Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

“And then?”

“For two years, we worked that sometimes shitty, sometimes rewarding grad student life. You know what that’s like. A lot to be done, but the process we’d isolated was promising. Then we had a breakthrough.”

“Was Florence an active member of the research group?”

“Short answer, yes.” He thought about it. Tried to collect his opinions in shapes that were as fair as they could be. The things I do for you, Rue. “I might be biased, so you’ll have to compare and contrast with Florence’s recollection. Mine is that, intellectually, Minami was very much leading the project. Florence was a great sounding board, but was busy. We never stopped asking her for advice, but over time we transitioned to mostly reporting our progress. Her grants covered stipends and materials. She also rented off-campus lab space. Which did seem odd, but she said that renting pre-equipped labs was less expensive than buying new equipment, and the funding institute had recommended it. Fair enough, we thought. We were done with classes and didn’t need to be on campus. You know what grad school’s like after comps—no formal oversight. We ended up mostly isolated from the rest of the department. Our codependency origin story,” he added dryly. He had no clue whether Rue believed him—his fathomless, enigmatic girl.

“And when the tech was ready?”

“We had a breakthrough two years in, before the summer. By this point we were off-site students, virtually no contact with anyone at UT. We got a month off for the summer. Hark and I backpacked in Europe. Minami had just met Sul. We came back, and it all went to shit.

“At first we just couldn’t get in touch with Florence. She wouldn’t reply to emails, answer phone calls. We were worried about her, so we went to our department head. That’s when we discovered that Florence had quit, and there was an ongoing dispute between her and the university regarding the rightful owner of the tech. Bayh-Dole Act of 1980 and that shit. Meanwhile, the three of us are glancing at each other, wondering what the fuck is going on.”

“What did Florence say when you next saw her?” Rue asked.

“You were there.”

“What do you mean?”

“The next time I saw Florence was at Kline, last month. Florence refused to meet us, or to otherwise acknowledge our existence, for the past decade. There was no closure for us, which made it even harder to move on. Once, Minami waited by her apartment, hoping to confront her. She went on her own, figuring Hark and I might come across as intimidating.”

“And?”

“Florence called the police on her.”

There was a slight flinch that a less devoted observer of Rue might have missed. Once upon a time, Eli might have found some degree of happiness in telling her the truth, because it would have meant taking something away from Florence. All he could think about now was what he was taking away from Rue herself.

“For whatever it’s worth, and after ruminating over the matter for years, I don’t believe Florence planned to cut us out from the start,” he said. “Hark disagrees.”

“Why do you believe that?”

He shrugged. “Contextual clues. Wishful thinking? She was openly unhappy at UT. The biofuel tech could be brought to market and get her out, but Florence needed to own the patent. And the only way she could keep it was by proving that she hadn’t developed the tech with federal funds. Unfortunately, our stipends were on record, paid with federal grant money.”

“Ah.”

“She had to minimize our involvement. We were an . . . endurable sacrifice.”

“Why didn’t you report her?”

“We did. But even just a decade ago, things were different—and we hadn’t been seen around in years. There was little proof of our involvement. For all UT knew, we’d been playing pinball for twenty-four months. It was our word against hers, and a grad student’s word was worth very little. Then the case became highly publicized.” Rue couldn’t have missed the cable news pieces, the op-eds, the way public attention had been suddenly riveted by the very uninteresting topic of patent law. “Charming young female researcher tries to change the world with environmentally friendly fuels, does the work on her own time and dime, and UT wants to take ownership away from her. David taking on Goliath. A PR nightmare for UT, and they wanted it swept under the rug. It including the three of us, and the fuss we were kicking up, because them fucking over one person sounded bad, but them fucking over four? Even worse. Hark and I were asked to leave the program. Minami’s contract wasn’t renewed. We had no money. We saw two lawyers, and they both told us that we didn’t have a case. And then my father died, and that shit seemed like the least of our problems.”

Rue briefly closed her eyes. “Is this”—she made a vague, allencompassing gesture toward Harkness’s headquarters—“revenge for what Florence did?”

Had Harkness begun as a means to hurt Florence as much as she’d hurt them? Undoubtedly. But it had morphed into something else altogether. Eli liked his current job. Private equity was a shitshow that left destruction in its wake, and he felt proud of the priorities they’d set for themselves. They cared about their portfolio. They focused on the long-term health of companies. They made some difference.

“This is the only way we had to take back what was ours. Hark’s father is made of money, but he refused to support Hark in any endeavor that wasn’t finance related, and this . . . We had the starting capital. It was the only way we could get the tech back. I’m not going to lie, Rue. Things are not looking great for us, and Florence is withholding key documents and making our lives impossible every step of the way, but I still hope we can get the tech back. It’s been years, and we haven’t spent every breathing second resenting Florence. But we kept an eye on Kline. And when the loan went up for sale . . .” He shook his head at his own idiocy. So many words just to say, “Yeah. I guess this is revenge.”