Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            I want to push her against a wall, and I want her to push back.

            Oh, Levi. Levi. I can be fearless. I can be as fearless and honest as you are. If you will teach me.

            I sit back, let the tears flow, watch some more. She really did like my desk, Félicette. More than Rocío’s. As the date changes, she nestles around my computer more often. Steps where I found her little paw prints. Delicately sniffs the rim of my cup. Chews on my computer’s power cable. Scurries away when the door opens, and—

            Wait.

            I stop the video and lean forward. It’s clear from the shift of the lights that someone is coming inside, but the video immediately cuts to new footage. Who would open the door of my office at—2:37 a.m.? Cleaners always came by late afternoons. Rocío is committed to BLINK, but not two-thirty-a.m. committed. Hell, I’m not two-thirty-a.m. committed.

            I wipe my tears, press the space bar, and let the video run, hoping for an explanation. It doesn’t come, but something else does. A segment dated two days ago, again in my office. Just a handful of seconds of Félicette sleeping at my desk. My monitor is on.

            I don’t leave my computer unlocked. Not ever.

            I stop the video and zoom in as much as I can, feeling like a tinfoil-hatted conspiracy theorist. The video is just high-def enough that I can make out . . .

            “Is that my Twitter?” I ask no one.

            Impossible. I’d never log into WWMD on a work computer. For obvious reasons, chief among them that Rocío has a perfect visual of it. But it’s right there, unless I’m hallucinating, and—it might be keychain access? But still . . .

            “Félicette?” I whisper. “Do you turn on my computer in the wee hours of the night? Do you log in with my NASA password? Do you use Twitter to catfish underage kittens?” She doesn’t. She would never. But it sure looks like someone is, and that doesn’t make any sense at all. Or maybe it does. Maybe it totally does, given the weird activity from my Twitter account. Shit.

            I paw at the table for my phone and text Levi. My fingers shake when I read his last texts, but I force myself to power through.

            BEE: How do I get access to the complete security footage of the Discovery Building?

            A minute passes. Three. Seven. I call him—no answer. I look at the clock—fifteen minutes past eleven. Does he hate me? No more than I hate myself. Is that why he’s not answering? Is he asleep? Maybe he’s not checking his phone.

            Shit. I’ll email him.


How do I get access to the complete security footage of the Discovery Building? Please let me know ASAP. Something weird’s going on.



            Then I have an idea, and don’t bother waiting for his reply. I slip my shoes on, grab my NASA badge with a silent prayer to Dr. Curie that it still works, and run out to the Space Center.

            Something very weird’s going on. I’m 99.9 percent sure that I am right—and 43 percent sure that I am wrong.



* * *



            • • •

            I STUB MY toe on the edge of the elevator, stumbling into the second floor’s hallway with a loud, “Ow!”

            Very suave, Bee. Perhaps I shouldn’t have worn sandals. Perhaps I should have stayed at home. Perhaps I’m going insane.

            Whatever. I’ll go to my office, check my computer for anything weird, return home with my tail between my legs. What else do I have to do? My scientific career is over, my good name is soon to be besmirched, and I’m at once too emotionally unavailable to be with the man I love and too in love with him to deal with my own choices. I can spare twenty minutes to sleuth before I go back to browsing the Teen Drama hidden code on Netflix and wishing vegan Chunky Monkey existed.

            My (former?) office looks like it always does—homey, cluttered. No sign of Félicette. I sit at my desk, log in. Sure enough, if I navigate to the Twitter page, my password seems to be saved. My heart thuds. My stomach lurches. I look around, but the building is deserted. Okay. Okay, so someone could have conceivably accessed WWMD from this computer.

            And messaged the STC guy? Yikes.

            But who? Rocío? No. Not my little goth. Levi? Nah. He was in bed with me every night in the past weeks, and most of the time we weren’t even sleeping. Who else, then? And why would they contact STC posing as me? To make me look bad. But why? These kinds of machinations require a degree of committed hatred that someone like me could never inspire. I’m too boring.