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“Crowley—and Pereira—are no longer on the search committee.”
“What?” The very two assholes I overheard in the bathroom? “Why?”
“Something came up. They had to step back.” He says it in a monotone, like it’s not weird that two faculty members would pull out in the middle of a search. “But I’m happy to take over.” He holds my eyes, final, blue-quartered. “What does the schedule say?”
Dammit. “Tour of the labs.”
He huffs a laugh. “You sure you want to see those? They’re crawling with experimentalists.”
I stifle an eye roll. “I’dloveto see the labs. Like I said, I firmly believe in the collaboration between experimental and theoretical physics, and I value...” Jack’s eyebrow lifts (subtext:You’re full of shit), and I trail off.
“Should I just show you the offices, Elsie?”
I press my lips together (subtext:Stop saying my name). “Yes, please.”
The thing about theoretical physics is, it mostly involves thinking. And reading. And scribbling equations on a chalkboard. And contemplating a hemlock salad when you realize that the last three months of your work don’t jive with the Bekenstein-Hawking formula. While writing my dissertation, I spent the bulk of my time in my apartment, staring at the wall, trying to make sense of the segregation of crystals into chiral domains. Every few hours Cece would poke me with the Swiffer to make sure I was alive; Hedgie was perched on her shoulder, eagerly awaiting the green light to feast on my corpse.
We theorists don’t really do labs, and the fanciest equipment we need is computers to run simulations. I’ve never even worn a labcoat—except for the year J.J. made me dress like a sexy neurosurgeon for a Halloween party. Even then, it was 80 percent fishnets.
“Conference rooms are that way.” Jack points to the right. His forearm is corded with muscle. What workout even targets those? “About sixty percent of the department focuses mostly on theory. More, if you include hybrid faculty like Volkov.” He gives me a sideways glance. “Nice job with the puns, by the way. Did you spend hours googling dad jokes?”
Only about twenty minutes. I’m a skimmer. “Tell me, do you feel safe here?”
“Safe?”
“If over sixty percent of faculty are theorists, there must have been instances of... slashed tires? Defaced mailbox? Giant dumps on your desk? Unless you sent every theorist an apology Fudgie the Whale on your first day.”
Is that an eye crinkle again? “I’m not the most popular guy on faculty. And I have yet to be invited to the department’s weekly happy hour. But most people are civil. And again, I have nothing against theorists.”
“Sure. Some of your best friends are theorists.”
He holds my eyes as he unlocks a door, and the single dimple makes a reappearance. “This will be your office, Elsie. If your pun game stays on point.”
My fantasies of filling Jack with candy and taking a bat to him—do I need sugar?—are derailed by the high window overlooking campus. And the beautiful desk. And the matching shelves. And the giant whiteboard.
God, this office isspectacular. I could sit here every day. Take in the hardwood smell. Sink into a comfortable chair MITprocurement purchased for me. Let my brain crunch away connections and expand my theories for hours.
Finish my manuscript—the one that’s been on pause for over a year.
I shiver in pleasure at the idea. Unlike at my apartment, no coconut-crab bugs would try to crawl in my mouth. My life would see a 900 percent reduction ofMay I pay this class’s tuition in Dogecoinsemails. And the salary... I’d have personal finances. Real ones, not just dimes I forgot in my winter coat the previous year.
I want this office. I want this job. I want it more than I have ever wanted anything, including that Polly Pocket set at age five.
“Do you need some privacy? A mattress? Emergency contraception?”
I whirl around. Jack is leaning against the doorjamb, the set of his shoulders relaxed, his frame filling the entrance. He stares at me with that lopsided smile that almost has me forgetting that we hate each other.
“It’s...” I clear my throat. “A nice office.”
“Just nice? You looked on the verge of something there.”
I collect myself. “No, I... What’s the teaching load for the position, again?”
He studies me, assessing, and I face away. I’ve had enough of him for today. “Do you enjoy teaching?”
“Of course,” I lie, running a finger over a wooden shelf. It’s not even dusty.
“You don’t,” he says, pilfering truths out of my skull. “Maybe you did before having to teach ninety classes a week, but not anymore.” It’s not a question. “The teaching load is two classes per semester.”
