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“Did you?”
My mouth is dry. “Yeah. I did it.”
“No—did youwantto?”
“I... I didn’tnotwant to.” I trace my finger against the tablecloth. “Mostly, I wanted him to have a version of me he could enjoy.”
Jack’s eyes close, and I’m suddenly afraid of what I’ll find when he opens them. Disgust. Pity, maybe. Judgment. But no: it’s just that deep brown, the slice of color, and a bunch of other things I cannot recognize.
“It was Elsie and J.J. Everyone said how beautiful a couple we were, and I settled into that. I read theDunebooks because they were his favorites. I told myself Dream Theater was good. I did his laundry. Cut my hair short because he liked bobs. I felt powerful, like I’d cracked how to be a social human being. I’d learned how to make people want me.” I wet my lips. “Then his ex asked him to get back together.”
Jack’s jaw tenses. His neck tightens. “And he said that you had to go, because your relationship was fake.”
I nod. “I wasn’t even sure if I had the right to be hurt. It was just... confusing.”
“Were you in love with him?”
I let out a small laugh and shake my head. “Not at all. And it should have made it better, right? That I didn’t lose the love of my life, that he was just some guy I only liked because I knew how to please him. But then I realized why it hit me so bad.” I have to stop.Take a deep breath. “I’d triedsohard. Given my all to be the perfect Elsie he wanted, and...” It almost hurts too much to say it.
“You gave him a perfect version of you, and he still didn’t want you,” Jack says prosaically. Almost detached. Like I’m a gravitational singularity that can be explained, cataloged, predicted. I’m momentarily stunned by how right he is. Then I’m surprised that I’m even surprised.
“And what you took away from it was that you had to try harder.”
I nod. “Pretty much.” The tray of cheese arrives, but my stomach is sealed. “J.J.’s girlfriend wouldn’t allow me to live in the apartment. And because the contract was in J.J.’s name, I had to move out. I didn’t really have anywhere left to go, and... I’ll spare you the details, but it was a mess. I missed tests, assignments. Didn’t get enough credits to stay on my scholarship. My junior-year grades were shit—and the first thing on the transcripts I sent in for grad school applications. I’d wanted to become a physicist for a decade, and because of some... someguywho sucked at Go, I almost didn’t.” I force myself to reach for a piece of fontina, because—fuck J.J. It’s delicious in my mouth. Rich and smooth, sweet and pungent. It makes me forget that I nearly bawled like a four-year-old in the middle of a fancy fusion restaurant. “But my mentor saved me.”
Jack tenses. “Your mentor.”
I nod, picking another cube. “Laurendeau.” The guy whose career Jack accidentally ruined. I’m trying not to think about it—Jack’s article, or what Dr. L. would say if he knew that I’m here with him. It seems like a good use of my well-honed compartmentalization skills. “He saw through the bad grades and the rec letters that said I was flaky. Told me I had potential. Accepted me into grad school. Everything I’ve accomplished, I owe to him.”
Jack scans my face for a long time. Then he exhales slowly and nods once, as if coming to an arduous decision. “Elsie—”
“My turn to ask a question,” I interrupt. I’m done talking about J.J. and Dr. L. “Since we’re on the topic.”
Jack hesitates, like he’s not ready to let go of the subject. “What is it?”
“Olive also said something else. That when youdogo out with women, it’s usually to...” I can’t bring myself to utter the words. But it doesn’t matter, because Jack looks like he knows exactly what I want to say. I point back and forth between us. “Is that what you want?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he studies me, stern, unreadable, impenetrable as he hasn’t been in a while. And then, after a long beat of choosing words carefully, he slowly says, “You and I won’t be having sex—”
“You guys ready to order?” The waitress interrupts us.
We don’t go back to the topic. And I wonder why the knot of relief in my belly feels so much like disappointment.
18
FLUX
My main sentiment going into lunch with Greg is fear—closely followed by self-loathing, guilt, and an uncontrollable impulse to run back home and feed myself to Hedgie. Does he hate me? Does he hold me responsible for outing him? Does he want his money back? He deserves it. I’ll sell a cornea. Or a foot. Whatever goes for highest.
As it turns out, I shouldn’t have worried. Because Greg grins widely the moment he sees me, and then asks suggestively, “You and my brother, huh?”
“Oh, no. No, I...”
We’re at our usual café, but even though today I could use some diversions, there are no screaming toddlers or projectile vomiting or tragic mishearings. Just the barista in a “Breathe If You Hate Tom Brady” shirt, me, and Greg’s winky face. I silently wish for a tectonic earthquake, to no avail.
“We—Jack and I are just... hanging out.”
There was dinner last Thursday, of course, which ended when he drove me home and answered my “Do you want to do this again?” with an infuriating “Doyou?” And then the Saturday afternoon spent hunting down theMurder, She Wrotenovelization for Millicent and bickering about the validity of string theory. (“It has produced no testable experimental predictions.” “We are working on the math!” “Work away, but until you come to me with a substantial breakthrough, the multiverse is as scientific as the Great Pumpkin.”) And last night, of course, when he drove me to a Northeastern lecture I was going to attend anyway. (“Or you can take the subway and we can meet there, if you enjoy watching people masturbate to Tropicana ads.”) Afterward we spent one hour in his car, trash-talking the speaker for saying that the gravitational-wave experiment was a waste of money.
