Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

“And forgot to update us.”

“Or maybe she simply hasn’t had the time or energy to look them up.”

“Only one way to find out.”

I nodded. “My performance evaluation meeting is tomorrow. I’ll ask then.”

“Good plan. Except, how are you going to bring up the fact that you were sharing a meal with those people?” I winced. “I guess you could just tell her the truth. ‘Florence, my monthly dose of shitty orgasms is currently being provided by Eli Killgore—nothing personal.’”

I glanced at the pepper plant on my windowsill.

“Oh, wow.” Tisha whistled. “Not shitty, then.”

Not shitty. More like magnificent, and nuclear, and probably sex redefining. At least for me.

“What’s he like?” Tisha asked. “Eli, I mean.” I massaged my temples, trying to stave off the mortification, and she quickly followed up with “It’s not—Rue, I’m not trying to be accusatory. If despite my advice and your common sense you’re still seeing this guy, I’ll support you through your questionable choices because I love you and because you’ve done the same for me. The least you can do is share the filthy deets.”

“Right. He’s good. Very good.” It’s the whole damn point, to see you lose it. “He’s a little . . .”

“What?”

“Bossy.”

Tisha’s eyebrows rose. “In a bad way?”

“No.” I wasn’t sure I was ready to get into the weeds of it, yet. Not that Tisha wouldn’t cheer me into buying my own set of flogs.

“Okay. What else? What’s he like as a person?”

“I don’t know him as a person.”

“You’ve spent some time with him. You must have talked about something. What did you find out?”

Nothing, I nearly said, but the word was swallowed by an avalanche. College athlete. Sister, friends, dog—they all love him. Honest, but never cruel. Not put off by how awkward I am, my silences. Formerly engaged. May be destined for tragedy, just like me. Easy to talk to. Almost a pro scientist. Would have been good at it, too. Has some horrific stories—almost as horrific as mine. Teases me, but never like he’s laughing at me. Kind. Funny. That undercurrent of unease that seems to permeate most of my social interactions—it’s just not there with him. Great cook. Great to cook with. Effortless. “That I don’t dislike him.” Not at all.

“Hmm. He is cute in that ‘I play rugby on Sundays’ kind of way.”

“Hockey. He plays hockey.”

“Sure. He’s also a finance bro. Did you talk about cryptocurrency?”

“No. We talked about . . .” We tell each other the kinds of stories that we couldn’t tell anyone else, because they’d make people uncomfortable, or sad, or feel like they need to laugh politely, minimize, comfort. We share horrible things that we have done, that have been done to us, and then wait and see if the other is going to be so appalled that they’ll finally leave—but somehow that never happens. We don’t make small talk. We cut through the flesh and show the stories that live in our skeletons. “Cooking. He likes to cook.”

“Wow, that’s convenient.” Tisha’s eyes seemed to pierce through me. “And, just to reiterate . . . this is still just sex?”

I nodded without letting myself think about it too hard, but there must have been something in the air, because on Monday morning I received a text from Alec.

Tonight we’re closing early for maintenance of the HVAC system. The rink will be empty, and Maya and Eli Killgore will come over to skate. I figured I’d ask if you wanted to join.

And in case you’re wondering: yes, Dave is trying to set you and Eli up. He seemed to believe you two hit it off when you exchanged one and a half words at the fundraiser. But don’t worry, Eli’s a good guy. He’ll leave you alone.

Alec had been so kind to me, it was next to impossible to be annoyed at him, which only left room for amusement. I was heading to see Florence, so I made a mental note to decline later. Spending non-naked time with Eli didn’t seem wise.

“Hey, stranger. Why do I feel like I haven’t seen very much of you lately?”

I smiled and took my customary seat in Florence’s office, crosslegged in my favorite chair. Quarterly performance evaluations were never something for which I bothered working up anxiety. Florence was supportive, and I was good at my job.

“Just busy finishing up the provisional patent.”

Florence took off her reading glasses. “It’s in the lawyers’ hands?”

“Yup.”

“They might be waiting for my approval on that—I’ve been swamped, but I’ll get it done tonight.”

“Perfect.” I attempted a small smile, and Florence cocked her head.

“You look tired. Is everything okay?”

“No. I’ve been sleeping poorly.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Florence told me reassuringly. “These things are just formalities. Go get some rest—you remain my best employee. Want a raise?”

“Always.”

“I’ll talk to accounting.”

I chuckled, unfolded my legs, and made myself ask, “The Harkness situation. Is it solved?”