Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

So, we’d had sex, and it had been . . .

It had been all that.

We’d agreed that mutually satisfying sexual activity would be the period terminating the sentence of our acquaintance. Not replying would just worry Eli, and tack on subordinate clauses we could both do without. And since he’d probably spent the day trying to convince one of Kline’s board members to hand him the tech that was the product of Florence’s blood, sweat, and tears, I did not want that. I did not want him in my life.

I’m fine. Been working all day. Have a great weekend.

It was Sunday night—little weekend left to be had greatly. I drove home, had dinner, and then tossed and turned until it was finally time to go back to Kline.

Eli did not text again.

Monday I was on duty with Matt, a chore that had me wistfully wishing that giving wedgies didn’t constitute an HR violation. Tuesday I spent holed up in the lab. Wednesday it was my office. For the first time in my life, my paperwork was complete well before its deadline. When Tisha visited, I had to get up and let her in.

“Did you lock yourself in your office? Were you like, masturbating over spandex porn?”

“I’m just sick of people dropping by.”

“Do that many people drop by? I thought your nicely frosty personality was enough of a deterrent.”

“I must be slipping.”

“Don’t worry, I still get ‘would not save ninety-nine percent of humanity in case of apocalypse’ vibes from you.”

“Phew.”

Tisha asked me to go for a walk at the nearby park, to accompany her to the vending machine, to visit Florence. “I’m drowning in reports,” I said, and maybe Tisha knew it was a half lie, but she was the kind of friend who gave me not only unconditional love, but also the space I needed.

Florence stopped by to check on the progress on my patent, and the guilt and shame I felt at seeing her smiling face nearly paralyzed me. “Any updates on Harkness?” I asked, without bothering to sound casual.

Florence rolled her eyes. “All that asshole licking they’ve been doing on Eric Sommers’s taint must have worked, because a board meeting was called. At least the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles of hostile takeovers haven’t been around.” I should have been disappointed that the person I’d gone to great lengths to avoid for the last three days hadn’t even been at Kline, but relief drowned all other emotions. Florence’s expression switched to concern. “Eli Killgore hasn’t been bothering you, has he?”

My stomach sank. I was unable to reply, and Florence could tell.

“Rue, if he’s done anything to you, I swear to god—”

“No, he hasn’t. He . . . I haven’t seen him.”

Liar. Liar. Ungrateful, blatant liar.

“Okay, good.” She seemed relieved. “I can tell you’re worrying about me and Kline, Rue, but don’t, okay? Not worth your time. Just focus on the science.”

Her compassion and protectiveness intensified my guilt. I tried to imagine how I would feel if Florence slept with some guy who was trying to steal my patent, and the magnitude of the betrayal was staggering. I’d fucked up, knowingly. Selfishly. And I was going to have to deal with the shame of it, and the knowledge that being with Eli had been so . . .

It didn’t matter.

By Thursday I’d managed a decent night of sleep, and on Friday I was back on track. Kline’s blue hallways felt less like the open sea, full of ambushing, flesh-mangling sharks, and more like a tranquil pond in which the height of excitement was figuring out who’d started a fire in Lab D.

Then a heron dove in.



“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tisha asked at lunch, after I told her about the letter. “Your brother does not have his shit together enough to have a lawyer.”

“Apparently he does.”

“Is he suing you?”

“No. It’s a letter of demand.”

“What does it say?”

I moved my penne around the plate. “That under Indiana law, if two parties are in disagreement, the court can order the sale of the property.”

“Is it true?”

“According to my lawyer, yes.”

“Who’s your lawyer?”

“Google.”

“Bullshit. Nyota’s your lawyer. My bitchy sister will take care of your shitty brother. It’s like poetry, it rhymes.”

I smiled. “I don’t even know why I’m being so stubborn about this cabin.”

“I do.” Tisha leaned forward. “I don’t need a psych minor to know that now that your relationships with your mom and your brother have irreparably broken down, you want to connect with some part of your family, and the cabin is all that’s left of your dad.”

“I’m not usually this sentimental, though.” I tilted my head. “And you minored in computer science and French.”

“Exactly my point.”

Later in the afternoon, I was returning from a quality assurance meeting when I saw them.

Saw him.

Eli stood at the end of the hallway, wearing glasses once again, head hung low as he focused on what Minami Oka was saying, something private and exclusive about the way they bent toward each other. He raised one eyebrow in that manner that was imprinted in my brain, and Dr. Oka laughed and pretended to punch him on the arm, and—