Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            “Whoa.”

            “Last year, at Thanksgiving, my uncle publicly asked me to change my name to stop bringing shame to the family. This was before he guzzled a case of Blue Moon.”

            I scowl. “You are a NASA engineer with Nature publications.”

            “You kept track of my pubs?”

            I eye-roll. “I don’t. Sam just likes to blabber about how amazing you are.”

            “Maybe I should bring her to Thanksgiving next year.”

            “Hey.” I poke his bicep with my index finger. It’s hard and warm through the sleeve of his shirt. “I know we’re . . . nemesi?”

            “Nemeses.”

            “—nemeses, but your family doesn’t. And I usually spend Thanksgiving trying to see how many vegan marshmallows I can stuff into my mouth. So if next year you need someone to explain exactly how amazing you are at your job—or even just to bitch-slap them—I’m available.” I smile, and after a few seconds he smiles back, a little soft.

            There is something relaxing about this. About here. About the moment we’re having. Maybe it’s that Levi and I know exactly where we stand when it comes to each other. Or that for both of us, the most important thing in the world right now is BLINK. Maybe there is a connection between us. A very odd, very complicated one.

            I lean back in my seat. “That,” I muse, “is the one pro of being an orphan.”

            “What is?”

            “Having no parents to disappoint.”

            He mulls it over. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

            After that we go back to our Hostile Companionable Silence™. And after a little longer I fall asleep, Thom Yorke’s voice low and soothing in my ears.



* * *



            • • •

            I HAVE BEEN at HBI for three and a half minutes when I meet the first person I know, a former RA in Sam’s lab who’s now a Ph.D. student at—I glance at his badge—Stony Brook. We hug, catch up a bit, promise to get together for drinks over the weekend (we won’t). By the time I turn around, Levi has met someone he knows (an elderly guy with a fanny pack and an eyeglass chain that scream “engineer” from the top of the Grand Canyon). The cycle lasts about twenty minutes.

            “Jesus,” I mutter once we’re alone. It’s not as though we’re famous, or anything like that, but the world of neuroimaging is very insular. Incestuous. Inescapable. And lots of other I adjectives.

            “I had more social interactions in the past twenty minutes than in the last ten months,” he mumbles.

            “I saw you smile at least four times.” I pat his arm comfortingly. “That can’t have been easy.”

            “I might have to lie down.”

            “I’ll get an ice pack for your cheeks.” I look around the crowded hall, suddenly reminded of why I hate academic conferences. “Why did we come today, anyway? MagTech’s presentation’s not until tomorrow.”

            “Boris’s order. A feeble attempt to look like we’re not just here to snoop, I believe.”

            I grin. “Do you ever feel like we’re super-spies and he’s our handler?”

            He gives me a half-amused, half-withering look. “No.”

            “Come on. Boris’s totally the M to my James Bond.”

            “If you’re James Bond, who am I?”

            “You’re the Bond girl. I’m going to seduce you in exchange for blueprints and stab you while I sip on my martini.” I wink at Levi, then realize that he’s flushing. Did I go too far? “I didn’t mean to—”

            “There are a couple of engineering talks I want to go to,” he says abruptly, pointing at the conference program and sounding remarkably normal. I must have imagined it. “You?”

            “There’s a panel at four that sounds interesting. Also, it’s my sacred duty to go out for a drink. Big Easy and all that.”