Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            “It’s a . . . city? In France?”

            I laugh harder. “Okay. Another one. That time that friend of yours from microbiology came into lab. That guy you played baseball with?”

            “Dan. Basketball. I’ve never played baseball in my life—I’m not even sure how it works.”

            “A bunch of guys stand around in their jammies and chat amiably. Anyway, Dan came into lab to pick you up for a game of a sport, and you introduced him to everyone except for me.”

            He nods. Tears off a piece of bread. Doesn’t eat it. “I remember.”

            “We can agree it was a dick move.”

            “Or.” He drops the bread, leaning back. “Or, we could agree that a few nights before, after a few drinks, I blurted out to Dan that I was . . . interested in a girl named Bee, that Bee’s not a common name, and that Dan was totally the kind of person to look you in the eye and ask, ‘Aren’t you that chick my bro blubbers about when he’s sloshed?’ ”

            My heart skips a beat, but I power through. “You can’t have an excuse for every single time you acted like a dick.”

            He shrugs. “Try me.”

            “The dress code. A few weeks ago.”

            He covers his eyes. “You mean, when I asked you to dress professionally while I was wearing a T-shirt with a hole in the right armpit?”

            “Were you really?”

            “Most of my T-shirts have armpit holes. Statistically speaking, yes.”

            “What’s the excuse?”

            He sighs. “That morning, Boris said something to me about how he thought NASA might use whatever they could to get NIH off their backs. He said, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they got rid of her because of the hair.’ It was probably a throwaway line, but I panicked.” He lifts his hands. “Then you called me out for promoting gender bias in the workplace, and I felt like a Bond villain bragging about his doomsday device.”

            “I can’t believe you didn’t just tell me.” In retaliation, I pluck a broccoli rabe from his plate.

            “I’m an excellent communicator with outstanding interpersonal skills, according to my résumé.”

            “Mine says that I’m fluent in Portuguese, but the last time I tried to order food in Coimbra I accidentally told the waiter that there was a bomb in the bathroom. Okay, last one: What about when you refused to collaborate? I overheard you through the door. You told Sam you didn’t want to be on the project because of me.”

            “You overheard me?” He sounds skeptical. “Through Sam’s solid wood slab of a door?”

            I bat my eyes angelically. “Yes.”

            “Were you eavesdropping in the ficus?”

            “Perhaps. Anything to say in your defense?”

            “Did you leave right after I mentioned that I didn’t want the project because of you?”

            “Yup. I stomped my way to my office with the rage of a murder of dragons.”

            “Is that their collective noun?”

            “It should be.”

            He nods. “If you left right after you heard your name, then you didn’t hear everything I told Sam. And that misunderstanding is on you.”

            I scowl. “Is it?”

            “Yup. There’s a lesson for all of us here.” He picks up the piece of bread he dropped earlier.

            “Which would be? Don’t eavesdrop in the ficus?”

            “Nope. If you eavesdrop, you shouldn’t half-ass it.” He pops the bread into his mouth, and has the audacity to grin at me.



* * *



            • • •

            SCHRÖDINGER REMEMBERS ME. Possibly from the other night, when he slept on my windpipe, gave me suffocation nightmares, and left black tufts of hair in my mouth. He slinks from his spot on the couch the moment we come in and twines himself around my bare ankles while Levi stores our leftovers in his fridge.