MY SECOND DAY on BLINK is almost as good as my first.
“What do you mean, we can’t get inside our office?”
“I told you. Someone dug a moat around it and filled it with alligators. And bears. And carnivorous moths.” I stare silently at Rocío and she sighs, swiping her ID through the reader by the door. It blinks red and makes a flat noise. “Our badges don’t work.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll go find Kaylee. She can probably fix this.”
“No!”
She sounds so uncharacteristically panicked, I lift an eyebrow. “No?”
“Don’t call Kaylee. Let’s just . . . knock the door down. Count of three? One, two—”
“Why shouldn’t I call Kaylee?”
“Because.” Her throat bobs. “I don’t like her. She’s a witch. She might curse our families. All our firstborns shall have ingrown toenails, for centuries to come.”
“I thought you didn’t want kids?”
“I don’t. I’m worried about you, boss.”
I tilt my head. “Ro, is this heat stroke? Should I buy you a hat? Houston’s much warmer than Baltimore—”
“Maybe we should just go home. It’s not like our equipment is here. What are we even going to do?”
She’s being so weird. Though, to be fair, she’s always weird. “Well, I brought my laptop, so we can— Oh, Guy!”
“Hey. Do you have time to answer a couple of questions for me?”
“Of course. Could you let us into our office? Our badges aren’t working.”
He opens the door and immediately asks me about brain stimulation and spatial cognition, and over an hour goes by. “It might be tricky to get to deep structures, but we can find a work-around,” I tell him toward the end. There’s a piece of paper full of diagrams and stylized brains between us. “As soon as the equipment arrives, I can show you.” I bite the inside of my cheek, hesitant. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“A date?”
“No, I—”
“Good, because I prefer figs.”
I smile. Guy reminds me a bit of my British cousin—total charmer, adorable smile. “Same. I . . . Is there a reason the neuro equipment isn’t here yet?”
I know Levi is supposed to be my point of contact, but he’s currently sitting on three unanswered emails. I’m not sure how to get him to reply. Use Comic Sans? Write in primary colors?
“Mmm.” Guy bites his lip and looks around. Rocío is coding away on her laptop with AirPods in her ears. “I heard Kaylee say that it’s an authorization problem.”
“Authorization?”
“For the funds to be disbursed and new equipment to be brought in, several people need to sign off.”
I frown. “Who needs to sign off?”
“Well, Boris. His superiors. Levi, of course. Whatever the holdup is, I’m sure he’ll fix it soon.”
Levi is as likely to be the holdup as I am to make a mistake while filing my taxes (i.e., very), but I don’t point that out. “Have you known him long? Levi, I mean.”
“Years. He was very close to Peter. I think that’s why Levi threw his name in the hat for BLINK.” I want to ask who Peter is, but Guy seems to assume I already know. Is he someone I met yesterday? I’m so bad with names. “He’s a fantastic engineer and a great team leader. He was at the Jet Propulsion Lab when I was on my first space mission. I know they were sad to see him transfer.”
I frown. This morning I walked past him chatting with the engineers, and they were all laughing at something sportsball he’d just said. I choose to believe that they were just sucking up to him. Okay, he’s good at his job, but he can’t possibly be a beloved boss, can he? Not Dr. Wardness of the intractable disposition and wintery personality. And since we’re talking, why the hell did they decide to transfer someone from the JPL instead of having Guy lead?
Must be divine punishment. I guess I kicked lots of puppies in a past life. Maybe I used to be Dracula.
“Levi’s a good guy,” Guy continues. “A good bro, too. He owns a truck, helped me move out after my ex kicked me out.” Of course he does. Of course he drives a vehicle with a huge environmental footprint that’s probably responsible for the death of twenty seagulls a day. While chomping on my vegan donut. “Also, we sometimes babysit playdates together. Having beers and talking about Battlestar Galactica vastly improves the experience of watching two six-year-olds arguing over who gets to be Moana.”
My jaw drops. What? Levi has a child? A small, human child?
“I wouldn’t worry about the equipment, Bee. Levi will take care of it. He’s great at getting stuff done.” Guy winks at me as he stands. “I can’t wait to see what you two geniuses come up with.”
Levi will take care of it.
I watch Guy step out and wonder if more ominous words were ever uttered.
FUN FACT ABOUT me: I am a fairly mellow person, but I happen to have a very violent fantasy life.
Maybe it’s an overactive amygdala. Maybe it’s too much estrogen. Maybe it’s the lack of parental role models in my formative years. I honestly don’t know what the cause is, but the fact remains: I sometimes daydream about murdering people.
By “sometimes,” I mean often.
And by “people,” I mean Levi Ward.
I have my first vivid reverie on my third day at NASA, when I imagine offing him with poison. I’d be satisfied with a quick and painless end, as long as I got to proudly stand over his lifeless body, kick it in the ribs, and proclaim, “This is for not answering even one of my seven emails.” Then I’d casually stomp on one of his humongous hands and add, “And this is for never being in your office when I tried to corner you there.” It’s a nice fantasy. It sustains me in my free time, which is . . . plentiful. Because my ability to do my work hinges on my ability to magnetically stimulate brains, which in turn hinges on the arrival of my damn equipment.
By the fourth day, I’m convinced that Levi needs some miracle-blade stabbing. I ambush him in the shared kitchen on the second floor, where he’s pouring coffee into a Star Wars mug with a Baby Yoda picture. It says Yoda Best Engineer and it’s so adorably cute, he doesn’t deserve it. I briefly wonder if he bought it himself, or if it’s a present from his child. If that’s the case, he doesn’t deserve the child, either.
“Hey.” I smile up at him, leaning my hip against the sink. God, he’s so tall. And broad. He’s a thousand-year oak. Someone with a body like this has no business owning a nerdy mug. “How are you?”
His head jerks down to look at me, and for a split moment his eyes look panicked. Trapped. It quickly melts into his usual non-expression, but not before his hand slips. Some coffee sloshes over the rim, and he almost gives himself third degree burns.
I’m a cave troll. I’m so unpleasant to be around, I make him clumsy. The sheer power I hold.
“Hi,” he says, drying himself with kitchen paper. No Fine. No And you? No Boy howdy, the weather’s humid today.
I sigh internally. “Any news about the equipment?”
“We’re working on it.”
It’s amazing how good he is at looking to me without actually looking at me. If it were an Olympic discipline, he’d have a gold medal and his picture on a Wheaties box.
“Why exactly is it not here yet? Any issues with the NIH funds?”
“Authorizations. But we’re—”
“Working on it, yes.” I’m still smiling. Murderously polite. The neuroscience on positive reinforcement is solid—it’s all about the dopamine. “Whose authorizations are we waiting for?”
His muscles, many and enormous, stiffen. “A couple.” His eyes fall on me and then on my thumb, which is twisting around my grandmother’s ring. They immediately bounce away.
“Who are we missing? Maybe I can talk to them. See if I can speed up things.”
“No.”
Right. Of course. “Can I see the blueprints for the prototype? Make a few notes?”
“They’re on the server. You have access.”
“Do I? I sent you an email about that, and about—”
A phone rings in his pocket. He checks the caller ID and answers with a soft “Hey” before I can continue. I hear a female voice on the other side. Levi doesn’t look at me as he mouths, “Excuse me,” and slips out of the kitchen. I’m left alone.
Alone with my stabbing dreams.
On the fifth day, my fantasies evolve yet again. I’m walking to my office, schlepping a refill bottle for the water cooler and half-heartedly considering using it to drown Levi (his hair seems long enough to hold on to while I push his head underwater, but I could also tie an anvil to his neck). Then I hear voices inside and stop to listen.
Okay, fine: to eavesdrop.
“—in Houston?” Rocío is asking.
“Five or six years,” a deep voice answers. Levi’s.
“And how many times have you seen La Llorona?”
A pause. “Is that the woman from the legend?”
“Not a woman,” she scoffs. “A tall lady ghost with dark hair. Wronged by a man, she drowned her own children in revenge. Now she dresses in white, like a bride, and weeps on the banks of rivers and streams throughout the south.”
“Because she regrets it?”
“No. She’s trying to lure more children to bodies of water and drown them. She’s amazing. I want to be her.”
Levi’s soft laugh surprises me. And so does his tone, gently teasing. Warm. What the hell? “I’ve never had the, um, pleasure, but I can recommend nearby hiking trails with water. I’ll send you an email.”
What is happening? Why is he conversing? Like a normal person? Not with grunts, or nods, or clipped fragments of words, but in actual sentences? And why is he promising to send emails? Does he know how to? And why, why, why am I thinking about the way he pinned me against that stupid wall? Again?
“That would be great. I normally avoid nature, but I am ready to brave clean air and sunlight for my favorite celebrity.”
“I don’t think she qualifies as a—”
I step into the office and immediately halt, dumbstruck by the most extraordinary sight I have ever laid my eyes upon.
Dr. Levi Ward. Is. Smiling.
Apparently, The Wardass can smile. At people. He possesses the necessary facial muscles. Though the second I step inside, his dimpled, boyish grin fades, and his eyes darken. Maybe he can only smile at some people? Maybe I’m just not considered “people”?
“Morning, boss.” Rocío waves at me from her desk. “Levi let me in. Our badges still aren’t working.”
“Thanks, Levi. Any idea when they will?”
Icy green. Can green be icy? The one in his eyes sure manages to. “We’re working on it.” He makes for the door, and I think he’s going to leave, but instead he picks up the refill bottle I dragged here, lifts it with one hand—one! (1)! hand!—and lodges it on top of the cooler.
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s no problem,” he says. He should be sent to jail for the way his biceps look. At least for a little bit. Also, please lock him up for being gone before I can ask if our equipment will ever arrive, if he’ll ever answer my emails, if I’ll ever be worthy of a compound sentence made of multiple clauses.
“Boss?”
I slowly turn to Rocío. She’s looking at me, inquisitive. “Yep?”
“I don’t think Levi likes you very much.”
I sigh. I shouldn’t be involving Rocío in this weird feud of ours—partly because it seems unprofessional, partly because I’m not sure what she’ll blurt out at the most inappropriate moment. On the other hand, there’s no point in denying the obvious. “We know each other from before. Levi and I.”
“Before you publicly announced that he’s shit at neuroscience, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“I see.”
“You do?”
“Of course. You two had a passionate love story that slowly soured, culminating when you caught Levi in an intimate embrace with your butler, stabbed his abdomen sixty-nine times, and left him for dead—only to be astonished to find him still alive when you arrived in Houston.”
I cock my head. “Do you really think two scientists could afford a butler?”
She mulls it over. “Okay, that part’s unrealistic.”
“Levi and I were in grad school together. And we . . .” I honestly have no idea how to put it diplomatically. I want to say “didn’t get along,” but there was never an along to be gotten. We never interacted, because he discouraged it or avoided it. “He was never a fan.”
She nods like she finds the idea relatable. That little scorpion. I love her. “Did he hate you at first sight, or did he grow into it?”
“Oh, he—” I stop short.
I actually have no idea. I try to think back to my first meeting with him, but I can’t remember it. It must have been on my first day of grad school, when Tim and I joined Sam’s lab, but I have no memories. He was vaguely hostile to me well before the incident in Sam’s office, when he declined to collaborate, but I can’t place the start of it. Interesting. I guess Tim or Annie might know. Except that I’d rather slowly perish from cobalt poisoning than ever speak to either of them again.
“I’m not sure.” I shrug. “A combination?”
“Is Levi’s dislike related to the fact that I just spent a week on TikTok because I don’t have a decent computer to work on?”
I plop down in my chair. I suspect the two things are very related, but it’s not as if I can prove it, or know what to do about it. It’s an isolating situation. I’ve considered talking to other people here at NASA, or even at NIH, but they’d just point out that Levi needs me to make the project succeed, and that the idea of him self-sabotaging just to sabotage me is preposterous. They might even think that I’m the one who’s in the wrong, since I haven’t proven myself as a project leader yet.
And there’s something else to consider. Something that I don’t want to say out loud, or even think in my head, but here goes: if my career is a sapling, Levi’s is a baobab. It can withstand a lot more. He has a history of completed grants and successful collaborations. BLINK’s failure would be a bump in the road for him, and a car-totaling crash for me.
Am I being paranoid? Probably. I need to lay off the coffee and stop spending my nights plotting Levi’s demise. He’s living rent free in my head. Meanwhile, he doesn’t even know my last name.
“I don’t know, Ro.” I sigh. “They might be related? Or not?”
“Hmm.” She rocks back in her chair. “I wonder if pointing out that his revenge plan is harming not just your career prospects but an innocent bystander’s, too, would help. The innocent bystander is me, by the way.”
I bite back a smile. “Thank you for clarifying.”
“You know what you should do?”
“Please don’t say ‘stab his abdomen sixty-nine times.’ ”
“I wasn’t going to. That’s too good advice to waste on you. No, you should ask @WhatWouldMarieDo. On Twitter. You know her?”
I freeze. My cheeks warm. I study Rocío’s expression, but it looks as sullenly bored as usual. I briefly consider saying “Never heard of her,” but it seems like overcompensating. “Yeah.”
“I figured, since you’re a Marie Curie stan. You own, like, three pairs of Marie Curie socks.” I own seven but I just hum, noncommittal. “You can tweet at Marie with your problem. She’ll retweet and you’ll get advice. I ask all the time.”
Does she? “Really? From your professional Twitter?”
“Nah, I make burner accounts. I don’t want other people knowing my private business.”
“Why?”
“I complain a lot. About you, for instance.”
I try not to smile. It’s very hard. “What did I do?”
“The vegan Lean Cuisine you always eat at your desk?”
“Yeah?”
“It smells like farts.”
That night I drag a chair out on the balcony and stare at my depressingly deserted hummingbird feeder, trying to formulate a question as vaguely as possible.
@WhatWouldMarieDo . . . if she suspected that a collaborator has a vendetta against her and is sabotaging their shared project?
When put into words it feels so stupid, I can’t even hit send. Instead, I google whether I’m within the age of onset for paranoid ideation—shit, I am—and call Reike to update her on current events.
“What do you mean, you almost died? Did you see your life replay before your eyes? Did you think of me? Of the cats you never adopted? Of the love you never allow yourself to give? Did you un-fence the Bee-fence?”
I’m not sure why I persevere with telling my sister every little humiliating thing that happens to me. My life is mortifying enough without her ruthless commentary. “I didn’t think about anything.”
“You thought of Marie Curie, didn’t you?” Reike laughs. “Weirdo. How did The Wardass manage to save you? Where did he come from?”
That’s actually a good question. I have no idea how he was able to intervene so quickly. “Right place, right time kind of thing, probably.”
“And now you owe him. Your archnemesis. This is delightful.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Beetch, I spent the day teaching the German dative for thirty euros. I deserve this.”
I sigh. My hummingbird feeder is still despondently empty, and my heart squeezes. I miss Finneas. I miss the tchotchkes I accumulated in my Bethesda apartment that made it feel like home. I miss Reike—seeing her in person, hugging her, being in the same time zone. I miss knowing where the olives are at the supermarket. I miss doing science. I miss the elation I felt during my three days of celebration when I thought BLINK would be the opportunity of a lifetime. I miss not having to google whether I’m having a psychotic episode.
“Am I crazy? Is Levi really sabotaging me?”
“You’re not crazy. If you were, I’d be, too. Genes and stuff.” Knowing Reike, I don’t find this reassuring. At all. “But as much as he dislikes you, it’s hard to believe that he’s sabotaging you. That level of hatred requires so much effort and motivation and commitment, it’s basically love. I doubt he cares that much. My guess is that he’s just being a testicle and not actively helping you. Which is why you should have a calm but firm conversation with him.”
I sigh again. “You’re probably right.”
“Probably?”
I smile. “Likely.”
“Hmm. Tell me about Astronaut Guy. Is Astronaut Guy cute?”
“He’s nice.”
“Aw. Not cute, then?”
When I go to bed, I’m convinced that Reike is right. I need to be firmer in my demands. I have a plan for next week: if there is no ETA for my equipment by Monday morning, I’m going to civilly confront Levi and tell him to cut the crap. If things get ugly, I’ll threaten him with wearing the dress again. It was clearly his kryptonite. I’d be open to doing laundry every night and subjecting him to it for the rest of my stay in Houston.
I smile at the ceiling, thinking that being revolting sometimes has its own advantages. I turn around, and when the sheets rustle, I’m almost in a good mood. Cautiously optimistic. BLINK will work out; I’ll make sure of it.
And then Monday happens.
