Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

I thought about Minami and her degree. “What about what they’re trying to do to Florence? Have they ever targeted a company to obtain control of their tech?”

“Not that I know of. But don’t worry, Rue. They’re still making money out of money and all that gross shit.” She grinned. “You are allowed to hate them, if that’s what sparks joy.”



Tisha and I hadn’t been the ones to start Kline’s monthly journal club, but Florence had forced us to take over when our predecessor moved to a cushy job at the CDC and a dearth of volunteers became apparent. And yet, while we may not have been the club’s first, we were undoubtedly the club’s best.

No one wanted to read scientific papers in their spare time, let alone have roundtable discussions about them. So, after the first monthly meeting had an attendance of three (Tisha, me, and a strong-armed Jay, who did not read the paper and threatened to call HR), we decided that some changes were overdue. Among them: moving the club to Thursday afternoons, snacks, and, most importantly, a keg budget—which Florence had agreed to, “in order to incentivize continuing education.”

Attendance had skyrocketed. “Journal club” had become a synonym for “company-wide nonmandatory party.” Even I, no social butterfly, enjoyed it for several reasons: nine times out of ten I got to choose the paper (no one else remembered to submit ideas in time); it was much easier for me to interact with people within the structure of a guided discussion; and beer was a powerful social lubricant. You give out way less of a “talk to me, and I’ll fuck up your human rights” vibe when you’re drunk, Nyota had told me years before, watching Tisha and me stumble home sloshed, mistake the bathtub for a bed, and use Mrs. Fuli’s loofahs for pillows.

I had elected to take it as a compliment.

That Thursday, amid some bisphenol A soapboxing, modeling techniques slander, burps, and someone pointing out over and over that they’d been in grad school with the third author on the paper, I was several beers in.

“. . . without even considering the ethical . . .”

“. . . always such a know-it-all . . .”

“. . . is this my glass or yours?”

“. . . they completely misattributed the catalytic activity.”

The last one was Matt. Tragically, I agreed with him, but I wasn’t about to admit it under threat of anything less than radical annihilation. So I stood, gave Tisha a pointed should we maybe wrap this shit up and go home? look, and headed for the closest restroom.

I was lightheaded, definitely buzzed—but not wasted enough to warrant the apparition coming toward me in the hallway. Eli couldn’t be here, could he? He wasn’t allowed at Kline anymore.

His slacks and button-down looked like they’d been a full suit and tie about eight hours ago. His hair had been cut since the last time I’d run my fingers through it. Still messy, a little shorter. The glasses were there, too. They didn’t make him look smarter, or softer, or more distinguished, but they did transform him into Private Equity Eli.

Even worse, they suited him, which was just unforgivable.

“Are you okay?” he asked. His voice sounded too real to be something pulled from my memories. And yet, it must be.

“Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been staring at me for thirty seconds.” He looked happy to see me, and the thought was infuriating, whether he was actually happy or I’d conjured him that way. He had no right. My brain had no right. That happiness was unearned.

“Rue,” he said, amused.

“Eli,” I said, trying for the same tone. I reached out, poking the closest part of him. An unfathomably solid, very unimagined bicep.

Fantastic. I loved coming across like an idiot. “You know,” I told him prosaically, “once upon a time, back before I’d ever heard the word Harkness, this startup used to be really nice.”

“Uh-huh. Is that why you’re so clearly drunk at your workplace at six p.m.?”

“It’s journal club.”

He seemed intrigued. “You get drunk at journal club.”

“Maybe.” I shrugged. My head swam. “The first rule of journal club is, don’t talk about journal club.”

“Whoa.” He pretended to recoil. “Drunk Rue makes jokes?”

I considered giving him the finger, but he’d enjoy it way too much. “Why are you here?” My eyes fell on the manila folder in his hand. “Stealing company property. Should I call security?” I thought about adorable, elderly Chuck, with his beer belly and quick smile and cheerful good mornings. Pictured him trying to escort a resisting Eli outside. My fantasy did not end well for Chuck, and since he was approaching retirement, I decided to abandon it.

“Everything that’s in this folder belongs to me,” he said, a little harshly. I wasn’t in the best state of mind to spot a lie, so I didn’t question him. Not even when a prolonged, vaguely uncomfortable silence fell between us.

“How are you, Rue?” he asked quietly, once a century or two had passed.

“Drunk, as you pointed out.”

“Aside from that?”

I shrugged—as accurate a description of my feelings as I could muster.

“It’d be nice to have an answer, since you’ve ignored me for weeks,” he said amiably.