Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            Levi just leans forward, elbows on his knees, and looks at me patiently. “Me neither.” He smiles wryly. “Or I wouldn’t have talked about you with you so much.”

            “Oh.” I flush as vermillion as a cardinal male at the peak of mating season. My heart thrashes in my chest—also like a cardinal male at the peak of mating season. “Right.”

            The things he said.

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

            The.

            Things.

            He.

            Said.

            “Are you okay?” he asks, concerned. It’s warranted: I might be in the midst of a cardiac event.

            “I—I’m fine. I . . . Have you ever seen You’ve Got Mail?”

            “Nope.” He gives me a hesitant look. “Maybe we could watch it together?”

            Yes, I want to say. I even open my mouth, but no sound comes out of my stupid, stubborn, petrified vocal box. I try again: nothing. Still nothing. My fingers clench the sheets, and I study the amused, knowing expression in his eyes. Like he fully understands what’s going on inside me.

            “Did you know that she used to be a governess? Marie Curie?”

            I nod, slightly taken aback. “She had an agreement with her sister. Marie worked as a governess and helped her sister pay for med school. Then, once her sister had a job, they flipped.”

            “So you know about Kazimierz Żorawski?”

            I tilt my head. “The mathematician?”

            “He eventually became one—a good one, too. But initially he was just one of the sons of the family Marie worked for. He and Marie were the same age, both exceptionally . . .”

            “Nerdy?”

            “You know the type.” He flashes a smile, which fades almost immediately. “They fell in love, but he was rich, she wasn’t, and back then things weren’t as simple as wanting to marry someone.”

            “His parents separated them,” I murmur. “They were heartbroken.”

            “Maybe it was destiny. If she’d stayed in Poland, she wouldn’t have met Pierre. The two of them were very happy by all accounts. The idea of radioactivity was hers, but Pierre helped her out. Kazimierz was a mathematician; he might not have been as involved in her research.” Levi shrugs. “It’s all a bunch of what-ifs.”

            I nod.

            “But he never really got over Marie. Żorawski, I mean. He married a pianist, had children—named one Maria, which is amusing—studied in Germany, became a professor at Warsaw Polytechnic, worked on . . . geometry, I believe. He lived a full life. And yet, as an old man, he could be found sitting in front of Marie Curie’s statue in Warsaw. Staring for hours. Thinking about who knows what. A bunch of what-ifs, maybe.” The green of Levi’s eyes is so bright I can’t look away. “Maybe about whatever little personality quirk of Marie made him fall for her a handful of decades before.”

            “Do you think . . .” My cheeks are wet. I don’t bother wiping them. “Do you think she used to cook terrible stir-fries?”

            “I can see that.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “Maybe she also insisted on feeding a murder of imaginary cats.”

            “I’ll have you know that Félicette saved my life.”

            “I saw that. It was very impressive.”

            Carts roll in the hallway outside. A door closes, and another opens. Someone laughs.

            “Levi?”

            “Yes?”

            “Do you think they . . . Marie, and Pierre, and the mathematician, and everyone else . . . do you think they ever wished they’d just never met? Never been in love?”

            He nods, as though he’s considered the matter before. “I really don’t know, Bee. But I do know that I never have. Not once.”