Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            “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.”