IT STARTS WITH Trevor, my NIH boss, wanting to talk “as soon as you can, Bee,” which has me groaning into my oatmeal.
Neuroscience is a relatively new field, and Trevor is a mediocre scientist who was lucky enough to be at the right place when tons of neuro positions and funding opportunities were created. Fast forward twenty years, and he has made just enough connections to avoid being fired—even though I strongly suspect that if given a human brain, he wouldn’t be able to point to the occipital lobe.
I call him while walking to work, the humid morning air instantly pasting a sticky layer on my skin. His first words are: “Bee, where are you with BLINK?”
Oh, I’m just peachy, thank you. What about you? “About to start week two.”
“But where’s the project at?” He bristles. “Are the suits ready?”
“Helmets. They’re helmets.” Seems like that would be an easy detail to remember, since we study the brain.
“Whatever,” he says impatiently. “Are they ready?”
I miss him so little. I can’t wait till BLINK makes my CV awesome and I can move to a position that doesn’t require acknowledging his existence. “They’re not. The projected timeline is three months. We haven’t even started.”
A pause. “What do you mean, you haven’t started?”
“I currently have no equipment. No EEG. No TMS. No computers, not even access to my office. Everything I asked for in my application, weeks ago, has yet to be delivered.”
“What?”
“There are mysterious authorizations that need to be collected. But it’s impossible to figure out whose authorizations.”
“Are you serious?”
My heart beats faster at the indignation in his voice. Trevor sounds mad—do I have an ally? A horrible ally, but a useful one. If he exerts some pressure at higher levels, they’ll intervene and Levi won’t be able to drag his feet anymore.
Oh my God. Why didn’t I just call Trevor on day one? “I know—it’s stupid, a waste of time, and unprofessional. I’m not sure who can help us fix this situation, but—”
“Then you better figure it the hell out. What have you been doing there for a week, visiting the space museum? Bee, you’re not on vacation.”
“I—”
“It’s your responsibility to get BLINK going. What do you think you were hired for?”
Right. This is why I didn’t call Trevor. “I have no power or connections here. My liaison is Levi, and whatever I do is—”
“Clearly, whatever you do is not enough.” He takes a deep breath. “Listen carefully, Bee. George Kramer called me last night.” Kramer is the head of our NIH institute—so far removed from my lowly postdoc position that it takes me a moment to place the name. “On Friday, he talked with the director of NIH and with two members of Congress. The general consensus is that BLINK is the kind of project that taxpayers eat up. It mixes astronauts and brains, which market-test well among average Americans. They’re sexy topics.” I recoil. I can never hear Trevor and his smelly breath use the word “sexy” again. “Plus, it’s the joint collaboration of two already beloved government agencies. It’ll make the current administration look good, and they need to look good.”
I frown. He has been talking for over a minute and hasn’t mentioned science once. “I don’t see what this means?”
“It means that as of right now there’s a lot of scrutiny over BLINK. Over your performance. Kramer wants weekly updates, starting today.”
“He wants an update today?”
“And every week from today.”
Well, this is going to be a problem. What the hell am I supposed to tell him? That I have no progress to report—but will he accept an R-rated list of elaborately intricate murder fantasies I have spun regarding Dr. Levi Ward? I am toying with the idea of turning them into a graphic novel.
“And, Bee,” Trevor is saying, “Kramer doesn’t care about attempts. He wants results.”
“Wait a minute. I can give Kramer however many updates he wants. But this is science, not PR. I want results as much as he does, but we’re talking about building a piece of equipment that will alter astronauts’ brain activity. I’m not going to rush through experiments and make a possibly fatal mistake—”
“Then you’re off this project.”
My jaw drops. I stop in the middle of the crosswalk—until a Nissan honks and startles me into running to the sidewalk. “What—what did you just say?”
“If you don’t get your act together, I’m going to pull you and send someone else.”
“Why? Who?”
“Hank. Or Jan. Or someone else—you know how long the list is? How many people applied for this position?”
“But that’s the point! I got BLINK because I’m the most qualified, you can’t just send someone else!”
“I can if you’ve been there for an entire week and got nothing done. Bee, I don’t care if you’re the best I have at neurostimulation—if you don’t get it together soon, you’re out.”
By the time I get to the office, my heart is pounding and my head’s in chaos. Can Trevor take me off of BLINK? No. He can’t. Or maybe he can. I have no clue.
Shit, of course he can. He can do whatever he wants, especially if he can prove that I’m not doing enough. Which he will be able to do, thanks to Levi Wardass. God, I hate him. My murder fantasies reach their final form: longitudinal impalement. Vlad-style. I’ll plant the stake right outside my bedroom window. His suffering can be the last thing I see before I sleep and the first when I wake up. I’ll sprinkle nectar all over him, so the hummingbirds can feast on his blood. Solid plan.
Rocío asked for the morning off. I’m alone in the office and free to do what my heart desires: head-desk. What are my options here? I need to get a straight answer on when the equipment will be delivered, but I don’t know who to ask. Guy will direct me to Levi, Levi won’t talk to me, and . . .
I sit up as an idea starts forming in my head. Two minutes later I’m on the phone with StimCase, the company that produces the system I use. “This is Dr. Bee Königswasser, calling from the Sullivan Discovery Institute, NASA. I wanted to check on the status of our order—it’s a TMS system.”
“Of course.” The customer service lady’s voice is low and soothing. “Do you have an order number?”
“Um, not at hand. My, um, assistant is out. But the listed principal investigator should be either me or Dr. Levi Ward.”
“Just a moment, then. Oh, yes. Under Dr. Ward’s name. But it looks like the order was canceled.”
My stomach twists in knots. I tighten my fingers around the phone to avoid dropping it. “Could you . . .” I clear my throat. “Could you check again?”
“It was supposed to be shipped last Monday, but Dr. Ward canceled it the previous Friday.” The day Levi first saw me in Houston. The day he saved my life. The day he decided that he had no intention of working with me, ever.
“I . . . Okay.” I nod, even though she can’t possibly see me. “Thank you.” The hang-up noise is deafeningly loud, echoing through my head for long moments.
I don’t know what to do. What do I do? Shit. Shit. You know who would know what to do? Dr. Curie, of course. But also: Annie. When she was a third year, some guy stole her optic fibers, so she installed a subroutine on his computer that made lobster porn pop-up every time he typed the letter x. He almost dropped out of grad school. That night we celebrated by making watermelon sangria and reinventing the Macarena on the roof of her apartment building.
Of course, what Annie knows or doesn’t know is irrelevant. She’s not in my life anymore. She’s made her choices. For reasons that I’ll never understand. And I—
“Bee?”
I set my phone on the table, wipe my sweaty palms over my jeans, and look to the door. “Hey, Kaylee.” She’s wearing a bright pink lace dress that looks the opposite of what I’m feeling.
“Is Rocío here?”
“She’s out. Taking a test.” I swallow, my mind still reeling from the phone call. Phone calls. “Can I help you with anything?”
“No. I just wanted to ask her if . . .” She shrugs uncomfortably, flushes a little, but then quickly adds, “I was surprised you weren’t at the meeting this morning.”
I tilt my head. “What meeting?”
“The one with the astronauts.”
The knots in my stomach tighten. I don’t like where this is going. “The astronauts.”
“Yeah, the one Levi and Guy organized. For feedback. To brainstorm options for the helmets. It was really useful.”
“When . . . when was it scheduled for?”
“This morning. Eight a.m. It was set up last week, and . . .” Kaylee’s eyes widen. “You knew about it, right?”
I look away and shake my head. This is humiliating. And infuriating. And other things, too.
“Oh my God.” She sounds genuinely distraught. “I am so sorry—I have no idea how that could happen.”
I exhale a silent, bitter laugh. “I do.”
“Is there anything I can do to fix this? As project manager, I want to apologize!”
“No, I . . .” I paste a smile on my face. “It’s not your fault, Kaylee. You’ve been great.” I’m tempted to explain to her that her boss has also been great—a great pain in my ass. But I don’t want to put her in an uncomfortable position, and I’m not sure I trust myself not to blurt out a string of insults.
I sit for a long time after she leaves, staring at the empty desks, the empty chairs, the empty white walls of my supposed office, where I am supposed to do the science that will supposedly launch my career and make a happy, fulfilled woman out of me. I sit until my hands are not shaking and my chest doesn’t feel like it’s being squeezed by a large hand anymore.
Then I stand, take a deep breath, and march straight to Levi’s office.
I KNOCK, BUT I don’t bother waiting for a response. I open the door, close it behind me, and start speaking as soon as I’m in, my arms folded on my chest. For reasons I cannot discern, I’m smiling.
“Why?” Levi’s gaze lifts from his computer screen to me, and his double take is small, but noticeable. He always has the same look in his eyes when he first sees me: a flash of panic. Then he collects himself and his entire face shutters. He should really work on expanding his emotional range. What does he think I’m going to do, anyway? Convert him to Scientology? Sell him Avon products? Give him full-blown typhoid? “Really, I just want to know why. I’m not even asking you to stop, I just need to know . . . why? Do I smell like cilantro? Did I steal your parking spot in grad school? Do I remind you of the kid who poured Snapple on your Game Boy when you were about to finish The Legend of Zelda?”
He blinks at me from his chair and has the audacity to look confused. I have to give it to him, he has giant balls. Likely to compensate for his micro-dick. “What are you talking about?”
My smile turns bitter. “Levi. Please.”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to. But I’m really busy, so—”
“See, I’m not. I’m not busy at all. I haven’t been this unbusy since I was on summer break in middle school—but you know that already, so . . . why?”
He sits back in his chair. Even half-hidden by his desk, his presence is overwhelming. Winter-frosty. Snow-covered spruces, his eyes. “There are things I need to be doing right this moment. Can we schedule a meeting for another time?”
I laugh softly. “Sure. Should I send you an email?”
“That works.”
“I bet. Will it get the same number of answers as the other emails I sent you?”
He frowns. “Of course.”
“Zero, then.”
He frowns harder. “I’ve answered all your emails.”
“Is that so?” I don’t believe it for a second. “Then maybe it’s an email problem. If I were to check my spam folder I’d find a message from you inviting me to this morning’s meeting?”
That’s the moment something shifts. The moment Levi realizes that he’s going to have to deal with me. He stands, walks around his desk, leans against it. He folds his arms on his chest and regards me calmly for a minute.
Look at us. Just two archnemeses, casually standing in front of each other in fake-relaxed poses while tumbleweeds roll their merry way around us. A modern spaghetti western.
I shoot first. “So, it’s all a big email misunderstanding?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares somewhere above my right shoulder.
“It checks out. Emails that should be delivered, aren’t. Emails that shouldn’t, are. It would explain the one that canceled the order for my TMS equipment. It probably just sent itself. Vigilante emails going rogue. Uh-oh, Outlook’s in trouble.” His fake-calm is getting less convincing. “If you think about it, it’s the only possible explanation. Because last week, when I asked you if you had an ETA, you said that we were close. And you would never lie to me, would you?”
His annoyingly handsome face hardens. Yes, even more than usual. “I would not lie to you.” He says it in an earnest, pissed-off tone, as though it’s important to him that I believe him. Ha.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” I push away from the door and amble around the office. “And you would not single me out to point out a dress code that is obviously never enforced, nor would you make it impossible for me to get into my office without having to beg to be let in.” I stop in front of a library shelf. Scattered between the engineering tomes I notice a handful of personal items. They humanize Levi in a way I’m not ready for: a child’s drawing of a black cat; a few bobbleheads from sci-fi movies; two framed pictures. One is Levi and another tall, dark-haired man free-climbing a rock formation. The other, a woman. Very beautiful. Long, dark blond hair. Young, probably Levi’s age. She smiles at the camera, holding a toddler with a full head of dark curls. The frame is clearly homemade, buttons and shells and sticks glued together.
My heart lurches, heavy.
I knew he had a child. I’ve even turned this piece of information around in my head several times since finding out. And I’m not surprised that he’s married. He doesn’t wear a ring, but that doesn’t mean anything—I often do wear a ring, and I’m most definitely not married. Honestly, I’m not sure why this hits me so hard. I certainly have no personal stake in Levi’s romantic life, and I don’t usually go about feeling jealous when people find themselves happily paired. But the domesticity that the picture conjures, just like the soft, intimate tone his voice took last week when he answered the call . . . very clearly, Levi has a home. A place in the world, just for himself. Someone to go back to every night. And on top of that, his career is more stable than mine.
Levi Ward, lord of a thousand glares and a million rude nods, belongs. And I don’t. The universe is truly not fair.
I sigh, defeated, and turn around to face him. “Just tell me why, Levi.”
“It’s a complicated situation.”
“Is it? Seems pretty simple.”
He shakes his head, carefully considers what to say, and then somehow lands on the most ridiculous five words I’ve ever heard. “Give me a few days.”
“A few days? Levi, Rocío and I moved here to work. We left our friends, families, partners in Maryland, and now we’re twiddling our thumbs—”
“Then go home for a few days.” His tone is harsh. “Visit your partner, come back later—”
“That’s not the damn point!” I aggressively run a hand through my bangs. Reike said that I should confront him calmly, but that horse is out of the stable and galloping around the moors. I’m pretty sure Levi’s neighbors can hear me raise my voice, and I’m fully okay with it. “I have the head of NIH wanting progress reports from me, and my boss threatening to send in someone else if I don’t get him results soon. I need my equipment. I’m not asking you to do this for me—do it for the project!” I must have moved closer, or maybe he to me, because all of a sudden I can smell him. Pine and soap and clean male skin. “Do you even care about BLINK?”
His eyes blaze. “I care. Do not ever imply otherwise,” he grits out, leaning forward. I’ve never hated someone this intensely. I never will again. I believe it as deeply as I do cell theory.
“You sure don’t act like you do.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And you”—I step closer, stabbing my finger into his chest—“don’t know how to run a project.”
“I am asking you to trust me.”
“Trust you?” I laugh in his face. “Why the hell should I trust you?” I stab my finger at him again, and this time he closes his palm around it to stop me.
Something odd happens. His grip slides down to my palm, and for a moment he’s almost holding my hand in his. It makes my skin tingle and my breath catch—his, too. It must be his cue to realize that he’s touching me—me, the most abhorrent creature of the seven seas. He lets go immediately, as if burned.
“I am doing what I can,” he begins.
“Which is nothing.”
“—with the resources I have—”
“Oh, come on.”
“—and there are things you don’t know—”
“Then tell me! Explain!”
The ensuing silence clinches it for me. The way his jaw tightens, the fact that he straightens and turns abruptly, pacing three steps away as though he is finished with this. With me. You never even started, asshole.
“Right. Well.” I shrug. “I’m going to your superior, Levi.”
He gives me a shocked look. “What?”
Oh, now he is worried. How the worm has turned. How the cookie crumbles. “I need to get BLINK started. You’re leaving me no choice but to go over your head.”
“Over my head?” He briefly closes his eyes. “There is no such thing.”
“I— Do you—” I sputter. God, this man’s ego must have its own gravitational field. He’s a human pit stuffed full of dark matter and hubris. “Do you even hear yourself?”
“Don’t do it, Bee.”
“Why shouldn’t I? Are you going to call StimCase and get me my equipment? Are you going to get us an office that isn’t away from everyone? Are you going to start inviting us to essential meetings?”
“It’s not that simple—”
What an asswipe. “But it is. It’s pretty damn simple, and if you don’t commit to fixing this, you don’t get to tell me not to go to your superior.”
“You don’t want to do that.”
Is he threatening me? “See, I thought so, too. But now I’m pretty sure I do. Watch me.”
I spin on my heels and head for the door, ready to walk straight to Boris’s office, but when my hand is on the knob something occurs to me and I turn around.
“And one more thing,” I snarl into his stony face. “Vegan donuts are for vegans, you absolute walnut.”
LEVI CAN’T BE too distressed by our conversation, because he doesn’t even attempt to come after me. I’m pumped full of rage and want to march to Boris, but I run into Rocío down the hallway. She’s dragging her feet, staring vacantly at the floor like an inmate on death row. Even more than usual.
I stop. As impatient as I am to get my equipment and ruin a career, I think I love Rocío more than I hate Levi. Though it’s a close call.
“How did the GRE go?” The Graduate Record Examination is like the SATs: a stupid standardized test on which students need to get an absurdly high score to be accepted into grad school—even though it tests nothing that has to do with academic success. I remember agonizing over my scores in my last year of college, terrified that they wouldn’t be high enough to get me into the same programs as Tim. As it turned out, mine were higher than his, and I ended up with several more acceptances than he had. In hindsight, I should have gone to UCLA and left him behind. It would have saved me a lot of heartache and minimized my Wardass exposure.
“Bee.” Rocío shakes her head gloomily. “Which way is the ocean?”
I point to my left. She immediately begins shuffling her feet in that direction.
“Ro, you first have to get out of the building and . . . what are you doing?”
“I shall walk into the sea. Farewell.”
“Wait.” I circle around her. “How did it go?”
She shakes her head again. Her eyes are red-rimmed. “Low.”
“How low?”
“Too low.”
“Well, you don’t need ninety-ninth percentile to get into Johns Hopkins—”
“Fortieth for quantitative. Fifty-second for verbal.”
Okay. That is low. “—and you can always retake.”
“For two hundred bucks. And it’s my third time—I don’t get any better, no matter how much I practice. It’s like I’m jinxed.” She stares into the distance. “Is it La Llorona? Does she want me to quit academia and haunt creeks with her? Perhaps I should depart my scientific pursuits.”
“No. I’ll help you get your scores up, okay?”
“How? Will you cast a counterspell? Will you promise her your firstborn and the blood of one hundred virgin ravens?”
“What? No. I’ll tutor you.”
“Tutor me?” She scowls. “Can you even do math?”
I don’t point out that my entire body of work consists of high-level statistics applied to the study of the brain, and instead pull her in for a hug. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”
“What’s happening? Why are you squeezing me with your body?”
The entire conversation lasts less than ten minutes, but it proves to be a fatal mistake. Because by the time I’m on the mostly deserted third floor of the building, standing outside Boris’s office and ready to rat Levi out within an inch of his life, the door is closed, and I can hear voices inside.
And one of those voices is Levi Ward’s.
