Chapter Eight #3
He laughs. “No. A nurse I work with is married to one of the neurosurgeons, and that’s what he calls him.
Not in the OR, but when they have me over for dinner.
” He angles his shoulders toward me and takes another sip from his bottle.
I watch his throat work and get distracted by the droplet of water that clings to his lower lip.
“Anyhow, what was that whole thing about?”
“The language thing?”
He nods.
A deep sigh rolls out of me. “Just something we used to fight about. I know it’s hard to learn a language that has two more grammatical genders than what he’s used to.
And I know understanding the difference between the accusative and dative case can be harder than grasping MR physics.
” I shrug. “But he never even tried to make an effort and learn German to meet my parents halfway. He didn’t care enough about me, I guess? ”
Lewis shifts his jaw, and he looks at me in a weird way, like he’s trying to figure something out, but all he says is, “So, what else do we need to plan?”
“Aren’t you the expert on fake dating?” I counter.
“Sure, if expertise for you is watching a handful of romantic comedies that are probably considered misogynistic by now.”
“Hey,” I say, nudging his biceps with my shoulder. There it is again, that humility I wasn’t expecting from him. “Claim it with the confidence of a medical doctor who did one credit of statistics in his undergrad but criticizes your choice of nonparametric test.”
Sixty blocks, four manholes spewing out questionable fumes, and countless passing ambulance cars later, we’ve not only come up with a plan, but a blister has formed under my left toe and exhaustion has settled in my bones.
Noting my slowing tempo, Lewis motions forward with his chin where, at the center of Columbus Circle, the monument juts out from a circle of water fountains.
I sink onto one of the stone benches. A group of girls sits a few seats down, sharing a bucket of popcorn and lobbing pieces at their friend who wades through the water as she heatedly argues with someone over the phone.
“So,” Lewis murmurs next to me. “We’ve got our schedules down from when we would’ve seen each other.
I’ll send you photos of this when I get to the hotel later.
As for the next days, we sit together in the lectures, join some of the same workshops, skip some of them to work at the library,” he rattles off, and when I turn back to him, he’s flipping over a page in his tiny notebook and adding to the list he started on our walk.
Our plan etched into reality in his blocky handwriting.
I’m about to make fun of him for taking notes, when he sets aside his pencil and takes my hand. This time, his grip is warm and just right, his thumb drawing a lazy circle over my skin.
“What’s this about then?” I nod at our linked hands. “It’s okay if you’re not into holding hands. We probably should’ve talked about it before, but if you’re uncomfortable with touch, we’ll find another way.”
“No, it’s fine. You know I don’t mind holding your hand,” he murmurs, reminding me of the times he’s grounded me with his touch on the plane and outside Vivienne’s office.
Lewis meets my gaze straight on, and I glance up, at the wave of his hair.
How can it still look this… soft and neat after the long day we’ve had?
“I’m not sure what happened back there. I wasn’t expecting you to come up behind me like that, and with all those people—” He pulls my hand closer, rests it on top of his knee and emits a deep sigh. “I was nervous.”
He said something similar earlier today, in front of Jacob’s door. It was hard to believe then, and is hard to believe now. “You’re never nervous around me,” I point out.
Lewis scratches the back of his neck and for a moment it’s quiet except for the lapping water. “Because it doesn’t matter. You’re not someone who might have a job for me,” he says eventually.
What a lovely reminder of my low position in the grand hierarchy of academia. It’s not like it’s news to me, but it stings nonetheless.
I tug at my hand, but he doesn’t let go, just touches his jaw with his free hand and gives me a small smile.
“I’m sorry, that came out wrong. What I meant is that with you I don’t have to think about the second layer—if I could be useful for your lab, how we might work together—and that makes things easier.
You and me, we can cut to the important things. ”
“Like the science,” I prompt.
He looks at me, eyes dark. Even though we’re sitting more than an arm’s length apart, it feels too close, and despite the waning heat, the back of my neck suddenly burns. I swallow heavily and his eyes dart to my throat. My heartbeat staggers into a slow, deep thud.
“Yes, like the science,” he echoes. “For example.”
His sentence sounds unfinished, as if he’s about to add something else.
But he just keeps studying me while his thumb draws electrifying circles over the knuckle of my index finger; tiny ones that make me wonder whether he’s even aware of it.
I don’t know if it’s this or his confession or his eyes locked on mine, but I don’t like how this shift between us feels like he’s reaching into me.
Getting me to relax around him, to trust him again.
Earth to Frances. This is Dr. North. The one who asked you to redo a month’s worth of data modeling to get your paper “remotely publishable.”
Remember?
This is nothing but a collegiate relationship, I remind myself, a pact to keep my integrity intact. It’s only natural that he becomes real with me, because I can only pretend to be his girlfriend if I know him well enough. This is practice.
A subway rumbles by underfoot, telling us that the perturbation in the network is resolved. “Well now that that’s settled, maybe we can wrap this up.” I pull my hand out of his grip.
Head dipped forward, he looks at his hand and, after a beat, says, “Sure.” Once he gets to his feet, he slings his backpack over one shoulder and holds tightly onto the strap.
I get up, too, and shift my weight to the foot that is still blister-free. “I guess I’ll take the subway.”
He nods quietly. “My hotel’s just a couple of blocks from here. But I’ll walk you to the station.”
I’m about to protest, but he’s already started toward the subway entrance.
As we walk, the awkwardness builds and presses into the space between us like New York’s heavy humidity.
Then we reach the turnstiles and it’s time to part ways, and something makes my brain short-circuit.
Like my body is one step deeper into this fake relationship than the rest of me.
I push up to my tiptoes and kiss Lewis on the cheek.
It’s chaste, not even a real kiss, just the slide of cheek against cheek.
His hand comes up to tighten on my waist, and for a flash of a second, he holds me in place.
Then, finally, my brain catches on. “Look, you didn’t even flinch,” I say, a little too brightly. “I think we’re good for tomorrow.”
As I wait on the platform, loosen and retie my hair, and check my phone for the pending grant application, it’s the stubble of his jaw against my cheek that I can’t get out of my mind.
Its soft scratch slips into my dreams later that night.