Chapter Four #2
He dips his head toward the entrance. “First,” he hisses, “that you basically told her we’re a goddamn couple.
Second, the way you brought me out of that building like a human trash bag.
” A strand of his hair comes loose and falls onto his forehead, interrupting the neat hairline.
He pushes it back with a forceful movement, but it’s this side of too short to be held behind his ear, tumbling forward again.
“It’s not like I did it on purpose,” I bite back. “I didn’t know about them.”
He grimaces, and some of the intensity in his eyes melts away. “It sucks to hear the news like that. I’m sorry.”
I cross my arms in front of my body, the sudden warmth in his voice taking me by surprise. “Regarding your first complaint—I didn’t actually say we were together. I just didn’t correct her.”
Lewis mirrors my pose, his stare turning unyielding again. “Seriously?” he calls out what might have been an excuse so flimsy it’s practically see-through.
Internally, I wince. But I’m not ready to go into the full postmortem of what I did and why, embarrassed by how the looming reunion with Jacob seems to have turned my ego into a cardboard box labeled Fragile.
“I still don’t get what gave her the idea that you’re my boyfriend,” I say, though I’m pretty sure I know what it was.
Some weird brain glitch that made us hold on to his phone, and each other’s hands, for longer than necessary.
The same glitch that is now bringing back how he looked at me right after, his gaze open and—
Not the right moment.
“Right,” he scoffs, catching my bluff.
“You’re welcome for not having to buy a new phone,” I grumble.
“I’ll be in your debt forever, Dr. Silberstein.
” His tone is icy as he shifts his jaw. “The fact is, we were literally holding each other’s hands when she walked up—and inside her office, too—and both of those instances have a clear, rational explanation.
What doesn’t, though, is you agreeing with her that we’re together.
Besides the fact that you hate me,” he says and uncrosses his arms, “why would you do that?”
Because Jacob has always made me feel small, and I doubt myself when I measure myself against him.
Because we’re not even playing in the same league of Who’s better off without their ex.
Because instead of landing a stable job and getting to do my research, I’ll be unemployed soon, and my love life is so far off track it’s not even worth mentioning.
Because, with a panic-addled brain, all I could do to get out of that room was to switch into autopilot and go along with what Vivienne was saying.
Before I can try to explain, though, Lewis’s phone starts ringing, saving me from admitting how much the news about Jacob and Vivienne has shaken me.
“I have to take this,” he says, frowning at the screen.
“But we’re not done here. I’m sorry about the position this puts you in, but first thing tomorrow, you need to tell her the truth.
” And with that, he disappears around the corner of the building, leaving me behind wondering what fresh hell I’ve gotten myself into.
Back home, I flip through the leaflet I got from Vivienne, until I get to page thirteen.
Opposite Jacob’s photo is the profile of Rosanna Alderkamp, PhD, Professor of Integrative Neuroscience at Amsterdam University.
At barely forty years old (I may have checked her CV some years ago), she’s the second youngest keynote speaker behind Jacob.
When her presence at the Sawyer’s was announced, I knew I had to be a grown-up and apply despite Jacob organizing it—her research on memory was the reason I decided to go to grad school.
Throughout the years, with every paper she’s published and talk she’s given, my admiration for her has only grown.
Rosanna Alderkamp is a powerhouse of a scientist, the kind I aspire to be.
It’s not only about how well recognized she is by the community or the lab equipment she has at her fingertips, but about how much she’s contributed to the scientific field of memory.
She is known for a meticulous but pragmatic approach that has improved diagnostics and symptom management in people with Alzheimer’s or dementia.
It can’t have been easy for her to become a professor at her age, and as a woman no less.
Academic tenure is notoriously hard to get, and though wealth, confidence, luck, and a Y-chromosome help, there is no guarantee you’ll ever get there.
I’m sure she has her own list of wildly inappropriate behaviors she had to deal with, like advisors recommending her to freeze her eggs so she doesn’t slow down her career.
Sometimes I want to ask if her colleagues also thought her night shifts on a yearlong project were only worth mentioning in the acknowledgments while the cocky intern got first authorship to help him with his PhD applications.
Or if she, too, has worked in departments where she had to cross to the other side of the building to use the bathroom, because while scientific progress happened in these halls, they certainly weren’t built for a societal one.
Point is, I would love to meet her and get to talk to her, about her research first and foremost, but her experiences in academia, too. It would be a dream come true if I could establish a connection with her so we can collaborate whenever I get my own grant.
But it dawns on me that I jeopardized that dream by lying to Vivienne.
Why, Frances. Why?
In the spur of the moment, all I could think of was fleeing that room before anybody could see how badly I was taking the news.
But now she thinks Lewis and I are dating, and while it would be unpleasant to have Jacob know just how unsuccessful I am in both my love life and work, being deemed a liar by my colleagues would be detrimental to the career I’ve so painstakingly built.
If Vivienne or Jacob—anybody, really—were to learn the truth, everybody else at the conference would find out soon after.
It would tank my reputation. Worse, with attendants sitting on scientific editorial boards, hiring committees, and grant panels, I’d get skipped over for open lab positions and my research wouldn’t get funded anymore.
My phone vibrates from where I tossed it onto the couch, giving me a short break from mentally kicking myself for my irrational behavior. Karo has messaged the family group chat that she and Lennart have landed safely in San Francisco, ready for their honeymoon to begin.
Finally. I flop onto the couch, tap her name, and press call. “I need your help.”
Airport noises fill the other end of the line, a last call for a flight to Tulsa.
“Franzi, are you finally asking me for that list of beach reads I’ve been preparing for you every year?”
“Nope. But you’re much better with social situations—”
Karo’s laugh interrupts me. “May I remind you that I’d pick an evening with a book over any social outing anytime?”
“Yeah, but you’re better at understanding people.”
“Fair. We’re on the way to pick up the rental car, so I don’t have a lot of time,” she informs me. “Wait, did you run into Jacob?”
“No, not yet. Thank god.” I loosen my hair out of its bun and comb through it with my fingers. “But I need your advice on something.”
“Okay, shoot.” Karo doesn’t even hesitate after years of operating as my second opinion on problems spanning the social, professional, and sometimes also academic realm. She’s given me advice so many times that sometimes I forget I’m the older sister.
“How bad would it be if someone at your office mistakenly assumes you’re together with your colleague… let’s say the one with the pizza socks—”
I hear Lennart giving directions in the background. Then, Karo: “Adam?”
“Yes. That one. Let’s say you didn’t correct them, but agreed, thereby making it sound like you were together.
But both Adam and you know it’s not the truth and you don’t even like Adam—you actually really, really dislike him—and now you need to explain to the people in your office that you’re not together, even though you literally agreed that you were.
What are the chances of others thinking you’re unprofessional and a liar? ”
For a moment, the line is silent. Then Karo asks, “Is that a trick question? Because we both know you’re the numbers whiz, but it seems pretty obvious that the chances would be very high.”
Well, isn’t that great.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I did something really stupid,” I finally admit.
“Like making someone think you were dating a colleague of yours?”
“Precisely,” I grumble, grinding my heel into the armrest of the couch. “She saw us holding hands—”
“You were holding hands?” Karo gasps. There’s some commotion in the background, then I hear Lennart ask, “What, your sister?”
“We weren’t holding hands,” I correct. “She thought we were.”
“Is he at least cute?”
“What?”
“Is he—”
“No, I heard what you said. Why on earth would that be relevant?”
“Well, if someone put me in a relationship with a rando, I’d hope they were cute. So. Is he?”
The moment that set off this terrible chain of events flits across my mind, Lewis’s and my hands linked and our gazes locked for longer than any stranger can justify.
From a scientific standpoint, purely objectively speaking that is, he does have his attributes.
I guess with his swooping hair and those clear blue eyes, strong arms and bashful smile, you could even call him cute.
Not that any of that matters, because, cute or not, he screwed me over four years ago, he continues to criticize my work, and he annoys the hell out of me just by existing.
“If you like constant fighting and know-it-alls, I guess you could call him cute.”
“Sounds just like your type.”
I groan. “You know, if you were standing next to me, I’d push you into the wall right about now. But really,” I say, growing more somber by the second, “I don’t know what to do.”