Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            He lifts one eyebrow. “You want an uncovered vent because your imaginary cat—”

            “She’s not imaginary. I found a paw print next to my computer the other day. I texted it to you.” And he replied, Looks like a splotch of Lean Cuisine. I hate him.

            “Right. About tomorrow, we should head out early since New Orleans is over five hours away. I don’t mind picking up the rental and driving. You can sleep in the car, but I’d like to leave around six—”

            “You called the meeting.”

            He cocks his head. A wisp of black hair falls on his brow. “Excuse me?”

            “You told the engineers about the missing files.”

            “Ah.” He presses his lips together. “I did.”

            I stand without knowing why. Put my hands on my hips, still not knowing why. “I asked you not to.”

            “Bee. It needed to be done.”

            “We agreed that we wouldn’t until we had proof.”

            He folds his arms on his chest, a stubborn line to his shoulders. “We didn’t agree. You told me you didn’t want to call a full meeting about it, and I didn’t. But I’m head of the engineering division, and I decided to tell my team about the issue.”

            I snort. “Your team is everyone but me and Rocío. Nice loophole.”

            “Why does it bother you so much?”

            “Because.”

            “You’re going to have to be a little more articulate than that.”

            “Because you did it behind my back.” I bristle. “Just like a month ago, when you didn’t tell me about NASA trying to get BLINK canceled.”

            “It’s not the same at all.”

            “It is in theory. And it’s a matter of principle.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “If we’re co-leaders, we need to agree before taking disciplinary measures.”

            “No disciplinary measure was taken. It was a five-minute meeting in which I asked my team to stop messing around with important files. I run a tight ship, and my team knows it—no one made a big deal about this except for you.”

            “Then why didn’t you tell me you were going to do it?”

            His eyes harden, hot and dark and frustrated. He scans my face, silent, and I feel the tension rise in the room. This is about to escalate. To a full-blown fight. He’ll yell at me to mind my business. I’ll throw my Lean Cuisine at him. We’ll pummel each other, people will rush to separate us, we will cause a spectacle.

            But he just says, “I’ll pick you up at six.” His tone is steely. Inflexible. Cold. So different from the one he’s used with me for the past five weeks.

            I wonder why that is. I wonder if he hates me. I wonder if I hate him. I wonder so much that I forget to answer him, but it doesn’t matter. Because he’s already gone.





13





SUPERIOR COLLICULI: WILL YOU LOOK AT THAT?



ONE HOUR, TWENTY-FOUR minutes, and seventeen seconds.

            Eighteen.

            Nineteen.

            Twenty.

            That’s how long I’ve been in this Nissan Altima that smells faintly like lemon and faux leather and Levi’s delicious, masculine scent. And that’s how long we’ve been silent. Thoroughly, wholeheartedly silent.

            It’s going to be a craptastic weekend. We’re going to play 007 while barely talking to each other. I see no flaw in this plan.

            Is this my fault? Perhaps. Perhaps I initiated this—remarkably immature, I must admit—standoff, when I didn’t say “Hi” back to him this morning. Perhaps I’m the culprit. But I don’t give a flying squirrel because I’m mad. So I’m leaning in to it. I’m hoarding all of my grievances against Levi and bulking them up into a big, withering, incandescent supernova of silent treatment that . . .

            Honestly, I’m not sure he’s noticed.