Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

                The new trend is to do away with the GRE, which has been widely used by graduate admission committees for decades. @WhatWouldMarieDo was the first to use her platform to bring attention to the “injustice” it perpetuates, and @Shmacademics helped her amplify the signal by posting reviews of the literature debunking it. Together, the two have almost two million followers. But who are these influencers? What vast monetary operations are behind them? Do they have financial ties with STC competitors? Moreover, these influencers do not provide useful alternatives to the GRE. They talk of holistic admission protocols, but fully reading thousands of applications is too time consuming for admission committees . . .



            My eyes roll to the back of my skull. Committees need to do right by applicants and should make the time. And who’s this dude? This one-man homeowners’ association? What’s a “vast monetary operation”? I want to break into his house and show him that my salary is probably what he tips his pool boy—and none of it comes from Twitter. But I don’t know where Mr. Green lives, so I just DM Shmac the link.

                             MARIE: Did you see this stupid article? Benjamin Green is officially Camel Dick 2.0.



            My eyes fall on the messages he sent the last time we talked, when he told me about the girl. My chest clenches, and for some reason I think of Levi. Of him being gone. Of what his opinion on the GRE might be. Maybe I’m going insane.

            I don’t wait for Shmac’s response. I log out of the app and force myself to go back to work.



* * *



            • • •

            “WHAT?”

            “Listen—”

            “What?!”

            “It’s—”

            “What?”

            “I—”

            “What?!”

            I sigh. “Okay, Reike. Let me know when you’re done.”

            My sister yells “What?!” eight more times. “Okay, it’s out of my system. Let us resume. So, you and The Wardass smooched—”

            “Feels like there should be a better word for that.”

            “You sucked faces. Exchanged germs. Swapped saliva. Canoodled. Snogged.”

            “The other day you told me in great detail about that Ukrainian guy you pegged, and I didn’t make half the fuss.”

            “It’s different.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I’m a seasoned pegger, but you never do this. You were all like, ‘Neuro’s my wife now, zip up my chastity belt, dig a moat around the Bee-fence,’ and now you’re making out with your nemesis who is apparently into you—”

            “Was. Was into me. And it’s just a kiss.” If I say it enough, maybe it’ll erase how close I got to being naked with Levi on my kitchen floor. How I’ve been obsessing over his whereabouts all day long.

            “FYI, I’ll return to the States for your wedding, but I recently discovered the bridezilla subreddit, and I’m not going to dye my hair blond to fit the ceremony’s color scheme—”

            “Not happening.”

            “Right, you’d probably ask for teal green—still a resounding no.”

            “Reike, it was just . . . a kiss. He doesn’t care. And I have no intention of caring ever again. One round of returning wedding gifts was enough.”

            “I never got mine back!”

            “You never sent one. Anyway, it was just a kiss. Purely . . .” Physical. Burning. Good. Electric. Obscene. Heavy. Dangerous. Good. Wild. Good, good, good. The most erotic moment of my life. But my head has cooled off, I’m not a horny black hole of sexual tension anymore, and I can see how dumb it was. A stupid idea. Three out of ten, would not do again. Plus, I have other concerns. BLINK. My job. Who’ll feed Félicette once I’m gone. “Nothing. Purely nothing.”

            “Right. Emotions are still scary. Boundary maintenance is a priority. The Bee-fence is up in arms. So when you see him at work tomorrow—”