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His eyes hold mine again. I glance away first and take the next question.
•••
“You are a most impressive young scientist,” Volkov tells me, pausing to pop a bacon-wrapped mushroom in his mouth. “A rising star, with a bright career ahead of you.”
“I’ll make sure to buy sunglasses.” I watch him cackle his way to the canapés table, hoping he won’t be back.
The interview went well, but I’m ready for it to be over. This shindig at Monica’s place is the homestretch: ostensibly, an informal reception meant to convey the amiable culture of the department and the convivial rapport among its faculty members. But I’ve been to tons of these back at Northeastern, and all they manage to show is that we academics are awkward, resentful nerds unable to interact with our colleagues without liters of ethanolic lubricant.
Which have by now been distributed. The room ranges from buzzy to outright drunk. The conversation from PS5 games to gossip about the grad students. (Cole is universally loathed, had a soul patch phase, once tried to organize an orgy in the spectroscopy lab. I should introduce him to Uncle Paul.)
Monica’s house is fancy and sprawling, and I shouldn’t be shocked: sheisa big shot—of course she has KFC buckets of money. Many of those who manage to stick around academia till the full professor stage do, right? It’s just... the income difference between tenured faculty and people like me is gaping. Maybe scholars move up from the poverty line and forget all about how they used to jerk awake to coconut-crab roaches crawling on their skin. Maybe there’s a switch in the brain that teaches people the difference between hors d’oeuvres and amuse-bouches and makes them want to drop serious cash on cow skull wall decor?
I sip the club soda I pretended to splash with gin and mutter, “God.”
“Pretty sure God left this department years ago,” someone whispers above my ear.
I turn and—it’s Jack. Of course it’s Jack. The electron to my nucleus, constantly spinning around me in the most annoying of orbits. He’s so close I have to tilt my chin, and from this perspective it strikes me again how handsome he is. Like a picture in an airport store that sells fancy perfume.
“Stop frowning,” he orders, and at first I automatically smooth my forehead.
Then I frown harder. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Come on, Elsie.” The corner of his lips twitches. “I didn’t even ask you to smile.”
He’s standing in the door, one hand on each side of the doorframe. His biceps brushes against my hair, but I won’t step out of reach. I was here first. Also, I’m clearly twelve. “Did you need something?”
“Just checking in. Making sure you’ve eaten enough.”
I roll my eyes. “I did. Thanks, Daddy.” My blood sugar is at 120 milligrams. I’m killing it.
“Thought so, since you’re not lying facedown on Monica’s”—he glances at the rug beneath my feet, and his nose scrunches—“dead Dalmatian?”
“I think it’s cowhide?”
“Ah. That explains the skulls on the wall.”
“They really...” I clear my throat. “Tie the whole room together?”
“You think she killed them herself?”
“Why? Afraid you’re next?”
“Of course. Monica’s terrifying.”
I laugh. There’s nothing Jack can do to make me look unhirablenow. We’re just two friendly archenemies chatting at a party. No one’s paying attention to us, which feels oddly nice. Isolating but restful. Because Jack expects nothing from me.
“Are you and Andrea dating?” I ask, because I can and I’m curious.
“No.” He seems surprised. “Why?”
I shrug. “I see you together a lot.” That’s who he was chatting with while Volkov soapboxed about competitive duck herding.
“We’re friends, we collaborate, we’re the only two faculty members under thirty-five.” He takes a sip of his beer. “I don’t date much.”
Right. That’s what Greg said, too. What bugs me is—I’m positive that Andrea, an otherwise brilliant woman, thinks Jack’s a nice guy. And that Michi thinks he’s a good mentor, judging by how comfortable she feels interacting with him via meltdowns. About anyone else, these would be green flags, but I know better.
“So,” I say, “your nematics experiments are going poorly?”
