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He lifts one eyebrow. “What would I hide?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “A giant tentacle dildo. Viagra. A diary with a pink locket.”
“None of that would be worth hiding,” he says, the most quietly confident man in the entire world. “I’ll be downstairs if you needanything, okay?” The door closes with a soft click, and I’m right here.
In Jack Smith-Turner’s bedroom.
Alone with his pillows and his CERN wall art and probably the desiccated livers of twelve theorists. Plus, a whole lot of falling snow.
I quickly update Cece on the shit show that’s my life, then slide under the covers on what I hope isn’t Jack’s side, groaning in pleasure.
I have a really firm mattress. Great for spinal health.
He sure does, and it’s perfect. I immediately relax, enveloped by the comforter and a nice, dark scent that I’m not ready to admit is Jack’s. I could stay here forever. Barricade myself. Never face the consequences of my own failures.
Cece replies (This is so weird??? But good night???), and I notice that my battery is at 12 percent. I glance around for a charger, find none, then notice the nightstand. Jack gave me permission, right? So I open the drawer, bracing myself for... I don’t know. Cock rings. Thumbs. A copy ofAtlas Shrugged. But the inside is surprisingly mundane: tissues, pens, keys, a flashlight with a few batteries, coins, and a white piece of paper that I cannot resist picking up.
It’s a photo. A Polaroid. Blurry, with a Go board and a handful of people clustered around it. Only one face is fully in focus. A girl with brown hair and even features who frowns at the camera and—
Me. It’sme.
The photo was taken at Millicent Smith’s birthday party. A game ends in a draw; Izzy yells at people to smile; all the Smiths turn toward her.
Except for the tallest. Who keeps looking at me,onlyat me, a faint smile on his lips.
“Oh,” I say softly. To whom, I don’t know.
I lean back against the pillow, staring at the picture pinched between my fingers. Lights still on, contemplating the fact that my furrowed brow resides in Jack’s nightstand, I drift off in a handful of seconds and dream of nothing.
•••
When I wake up, the alarm clock says 3:46 a.m., and my first conscious thought is that I didn’t get the job.
I failed.
It happened.
I’m in the worst-case scenario.
The scene of me finding out from George runs on a loop in my brain for several minutes, each replay spotlighting a different mortifying detail.
I ran away in the middle of a conversation like a child.
I left my closest friend alone in a snowstorm.
I said terrible, unfair things.
I don’t make the decision to prowl downstairs, but once I’m there, I know it’s where I need to be. The lamps are off and the snow is still falling, but enough light comes from the street to make out the contours of the place. Of Jack, who lies on his back on the sectional, a thin blanket draped over his lower half. His eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep. Not sure how, but I know it. And he knows that I know it, because when I step closer, he doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes, but he does ask, “Do you need something?” His voice is scratchy, like he did sleep at some point.
“No,” I lie. Which, of course, he knows. He knowseverything.
“Want me to bring you up some water?”
“No. I...” I’m awake, but not fully. Because I kneel beside the couch, my head just inches from his, and ask, “I... Can I tell you something?”His eyes finally open. He looks at me, and my hair is probably a mess, I amsurelya mess, but I need to say this. “I don’t... What I said about George getting the job because she’s your girlfriend. Or friend. Because of some weird political intrigue—it was unfair of me. Despicable. And I don’t believe it. And I just—it was awful of me to—”
“Elsie.” His tone is even and deep. “Hey. It’s okay. You already apologized.”
He doesn’t get it. “I know, but of all the things that happened today, it seems like the shittiest. And I cannot control any of this—not my career tanking, not whether I’m going to have health insurance or make rent—but I... Icancontrol the way I react. So I’m sorry I said it. About George. And about you. And... people do it to me all the time. In the last year of my Ph.D., I got this stupid award. When I walked into the student lounge the following day, other students were saying that it was only because I was a woman, and... I felt like total shit, and I really didn’tthinkthey were right, but for a second I wasn’t sure, for a second they made me doubt myself, and I just—I don’t want to be likethem. I—”
