Chapter Four
Jacob and I started dating well into my second year of grad school.
He was a postdoc in the same group, and though we worked on different projects, I’d sat across from him for many lab meetings and admired him from afar for publishing papers in the big journals and seemingly running the lab whenever our advisor was traveling.
But one evening, I ran into him as I was catching up with paperwork for a study.
He’d stayed in the lab late to test out new equipment, and took pity on me, asking me to grab a bite for dinner.
What started with me complaining and Jacob giving me advice soon became a tentative friendship over a shared love for the grilled cheese sandwiches in the deli around the corner.
At first, we didn’t act on the attraction between us, but then, after weeks of talking in and out of the lab, and finding excuses to spend time together in the evenings and on weekends, it bloomed into full-on love.
Where I used to rarely come up for air from my research and only quickly catch up with fellow grad students, my time at the lab morphed to a companionship of two.
I’d drop by Jacob’s office to steal a kiss after TAing, share glances with him during lab meetings, or stroll with him across campus to pick up a triple-shot latte at the coffee cart on Broadway that would snap me into the focus needed for my data analysis.
As a second-year PhD student struggling with my place in the world of elite academics, Jacob drew me in with his easy confidence.
He wasn’t stingy with it but extended it generously, handing out the compliments I was so eager for.
After being at the top of my class in undergrad, my confidence had plunged when I got into grad school, where I met the limits of my knowledge and capacity daily.
I was far from home in a new, loud, and busy city.
I wasn’t the only one—several students in my cohort quickly dropped out, spiraling into anxiety and self-doubts.
But in the crowd of postdocs and professors with their paradigm-shifting papers and opinionated social media posts, Jacob’s trust in me was soothing.
Not only did he see the person and scientist I yearned to become, but he also inspired me with the high expectations he set for himself and everybody else around him.
The intellectual and supportive bubble of our relationship made it easy for me to ignore the double standards we were being held to: the interns who whispered behind my back but not his, the sly looks I got from professors at conferences while he was being congratulated for his newest achievements, the comment I got from another grad student that my paper had only been accepted by a prestigious journal because of Jacob’s name on it.
But through it all, I held steadfast to the belief that their view of our relationship was wrong.
Nobody was taking anything, advantage or otherwise.
We were only adding, giving so we could both grow into the best versions of ourselves.
Long days at the lab were bookended by nights helping him out with the grant that would go on to get him his professorship.
Dinners would get swallowed up by discussions to strengthen his proposal.
On weekends, I’d find pockets of time between my own research to transform his ideas into clear, colorful figures.
I was all in, helping him pave the way to his future.
I thought he’d be willing to pave mine, too, if I ever needed his help.
I thought that this was what romance between scientists looked like.
It was only when he got the grant and explained how he had neatly slotted me into his future that I understood he’d taken me for granted.
Between the shelves of all-purpose flour and maple syrup at Trader Joe’s, he told me how perfectly I fit into his plans.
According to him, it was a win-win situation.
He’d hire me as a postdoc once I graduated, so we could stay together, and he’d get a computational neuroscientist in his lab that he trusted.
Job security fresh out of grad school, Isn’t that what you wanted?
Except, no. I did not.
I wanted to find my own path in life and identify the gap in knowledge that I could fill. To change some tiny thing in this world, to be the one flipping a switch from unknown to understanding.
Not with Jacob or for Jacob.
For myself.
When I suggested doing long distance so I could build my own career, he called me selfish and egotistical. Naive for thinking I could make it in science, with the small number of publications tacked to my name.
Job change after job change, and rejected grant after rejected grant, I told myself that he was wrong. That I had what it took, and that the last thing I needed was a man by my side to get there.
Except, maybe all that confidence was just a shell to hide behind.
Maybe I’ve been wrong all this time. Maybe Jacob was right, and I really don’t have what it takes. The thought spins around and around in my brain while my lungs work overtime.
Because I’m still as unsuccessful and alone as Jacob predicted, while he has moved on big-time. I’m miles behind where I thought I would be, pushed to the sidelines and watching everyone else race ahead while my feet are stuck to the ground.
Outside, on the corridor in front of Vivienne’s office, Lewis looks at me, dumbfounded. I stare back, my heart tumbling over itself and skin slick with heat while I tell myself to breathe.
Instead of ripping his hand away like I expected him to, Lewis ducks his head lower to match my eye level. “Frances?”
“Something… I… Something’s wrong,” I stammer, guiding his hand up to where my heart is this close to sprinting out of my sternum. He flattens his palm over it, as if to catch it. When my own hands drift back to my sides, they’re trembling.
“Are you in pain?” he says, voice low but urgent, and I manage to shake my head.
“Okay.” He swallows as his eyes flick between mine, down to my hands, and up again. “If you’re not in pain, you might be having a panic attack.”
Over something like my ex being engaged? Something that should be insignificant? The way I’m taking the news makes me feel even more inferior—
“Frances, come back here,” Lewis orders gently. “Let’s try to get you out of your head. You’re breathing, that’s good. Keep doing that but, hey, look at me.” He takes an exaggerated deep inhale, then lets the air out again. “Slow it down.”
I cling to the sounds of his breaths as I watch his chest expand and deflate slowly, his thumb drawing grounding circles over the collar of my T-shirt. Whenever my mind drifts off, I tell myself to focus on the warmth of his hand, the prick of air against my nostrils.
Lewis stands by me silently as I ride out the tail end of my panic.
I’m not sure how long it takes, but gradually my breaths even out, and my pulse slows, leaving my ears to pick up the chatter of students drifting in from outside, the sound of a keyboard from Vivienne’s office, and the creak of a door somewhere in the building.
“I think I’m okay now,” I finally whisper, using the heel of my hand to wipe the sweat off my forehead.
“Are you sure?” Lewis scans my face, as if to check for himself, before he moves his hand away from my breastbone. “Have you gone through something like this before?” he probes, worried.
“I haven’t. Except maybe on the plane yesterday? But I’m okay now.” I gulp, and when I realize that he’s become my human comfort blanket for the second time in just as many days, a blush heats up my cheeks. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he mutters. “Can I get you anything? Some water? Do you want to sit down?”
“No, I’m good—I brought my own.” I dig through my bag for the bottle of water I carry everywhere.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks as he observes my every movement.
“Yeah. I’ll just have a sip.” I give him a brief smile, hoping it convincingly portrays that I’m fine. I’m mid-swig when my capacity for rational thought returns, and I finally absorb what just happened.
What I just did.
Because it sounded like Vivienne thinks Lewis is my boyfriend. And, instead of clearing up the misconception, I seem to have confirmed it.
My eyes widen. “Did I just…”
“Yep,” he confirms, popping the p.
“Shit,” I say under my breath, then look up at Lewis. Anger brews in the dark of his eyes, the depth of his frown and the twitch in his jaw.
The human brain is a mysterious, awe-inspiring organ, really, because mine makes a split-second decision and rattles off motor commands to the muscles in my limbs before I realize that Lewis has just uttered the words “So now that you’re okay, let’s talk about—” much too loud and echoing for this awfully empty corridor.
But at that point I’ve already clamped my hand over his mouth and pushed him toward the staircase, decidedly not willing to let Vivienne hear any discussion we’re about to have.
When we’ve reached the stone plaza in front of Schermerhorn Hall, he shakes me off.
“What were you thinking?” His voice is quiet but deadly.
“What do you mean?” I ask, feigning nonchalance.
With my two hemispheres exhausted from flashing danger at me and stuck processing the news about Jacob’s engagement, I don’t have much mind space to guess which particular part of this clusterfuck of a situation he means.
Not to mention that minor part of my brain that is trying to build a true-to-life sensory memory of Lewis’s soft lips against my fingers, the stubble of his jaw against my skin, the warmth of his thumb through the cotton of my T-shirt.