“Well, if it isn’t a draw.”
I yank back my hand. Millicent is next to me, staring at the board. I follow her gaze and nearly gasp, because . . . she’s right.
I just not-thrashed Jack Freaking Smith at Go.
“It’s been a long time since Jack hasn’t won a game,” Millicent says with a pleased smile.
It’s been a long time since I haven’t won a game. What the hell? I look up at Jack—still staring, still furrowing his brow, still judging me silently. My brain blanks. I panic and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “There are more legal board positions in Go than the atoms in the known universe.”
A snort. “Someone’s been telling me since he was barely out of diapers.” Millicent glances shrewdly at Jack, who is still. Staring. At. Me. “You and Elsie make for a very good couple. Although, Jack, my dear, she should still sign a prenup.”
I don’t immediately understand what she’s saying. Then I do and turn crimson all over. “Oh, no. Mrs. Smith, I’m—I’m dating Greg. Your other grandson.”
“Are you sure?”
What? “I—yes. Of course.”
“Didn’t seem like it.” She shrugs. “But what do I know? I’m a ninety-year-old bat who frolics in mud.” I watch her shuffle toward the canapé table. Then I turn to Jack with a nervous laugh.
“Wow. That was—”
He’s still staring. At me. Stone faced. Intent. Sectoral heterochromic. Like I’m interesting, very interesting, very, very interesting. I open my mouth to ask him what’s going on. To demand a rematch to the death. To beg him to quit counting the pores in my nose. And that’s when—
“Smile, guys!”
I whip my head around, and the flash of Izzy’s Polaroid instantly blinds me.
* * *
• • •
“My parents’ anniversary next month should be the last time I need to take you along.” Greg signals right and pulls into my building’s parking lot. “After, I’ll tell Mom you broke up with me. I begged you not to. Serenaded you. Bought you my weight in plushies—all in vain.”
I nod sympathetically. “You’re heartbroken. Too inconsolable to date someone else.”
“I might need to find solace in a Spotify playlist.”
“Or frost your tips.”
He grimaces. I laugh, and once the car stops I lean against the passenger door to study his handsome profile in the yellow lights. “Tell her that I cheated on you with the Grubhub delivery guy. It’ll buy you longer moping rights.”
“Brilliant.”
We’re silent while I think about Greg’s situation. The reason he even needs a fake girlfriend. What he felt comfortable telling me, a stranger, and not his own family. How similar we are. “After this is done, if you need . . . if you want someone to talk to. A friend. I’d love to . . .”
His smile is genuine. “Thanks, Elsie.”
I’m barely out of the car. Ice crinkles under the heel of my boot as I turn around. “Oh, Greg?”
“Yes?”
“What’s the Woodacre thing?”
He groans. His neck tips back against the headrest. “It’s a silent meditation retreat our boss is forcing us to do. We’re leaving tomorrow—four days of no contact with the outside world. No email, no Twitter. He got the idea from a Goop newsletter.”
Oh. “So it has nothing to do with . . . complicated science?”
He gives me a desperate look. “The opposite. Why?”
“Ah . . .” I close my eyes. Let mortification sink its fangs into my brain. “No reason. Have a good night, Greg.”
I close the passenger door, wave half-heartedly, and let the frigid air pop into my lungs. The North Star blinks at me from the sky, and I remember tomorrow’s job interview.
It doesn’t matter if tonight I made a fool of myself with Greg’s punch-worthy brother. Because with just a sprinkle of luck, I might never have to see Jack Smith again.
2
NUCLEAR FISSION
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: My chinchilla
Hey Doctor H.,
I understand you don’t care about Chewie McChewerton’s gluten allergy, but what about the fact that last night I got a DUI? Does that get me out of the Physics 101 midterm?
Sincerely,
Chad
From: [email protected]
Subject: can’t come to class
pls find attached a pic of my vomit this morning
Emmett
From: [email protected]
Subject: Merchant of Venice reflection paper
Dr Hannaday,
I was wondering if you could quickly give feedback on what I wrote regarding the imagery of the lead casket. Please find the word doc attached.
Sincerely,
Cam
From: [email protected]
Subject: ELSIE CONTACT ME ASAP YOUR BROTHERS ARE BEING UNREASONABLE AGAIN AND I NEED HELP I TRIED TO CALL LAST NIGHT BUT NO ANSWER
[this email has no body]
From: [email protected]
Subject: MIT Interview—Faculty Position
Dear Doctor Hannaway,
I wanted to say once again how excited I am that you’ll be interviewing for a tenure track position in the physics department here at MIT. We are extremely impressed with your CV, and have narrowed down our choice to you and another candidate. The search committee and I are looking forward to getting to know you informally tonight, at dinner at Miel, before your on-campus interview starts tomorrow.
If that’s okay with you, I’d like for the two of us to meet alone a few minutes before the dinner at Miel to chat a bit. There are a few things I’d like to explain.
Best,
Monica Salt, Ph.D.
A.M. Wentworth Professor of Physics
Department of Physics, Chair
MIT
My heart sparks with excitement.
I set my tea on the kitchen table and click Reply, to assure Monica Salt that yes, absolutely, of course: I will meet her whenever and wherever she wants, including the plains of Mordor at two fifteen a.m., because she holds the key to my future. But the second my hand closes around the mouse, excruciating pain stabs my palm and shoots up my arm.