Chapter 17 Displacement #2
“Have you and Jack been together for a while?” Olive asks, and I look up at her. I can tell that the Elsie she wants would say yes. That she loves Jack very much and likes the thought of someone who’ll take care of him. But.
Honesty.
For a second, I picture myself blurting out the entire story: how I fake-dated Greg, then met Jack, then met Jonathan. But I doubt Olive is familiar with the concept of fake dating, so I sanitize my version. “This is the first time, actually.”
It feels weird to say the opposite of what someone wants. And it feels downright horrible when Olive’s response is a disappointed “Oh.”
I swallow. “I’m sorry—”
“No, no.” She smiles, reassuring. “I’m sorry about earlier. Asking if you’re getting married.”
I shake my head. “We’re just . . . getting to know each other.”
“That’s great. It’s nice to hear that he’s over his I Don’t Date, Let Me Set Boundaries and Make It Clear That This Is Just About Sex phase.
” Her impression of Jack sounds more like Vin Diesel, but it has me thinking: I have no idea what Jack wants from me.
Olive is the second person to mention how important boundaries are to him.
He hasn’t set any, but he also said that he was attracted to me, and . . .
If what Jack wanted from me was sex . . . what then?
Honestly, no clue. I don’t have much experience.
Not because I ever bought into the idea that sex is something precious, but because it felt like a means to an end, a way to ensure that the person I was with was pleased with me.
Sex never happened because of any attraction I experienced, but that’s okay: maybe I never craved it, but I also never minded it. Because it wasn’t for me.
With Jack, though . . . something’s different. Perhaps because he sees more of me than anyone ever has. I find myself thinking about last Sunday by the car, over and over. Tethered on the edge of a kiss that might not come, tense, heated, spellbound.
There might be something here. Or it might be nothing. What’s certain is that I’m more curious than ever. If something were to happen, it would be for me.
“Did you guys meet at work?” Olive asks.
“Kind of. I’m a physicist, too. Though I’m an adjunct.”
“Ouch.”
I laugh. “Yeah.”
“You like teaching?”
“Nope. Lots of high-def pictures of butt rashes that are too deadly for people to come to class. Sifting through those doesn’t leave time for research.”
She laughs, too. “I bet. I did not like TA’ing. It’s nice being a postdoc—none of the bullshit of being a grad student, none of the responsibility of being a faculty member. Just research.”
“Sounds like a dream.”
She gives me a surprised look. “You didn’t do a postdoc?”
“There weren’t any positions. But my Ph.D. advisor says it’s for the best. I’ll move to a faculty position earlier.”
“But do you want to move to faculty earlier?”
“It’s . . . complicated. But I trust him. I owe him a lot, so . . .” I sigh.
Olive scans my face, large eyes assessing, and then says, “In my experience, we all want to trust our mentors, but they don’t always have our best interests in mind.”
“In what way?”
“Just . . .” She chews on her lower lip, pensive.
“Academia is so hierarchical, you know? There are all these people who have power over you, who are supposed to guide you and help you become the best possible scientist, but . . . sometimes they don’t know what’s best. Sometimes they don’t care.
Sometimes they have their own agenda.” Her expression darkens.
“Sometimes they’re total shitbuckets who deserve to step on a pitchfork and die. ”
I wonder what happened to her. I even open my mouth to ask, but Adam turns to us, as if feeling the shift in her mood. “Olive, do you have pictures of the tux Holden bought for his wedding? Jack won’t believe it’s sequined.”
Olive brightens. “It’s totally sequined, and it’s amazing.”
We end up chatting, first the four of us and then others, too, for what feels like minutes but turns out to be hours.
While Andrea is telling the story of how her advisor showed up completely sloshed at her thesis defense and started offering digestive cookies to the rest of the committee, the cushion next to mine dips and I hear, “Everything okay?”
It’s Jack. Murmuring in my ear, arm resting behind me on the back of the couch. He’s surprisingly close, but I don’t pull back. “Your friends are fun.”
“I figured you’d like them more than me.”
“I kind of do.” I smile, thinking about Millicent, Greg, Olive. Thinking that he has great taste in people. And then notice something on my thigh: a small pouch of almonds. “What’s this?”
“Glycemic level control.” His mouth quirks. “Or you can faint on me. Since it’s a hobby of yours.”
“Did you steal these from Sunny’s cupboard?”
He gives me a look. “I shared an office with her for years, and she once left a urine sample for her doctor on her desk.” He stares at my lips while I laugh silently. “I’m not going through her cupboards.”
I shake my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Olive and Adam looking at me—no, at us, in a way I cannot quite understand. I focus on my almonds, then go in search of a trash can for the wrapper, and . . .
“Elsie?”
Georgina Sepulveda is in the kitchen, beautiful and kick-ass. She’s tall—I didn’t fully grasp how tall when Jack was nearby, dwarfing her.
“So glad you’re here. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but Jack was the usual shitlet and refused to give me your number.
” She rolls her eyes. “At first I thought he didn’t have it and just didn’t want to admit it.
But you’re here, which means he was just hoarding it.
Like a dragon. God, I knew he’d be like this when he found someone.
You and I should become best friends just to spite him.
” Her smile is wide and warm, and it’s instantly, violently, mortifyingly present in my mind that the last time we met, I acted like a toddler with little bitch disorder.
“I . . .” I look around like an idiot, in search of . . . what? A teleprompter? This is mortally embarrassing. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Just got here. Faculty meeting ran late for no reason—the entire thing could be summarized in two fifteen-second TikToks.” She shrugs, moving closer. I clutch my almond wrapper like it’s a terry cloth monkey.
“Georgina—”
“George, please. Georgina is my mother. And my grandmother. My great-grandmother, too, probably. We should invest in a baby names book.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. My contributions to this conversation are priceless. “Jack’s in there, if you—”
“I know. Like I could miss him when he’s standing next to Adam Carlsen. They’re the Mount Rushmore of STEM academia. Anyway—will you have lunch with me next week? I want to chat with you, but not in Sunny’s home.” She shudders. “I can’t be in here without thinking of the urine sample.”
Professionally, my life sucks a bit. Psychologically, I’m not, as some would say, “healthy.” Musically, I should hire a tuba to follow me around. But on the upside, I’ve been killing it in the lunch invite department.
“You want to chat with me,” I repeat. Just to be sure.
“Yes. Partly because Jack is my closest friend, and it would bug him if I stole you from him even just a bit. But mostly because the last time we met, I acted like a total bitch, and I want to make it up to you.”
What? “No, no, I’m the one who ran away like a lunatic. My first reaction to finding out that you’d gotten the job was unforgivable and incredibly messed up. I acted like a bitch—”
“Yes, you totally did.” George’s smile is triumphant. “To make it up to me, you will let me take you out for lunch.”
“That’s . . .” I slow-blink. “Very well played.”
“Thank you.” She dusts nonexistent specks off her shoulder, and I laugh.
“I see why Jack likes you so much.”
“I see why Jack likes you more.” Her smile softens. “Next Wednesday okay?”
I nod. “Sounds great.”
Jack and I leave a few minutes later. I exchange numbers with Olive, and Sunny hugs me goodbye while Jack is getting the car, whispering that any urine sample rumors I might have heard have been greatly exaggerated.
She also swears that if Jack and I break up, she’ll side with me, because she already likes me more.
I laugh on the doorstep. “It makes me feel guilty for stealing your almonds.”
“Oh, they must be someone else’s. No nuts in this house—they’re, like, so gross.”
In the car, I’m contemplating the idea that Jack researched, bought, and packed a diabetes-friendly snack just for me when he asks, “Where to for dinner?”
“Oh.” Something happy and surprised flips in my chest at the idea of the night not being over yet. “I like everything.”
He merges into traffic. “Excellent. Some of my favorite stuff is everything. Now tell me what you want to eat.”
I look at his near-perfect profile. He hasn’t shaved in the last couple of days, looks a bit tired. I wonder if he’s been up and about since morning. If he hasn’t had anything since lunch. He’s huge, probably always ravenous. Simple stuff, big portions.
“Burgers,” I say.
He gives me a Nice try look. “Yes, Elsie, I do like burgers. That wasn’t the question, though.”
I scowl. How does he do this? How does he always—
“Want me to pull over so you can get out and stomp your foot a bit?”
I growl. Judging from the smile, he absolutely hears me.
Okay—what do I want? Well, cheese. I’m always in the mood for cheese. But cheese is not really a meal, and the places where it might be are usually too fancy, and—
“Say it,” he orders.
“What?”
“What you’re thinking.”
“I’m not—”
“Say it.”
“Really, I’m—”
“Say it.”
“Cheese,” I almost yell. Shocking myself.
Jack smiles, satisfied. “I know just the place.”
· · ·
“You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
“We can’t—not here.”
“Why?”
“Because . . .”
Jack waits for me to finish the sentence. When I’m unable to, the ever-present lower-back hand nudges me inside the cozy heat of the restaurant.
Of Miel.
“This seems sadistic,” I point out, “even for you.”
“You underestimated me, then.”