserted—no one around to witness my lunacy. The place stinks, like someone dipped their post-gym crotch in a bucket of citrus disinfectant. There’s the pitter-patter of a dripping faucet, and my reflection in the full-body mirror is a lie: the slender woman in the sheath dress is too flustered, too livid, tooredto be mild Elsie Hannaway of the accommodating ways.
I turn around. Jack lingers by the door, as ever studying, appraising, vivisectioning me. I start a mental countdown. Five. Four. When I reachone, I’m going to explain the situation. In a calm, dignified tone. Tell him it’s a misunderstanding. Three. Two.
“Congratulations,” he says.
Uh?
“On your Ph.D.”
“W-what?”
