THE SECOND LEVI appears I want to kiss him for rescuing me from the mosquitos, and the ghosts, and the ghosts of the mosquitos. I also want to kill him for witnessing the extent of the humiliation of Bee Königswasser, human disaster. What can I say? I contain multitudes.
He steps out of an oil-guzzling truck that I sadly have no right to complain about anymore, surveys the wall, and comes to stand on the other side of the gate. To his credit, if he’s smirking he’s doing it on the inside. His expression is neutral when he asks, “You okay?”
Does thoroughly mortified count as okay? Let’s say: “Yeah.”
“Good. This is what we’re going to do: I’ll slide in the ladder through the gates, and you’ll use it to get on top of the wall. I’ll be on the other side to catch you.”
I frown. He sounds very . . . in charge. Self-assured. Not that he usually doesn’t, but it’s having a new . . . effect on me. Oh my God. Am I a damsel in distress?
“How will we retrieve the ladder?”
“I’ll drive by tomorrow morning and pick it up.”
“What if someone steals it?”
“I’ll have lost a precious heirloom passed down my family for generations.”
“Really?”
“No. Ready?”
I’m not, but it doesn’t matter. He lifts the ladder like it’s a feather and slides it through the gate. It feels a little less-than-cool when I find that it’s so heavy, I can barely hold it upright. I tell myself that I have other talents as he has to patiently guide me through the process of releasing the catches and setting the safety mechanism. He must notice how annoying I find being coached, because he says, “At least you know about the angular gyrus.”
I turn to hiss at him, but stop when I see his expression. Is he teasing me again? For the second time? In a day?
Whatever. I climb up, which proves to be a nice distraction. Because you know how I mentioned that my body likes to faint? Well. Heights make it like to faint even more. I’m halfway to the top, and my head starts spinning. I clutch the sidebars and take a deep breath. I can do this. I can maintain normal blood pressure without passing out. I’m not even that high up. Here, if I look down I can—
“Don’t,” Levi orders.
I turn to him. I’m a few inches taller, and he looks even more handsome from this angle. God, I hate him. And myself. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t look down. It’ll be worse.”
How does he even know that—
“Look up. Take one step after the other, slowly. Yes, good.” I don’t know if his advice works, or if my blood pressure naturally spikes when I’m told what to do, but I make it to the top without crumpling like a sack of potatoes. At which point I realize that the worst is yet ahead. “Just lower yourself from the edge,” Levi says. He’s standing right below me, arms raised to catch me, his head a few inches from my dangling feet.
“Jesus.” Forget fainting. I’m about to barf. “What if you don’t catch me? What if I’m too heavy? What if we both fall? What if I break your neck?”
“I will, you’re obviously not, we won’t, and you won’t. Come on, Bee,” he says patiently. “Just close your eyes.”
See? This is what you get yourself into when you work out. Stay in the safe harbor of your couch, kids.
“You ready?” he asks encouragingly. Trust falls. With Levi Wardass. God, when did this become my life? Dr. Curie, please watch out for me.
I let myself go. For a second I’m suspended in air, sure that I’ll splatter Humpty-Dumpty style. Then strong fingers close around my waist, and I’m in Levi’s arms for the second time in ten days. I must have pushed from the wall a little too forcefully, because we end up closer than I intended. My front rubs against him as he lowers me to the ground, and I feel everything. Everything. The hard muscles of his shoulders under my hands. The heat of his flesh through the shirt. The way his belt bites into my abdomen. The dangerous tingling in my lower belly as he— What? No.
I step back. This is Levi Ward. A married man. A father. A camel dick. What am I even thinking?
“Are you okay?”
I nod, flustered. “Thank you for getting here so quickly.”
He looks away. He may be flushing. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m so sorry to disrupt your evening. I tried to call Rocío, but she was . . . I’m not sure where.”
“I’m glad you called me.”
Is he? I seriously doubt it. “Anyway, thank you so much. How can I return the favor? Can I pay for gas?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll drive you home.”
“Oh, there’s no need. I’m just five minutes away.”
“It’s pitch black and there are no sidewalks.” He holds the passenger door open, and I have no choice but to get in. Whatever. I can survive one more minute in close proximity with him.
The inside of his truck is pristine and smells good—not something I believed possible—with a handful of Lärabars in the back that make my stomach cramp with hunger, and a half-full CamelBak that I’d risk his germs for. He also drives a stick shift. Hmph. Show-off.
“You’re staying at the lodging facilities, right?”
I nod, pulling at the hem of my shorts. I don’t like how high they ride when I sit. Not that Levi would ever voluntarily look at my thighs, but I’m a bit self-conscious, since Tim used to make fun of me for being bowlegged. And Annie would defend me, growl at him that my legs were perfect and his opinion was unnecessary, and I would—
The truck starts. A familiar voice fills the cabin, but Levi quickly switches to NPR. I blink. The anchor is talking about mail-in ballots. “Was that . . . Pearl Jam?”
“Yeah.”
“Vitalogy?”
“Yep.”
Humph. Pearl Jam’s not my favorite, but it’s good, and I hate that Levi likes good music. I need him to love Dave Matthews Band. To stan the Insane Clown Posse. To have a Nickelback tramp stamp. It’s what I deserve.
“What were you doing in a cemetery?” he asks.
“Just . . . running.”
“You run?” He sounds surprised. Offensively so.
“Hey, I know I look like a wimp, but—”
“You don’t,” he interjects. “Look like a wimp, I mean. Just, in grad school you . . .”
I turn to him. The corner of his mouth is curving upward. “I what?”
“Once you said that time spent working out is time one never gets back.”
I have no memories of saying that. Especially to Levi, since we exchanged approximately twelve words at Pitt. Though it does sound like something I’d say. “As it turns out, the higher your aerobic fitness, the healthier your hippocampus. Not to mention the overall connectivity of your Default Mode Network and multiple axon bundles, so . . .” I shrug. “I find myself resentfully acknowledging that according to science, exercise is a good thing.” He chuckles. Crow’s-feet crinkle the corners of his eyes, and it makes me want to continue. Not that I care about making him laugh. Why would I? “I’m doing this Couch-to-5K program, but . . . ew.”
“Ew?”
“Ew.”
His smile widens a millimeter. “How long’s the program?”
“Four weeks.”
“How long have you been on it?”
“Couple weeks.”
“What distance are you up to?”
“. . . Point two miles. I hit the wall. On, um, minute three.” He gives me a skeptical glance. “To be fair, this is only my second time running since I was in middle school.”
“The heat here is terrible. You might want to run in the morning. But you’re not a morning person, right?” He bites his lip pensively. I wonder how he could possibly know that, and realize that sadly, one needs only to take a look at me before eleven a.m. “There’s a gym in the Space Center you should have access to.”
“I checked. It’s not free for contractors, and I’m not sure the health of my nervous system is worth seventy bucks a month.” Ari Shapiro is asking a correspondent about some Facebook lawsuit. “You run 5Ks?” I ask.
“No.”
My eyes narrow. “Is it because you only run marathons and above?”
“I . . .” He hesitates, looking sheepish. “I run half marathons, sometimes.”
“Well, then,” I say conversationally as he pulls into the parking lot, “thank you very much for the rescue and the ride, but I need to be alone so I can hate you in peace now.”
He laughs again. Why does it sound so nice? “Hey, I struggle with running, too.”
I’m sure he does. Around mile thirty-four or so. “Well, thanks. It’s the second time you saved me.” Despite the fact that we’re nemeses. Outstanding, huh?
“The second?”
“Yeah.” I release the seat belt. “The other time was at work. When I was almost . . . pancaked?”
“Ah.” Something jumps in his jaw at the mention. “Yeah.”
“Well, have a great night.” I pat my pockets. “Apologies for—” I pat some more. Then I twist around in the seat, inspect it for something that might have slipped out, and find nothing. It’s as pristine as when I got in. “Uh . . .”
“What’s going on?”
“I—” I close my eyes, trying to remember my day. I put on shorts. Put my keys into the pocket. Felt them bounce against my leg while I was running, up until . . . Shit. I think they fell out when I collapsed on the grave. “Damn you, Noah Moore,” I mutter.
“What?”
“I think I left my keys in the cemetery.” I groan. “Shit, the super leaves at seven.” Jesus, what’s wrong with this day? I bite my lower lip, rifling through options. I could sleep on Rocío’s couch and go pick up my keys first thing in the morning. Of course, I’m not sure where Rocío is, or whether she’ll come to the door. The fact that my phone is at 4 percent does not—
I startle when Levi starts the truck again. “Oh, thanks, but there’s no need to go back to the cemetery. I wouldn’t know how to get in, and—”
“I’m not taking you to the cemetery.” He’s not looking at me. “Fasten your seat belt.”
“What?”
“Fasten your seat belt,” he repeats.
I do, confused. “Where are we going?”
“Home.”
“Whose home?”
“My home.”
My jaw drops. I must have misheard. “What?”
“You need a place to stay, no?”
“Yeah, but—Rocío’s couch. Or I’ll call a locksmith. I can’t come to your house.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I say, sounding like a shrill twelve-year-old. Why is he being so nice all of a sudden? Does he feel guilty for not telling me about the NASA mess? Well, he should. But I’d rather sleep under a bridge and eat plankton than go to his place and see his perfect family life. Nothing personal, but the envy would gut me. And I can’t meet his wife smelling like dirty socks and graveyard. Who knows what Levi already told her about me? “You probably have plans for the evening.”
“I don’t.”
“And I’d put you out.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Plus, you hate me.”
He briefly closes his eyes in exasperation, which worries me. He’s driving, after all. “Is there any nonimaginary reason you don’t want to stay at my place, Bee?” he asks with a sigh.
“I . . . It’s very nice of you to offer, but I don’t feel comfortable.”
That gets through to him. His hands tighten on the wheel and he says calmly, “If you don’t feel safe around me, I absolutely respect that. I’ll drive you back to your place. But I’m not going to leave until I’m sure that you have a secure place to—”
“What? No. I feel safe around you.” As I say it, I realize how true it is, and how rare for me. There’s often a constant undercurrent of threat when I’m alone with men I don’t know very well. The other night Guy came by my office to chat, and even though he’s never been anything but nice, I couldn’t stop glancing at the door. But Levi’s different, which is odd, especially considering that our interactions have always been antagonistic. And especially considering that he’s built like a Victorian mansion. “It’s not that.”
“Then . . . ?”
I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the headrest. There’s no way I’m going to be able to avoid this, is there? Might as well lean in to the clusterfuck.
“Then, thank you,” I say, trying not to sound as dejected as I feel. “I’d love to stay with you tonight, if it’s not too much trouble.”
THE SECOND I see Levi’s house I want to burn it down with a flamethrower. Because it’s perfect.
To be fair, it’s a totally normal house. But it perfectly matches my ideal, which, to be fair again, is not particularly lofty. My lifelong dream is a pretty brick home in the suburbs, a family with two point five children, and a yard to grow butterfly-friendly plants. I’m pretty sure a psychoanalyst would say that it has to do with the nomadic lifestyle of my formative years. I’m a stability slut, what can I say?
Of course, when I say “lifelong dream” I mean until a couple of years ago. Once I realized how life-alteringly cruel humans can be, I scrapped the family part from the dream. The house lingers, though, at least according to the pang in my heart when Levi pulls up the driveway. First thing I notice: he grows hummingbird mint in his garden—nature’s hummingbird feeder, and my favorite plant. Grrr. Second: there are no cars in the driveway. Weird. But some lights inside are on, so maybe his wife’s is just in the garage. Yeah, that’s probably it.
I jump out of the truck—which is unjustly tall—with already-sore muscles and already-itchy legs. “Are you sure this is okay?”
He gives me a silent look that seems to mean Haven’t we been over this seven times already? and leads me up his driveway, where we’re surrounded by a delightful amount of fireflies. I’m explosively jealous of this place. And I’m about to meet Levi’s significant other, who probably has a nickname for me, her husband’s ugly former lab mate. Something like FrankenBee. Or Beezilla. Wait, those nicknames are actually pretty cute. I hope for their sake that they came up with something meaner.
The inside of the house is silent, and I wonder if the family is already asleep. “Should I be quiet?” I whisper.
He gives me a puzzled look. “If you want,” he says at regular volume. Maybe the walls are soundproof?
Either Levi is a very strict dad, or he and his wife are pros at picking up after their kid. The house is immaculate and sparsely furnished, no toys or clutter in sight. There are some engineering journals, a handful of sci-fi posters on the walls, and an open Asimov book on the coffee table—one of my favorite authors. How is this man I hate surrounded by everything I love? It’s the ultimate mindfuck.
“There are three unused bedrooms upstairs. You can pick the one you like best.” Three unused bedrooms? How big is this house? “One’s technically my office, but the couch pulls out. Do you want to shower?”
“Shower?”
“I didn’t mean to—” He looks flustered. “If you want to. Because you ran. You don’t have to. I don’t mean to imply that—”
“That I smell like the sweaty crotch of a trout?”
“Uh . . .”
“That I’m as dirty as a gas station restroom?”
He’s definitely flustered, and I laugh. The blush makes him almost endearing. “Don’t worry. I smell gross and I’d love a shower.”
He swallows and nods. “You’ll have to use my en suite. Soap and towels are in there.”
But isn’t his wife—?
“I can wash and dry your clothes if you want. Give you something of mine in the meantime. Though I don’t have anything that will fit. You’re very . . .” He clears his throat. “Small.”
Wait a minute—is he divorced? Is that why he doesn’t wear a ring? But then he wouldn’t have pics of his wife in his office, would he? Oh my God, is she dead? No, Guy would have told me. Or would he?
“You have an iPhone, right?” He exits the living room and comes back holding out a charger. “Here you go.”
I don’t take it. I just stare up at his irritatingly handsome face, and—God, this is driving me nuts. “Listen,” I say, perhaps more aggressively than I should, “I know it’s rude, but I’m too weirded out not to, so I’m just going to ask you right out.” I take a deep breath. “Where is your family?”
He shrugs, still holding out the charger. “It’s not rude. My parents are in Dallas. My eldest brother lives on the Air Force base in Vegas, and the other recently deployed to Belgium—”
“Not that family. Your other family.”
His head tilts. “Does my father have a secret family you want to tell me about, or . . . ?”
“No. Your kid, where is she?”
“My what?” He squints at me.
“There’s a picture of her in your office,” I say weakly. “And Guy told me you two babysit together.”
“Ah.” He shakes his head with a smile. “Penny’s not my kid. But she gave me that picture. She made the frame in school.”
She’s not his— Oh. “You’re with her mother, then?”
“No. Lily and I dated briefly ages ago, but now we’re friends. She’s a teacher, and a single mother for the past year. Sometimes I’ll watch Penny for her, or drop her off at school if she’s running late. Stuff like that.”
Oh. “Oh.” Boy, do I love feeling like an idiot. “So you live . . . alone?”
He nods. And then his eyes widen and he takes a step back. “Oh. I see.”
“See what?”
“Why you asked. I’m sorry, I didn’t even think that you might feel unsafe sleeping here if it’s just the two of us. I will—”
“Oh, no.” I take a step forward to reassure him. “I asked because I was curious. Honestly, it seemed incredibly weird to me that you—” I realize what I’m about to say and snap my jaw shut before I continue. Levi’s not fooled.
“Were you shocked that someone would marry me?” he asks, biting back a smile.
Yup. “Not at all! You’re smart. And, um, tall. Still have all your hair. And I’m sure that with women you don’t hate you’re nicer than you have historically been with me!”
“Bee, I don’t—” He exhales hard. “Get in the truck.”
“Why?”
“I’m driving you back to the cemetery and feeding you to the coyotes.”
“Historically,” I hurry to say. “You’ve been nice to me today! You saved me from a zombie attack, for sure. And from Fred and Mark!”
He frowns. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with them.”
“Lots of misogyny’s my guess.” I debate whether continuing. Then I think: fuck it. “Also, it doesn’t help that your team is exclusively male and almost exclusively white.”
I expect him to contradict me. Instead he says, “You’re right. It’s appalling.”
“You chose the members.”
He shakes his head. “I inherited the team from my predecessor.”
“Oh?”
“The only new hire I made was Kaylee.” He sighs. “I officially reprimanded Mark. His behavior today is in his file. And I called a team meeting this afternoon, in which I reiterated that you are co-leader and that what you say goes. If anything like today ever happens again, let me know. I’ll deal with it. Come, I’ll find you something to wear.”
I’m a little shell-shocked that he called a meeting to officially Sausage Reference™ me, so I follow him without questions. The upstairs area is just as pretty as the first floor, but with more personality. I spot a vinyl player and CDs, pictures on the walls, even some Pitt swag I recognize from my own apartment. His bedroom, though . . . his bedroom is magic. Something out of a catalog. It’s a corner room with two large windows, wooden furniture, ceiling-high bookshelves, and, in the middle of the king-sized bed, sleeping softly on top of the comforter . . .
“Are you allergic to cats?” he asks, rummaging through a drawer.
I shake my head, then remember that he’s not looking at me. “No.”
“Schrödinger’s probably going to leave you alone, anyway. He’s old and grumpy.”
Schrödinger! “I thought you hated cats.”
He turns with a confused look. “Why?”
“I don’t know. You seemed a bit hostile toward my cat today.”
“You mean, your cat that doesn’t exist?”
“Félicette exists! I have literally wiped boogers from her eyes, so—”
“Félicette?”
I press my lips together. “It’s the name of the first cat in space.”
He lifts one eyebrow. “And you named your imaginary cat after her. I see.”
I roll my eyes and drop the topic. There’s nothing I want more than to pet the black ball of fur curled on the bed, but Levi’s holding out a white V-neck T-shirt and . . .
“How offended would you be if I offered you boxers a friend gave me as a joke? They’re very small, I don’t think I’ve ever worn them.”
“Is that . . . flamingoes?”
His cheeks redden. “The size isn’t the only reason I never wear them. Also, you might want this.” It’s a tube of itch-relief cream.
“Thanks. How did you know?”
He shrugs, still a little flushed. “You’ve been scratching your legs a lot.”
“Yeah, bugs love me.” I roll my eyes. “My ex used to say that he only kept me around as a decoy for mosquitos.” Looking back to Tim’s behaviors, it probably wasn’t even a joke.
Ten minutes later I make my way downstairs, hair wet and pine scented, reflecting that out of all the implausible roller coasters of events that have befallen me in the past weeks, the weirdest is knowing that Levi and I use the same deodorant. What can I say? Men’s products are cheaper, smell better, and block my BO more effectively. Not sure how I feel about the fact that Levi’s armpits and mine have similar needs, but I’m going to let that slide.
The kitchen, which is cozy and surprisingly well-equipped, smells like the most delicious meal I’ve never had. Levi works at the stove, his back to me, and I’m reasonably sure that he’s wearing the same shirt I have on in a different color. Except that it fits him perfectly. On me it looks like a circus tent.
“Food will be . . .” he starts, and then stops when he turns around and sees me in the room.
I grab two fistfuls of my shirt and pretend to curtsy. “Thank you for this gown, my good sir.”
“You’re . . .” He sounds hoarse. “You’re welcome. Food will be ready in five minutes.”
I wince as he turns back to the pans and pots. There’s no way he cooked without meat and dairy. God, why is he being so damn nice? “Thank you, but . . .” I pad to the stove. He’s making tacos. Ugh. I love tacos. “You didn’t have to.”
“I was going to make myself dinner anyway.”
“It’s really kind of you to offer, but I doubt I can eat . . .” I stop when my eyes fall to the filling. It’s not meat, but portobello mushrooms. Beside a jar of dairy-free sour cream, and a bag of shredded plant-based cheddar.
My eyes narrow. On impulse, I push on my toes and open the cabinet closest to me. I find quinoa, agar powder, and maple syrup. In the next one there are nuts, seeds, a package of dates. I scowl harder and move to the fridge, which looks like a richer, better version of mine. Almond milk, tofu, fruits and vegetables, coconut-based yogurts, miso paste. Oh my God.
Oh. My. God.
“He’s a vegan,” I mutter to myself.
“He is.”
I look up. Levi is staring at me with a puzzled, patient expression, and I have no idea how to tell him that this is, like, the tenth thing we have in common. Sci-fi and cats and science and obviously men’s deodorants and who knows what else. It’s so incredibly upsetting to me, I can’t even imagine how much he’d hate it if he knew. I toy with the idea of telling him, but he doesn’t deserve it. He’s been very nice today. Instead I just clear my throat. “Um, me too.”
“I figured. When you . . . scolded me. About the donut.”
“Oh, God. I’d forgotten about that.” I bury my face in my hands. “I’m sorry. So sorry. Believe it or not, I’m usually not a deranged asshole who scares her colleagues away from plant-based products.”
“It’s fine.”
I massage my temple. “In my defense, you drive the least environmentally friendly vehicle.”
“It’s a Ford F-150. Pretty friendly, actually.”
“Is it?” I wince. “Well, in another defense of mine, weren’t you a hunter back in grad school?”
His shoulders stiffen imperceptibly. “My entire family hunts, and I’ve gone on more hunting trips than I’d have liked as a teen. Before I could say no.”
“That sounds awful.” He shrugs, but it looks a little forced. “Okay. I guess I have no defense at all. I’m just an asshole.”
He smiles. “I didn’t know you were a vegan, either. I remember Tim bringing you meat lunches back at Pitt.”
“Yeah.” I roll my eyes. “Tim was of the school of thought that I was being stubborn and that a taste of meat would convert me back to a regular diet.” I laugh at Levi’s appalled expression. “Yeah. He’d sneak non-vegan stuff into my food all the time. He was the worst back then. Anyway, how long have you been a vegan?”
“Twenty years, give or take.”
“Ooh. Which animal was it for you?”
He knows exactly what I mean. “A goat. In a cheese commercial. She looked so . . . cogent.”
I nod somberly. “It must have been very emotional.”
“Sure was for my parents. We fought over whether white meat is really meat for the better part of a decade.” He hands me a plate, gesturing for me to fill it. “What about you?”
“A chicken. Really cute. He’d sometimes sit next to me and lean against my side. Until . . . yeah.”
He sighs. “Yeah.”
Five minutes later, sitting in a breakfast nook I’d literally give my pinkie to own, plates full of delicious food and imported beer in front of us, something occurs to me: I’ve been here for one hour and I haven’t felt uneasy—not once. I was fully ready to spend the night pretending to be in my happy place (with Dr. Curie under a blooming cherry tree in Nara, Japan), but Levi has made things weirdly . . . easy for me.
“Hey,” I say before he can take a bite of his tacos, “thank you for today. It can’t be easy, to be so welcoming to someone you don’t particularly get along with or like, or to have them stay in your house.”
He closes his eyes, like every other time I mention the obvious fact that there’s no love lost between us (he is surprisingly truth-averse). But when he opens them, he holds my gaze. “You’re right. It’s not easy. But not for any reason you think.”
I frown, meaning to ask him what exactly he means by that, but he beats me to it.
“Eat up, Bee,” he orders gently.
I’m starving, so I do just that.
