Chapter Six
Bernie
617-495-3094: I put your number in my phone this morning while you were sleeping. Is that creepy? Also, why isn’t your phone password protected…that’s abnormal.
I hitch my tote a little higher on my shoulder as I hurry back to the conference hotel. It rained after I got back to my room, and the tip-tapping on my window convinced me to close my eyes ‘for a little while.’ Rather than feeling refreshed, I feel slow and tired–two nights without enough sleep is catching up to me.
One more night, Bernie, you got this, I promise myself. I just hope I don’t look like a total frizzball by the time I get to the other hotel. June in Boston is humid as hell, and I can feel my hair expanding in its braid.
Bernie: I mean...you are a stalker, right? So… meets expectations?
Ash: Hmm, well I’m glad I did it otherwise I’d be sitting outside of your hotel room until you let me in. You never told me if I could see you tonight.
Bernie: I told you I had a happy hour and dinner tonight. We’re going to get breakfast tomorrow?
Ash: Or…We could have drinks and dessert after your dinner? Better yet, you could skip the dinner and have dinner with me. Or I could pick you up and take you to my apartment. It’s almost the weekend, you could take a few days off and let me show you Boston?
Last night between bites of noodles and spoonfuls of frosting, Ash told me he lived in the Boston area and had only been at the bar because he was meeting his brother for a drink. The desire to say yes is so strong it scares me. I already took a week off, I can’t afford for Gail or anyone else on the team to think I’m not serious about my work.
Bernie: Wow, quite the offer. I don’t know what time my dinner will end. And I don’t think I can move my flight. The university paid for the ticket.
Ash: I’m happy to buy you a new ticket for Sunday.
Why does he have to make everything feel so easy? Like he can remove every barrier. I think about when I met Stephen. I’d felt so flattered that he’d even noticed me like that. Is that what this is? Ash makes me feel like magic, but magic isn’t real is it?
I think about how disappointed Gail looked when I told her Stephen was my ex. Of course she was disappointed. She’s been in this business long enough to hear the story of the bright young postdoc and the decorated professor.
Bernie: Let me think about it.
Ash: Of course, but what about tonight?
Bernie: I don’t want to be a bother. I’m not sure how late it will go.
Ash: Sunshine, I will pick you up anytime. Just tell me where to be.
Is it really this simple? You want someone and you just seize the opportunity? I realize I’m stopped on the sidewalk staring down at my phone. I take a deep breath and release it slowly before typing a response. Deflect, that’s the name of the game.
Bernie: Laying it on a little thick aren’t you, high beams?
Ash: Can you blame me?
Jesus, this guy.
Bernie: I’ll text you later. I need to put on my game face.
I quickly screenshot our texts and send them to Pru. I need assistance, I need a peer review of my life. Unfortunately, peer reviews are never as helpful as you need them to be. I just--I don’t understand. I don’t trust our chemistry, that it’s real. I’m not sure I trust myself anymore, I guess. And isn’t that fucking sobering?
Bernie: SOS. This guy. Can I call you before dinner?
Pru: Holy shit, B. You’re pet naming each other? What kind of dick magic does this guy have?
She follows her text with a series of eggplant and magic wand emojis. I roll my eyes.
Pru: Is he a dick magician?
Pru: Hopefully not an illusionist?
Pru: Have you been dickmatized?
Bernie: Why are we even friends? Call you in about an hour and a half.
I power down my phone and walk into the lobby. I might not trust myself to reach for possibilities in my love life, but I can make small talk and sit through an awards banquet. I can do this, it’s showtime.
***
“Tell me more about your red team process. How do you recruit faculty with…” I zone out of the conversation and sip my wine. It’s nothing like the wine I had with Ash, I think wistfully.
I scan the crowd as Gail weighs in with the perfect recruitment strategy to develop a diverse pool of red team reviewers for grant proposal applications. Do I want to see Ash again tonight? My body flushes, duh. I think about the feel of his beard as it runs along the inside of my leg and his fing–
“Dr. Murphy?”
I look up, and Gail is looking at me expectantly.
“Oh, I’m sorry. What was that?”
The group around me continues to stare.
“I was…looking for more appetizers,” I explain lamely.
“I was telling these folks about your analysis system for maintaining our red team pool.”
“Ah, yes, umm,” I stammer trying to gather my thoughts. It’s always hard to know what to share, what are the details, the secrets that keep you employed and what can you give that helps people understand your process is superior. “Well, I developed a database of faculty at the institution and maintain records that include their expertise, recent publications, and funding history. When we need a red team, we search the database to include folks who might not have been asked before so we always keep a fresh set of eyes on the team. This also improves the diversity of voices giving feedback and prevents burnout. Especially for these big grants that take a lot of effort but are competitive and might not turn into anything.”
Gail nods, looking pleased.
“How did you develop the database, do you run a query through HR data?” I keep a straight face but, HR data? Was this guy serious?
“No. Our records include data from three separate sources, it all needs to be manually collated and maintained. I developed something kind of like a codebook. It’s essentially a guide to help our team read the data between the lines so we can all maintain the database and it stays up to date.”
I watch a few eyes glaze over. I know these guys are all quantitative, they’re not going to understand the nuances of developing a codebook that can be used by a variety of people with different amounts of time and expertise. That’s the problem with traditional academics, they don’t think about how their skills as a researcher can translate into different spaces within the organization or the potential of all the other people who work at the university besides those on a tenure track.
“A codebook. I’d love to see an example of this. West Lafayette has been quite successful lately in both private and federal awards, and I was curious about the secret to your success.”
I just bet you were , I think to myself, looking to Gail to chime in on the direction she wants to take this conversation.
“Yeah, we’re happy with the progress we’ve made since Dr. Murphy joined our team. Her research expertise in the university workforce and funding patterns has definitely helped give us the edge. We’re only prototyping the system now, but perhaps if we continue to see promise, we’ll do a presentation at next year's conference.”
I smile and take another sip of wine. I almost choke when I feel a heavy hand cup my shoulder.
“What’s all this about a prototype?” Stephen’s voice cuts into our little huddle.
“Dr. Graham, congratulations on your promotion.” One of the men steps forward and shakes Stephen’s hand like he's a freaking celebrity.
“Thank you, Tom. I appreciate it.”
I shift, trying to shake his hand off my shoulder, but he not so subtly squeezes it instead.
“Graham, when do you officially start your new role? It’s Vice President of Research, right?” a voice to my left asks.
“And Chief Science and Technology officer because of my consulting work with the NSF,” Stephen adds, because of course he does.
I watch Gail’s face as she stares at Graham’s hand. She looks pissed. Stephen takes a deep breath to dive into the details and I quickly interrupt. “Sorry gentleman, I see that appetizer tray calling my name.” I point behind us and brush off Stephen’s hand, leaving the circle and crossing through the crowd to the other side of the ballroom.
Was he freaking kidding me? Touching me in public? Like he fucking owns me? I set my glass down, hands shaking.
Taking a deep breath, I catch Gail breaking away from the group and slowly heading my way. I quickly pop into another group, sinking my hands in my pockets so no one can see them shake.
“How are we doing tonight, gentlemen?”
A few of them look up but most continue their conversation like I didn’t say anything. Nice . The gender imbalance in these groups can feel a little uncomfortable sometimes. Most university leadership is held by a bunch of old white dudes because they’re the biggest tenure group. Besides college presidents, most administrators start as faculty, and universities typically hire administrative positions from within, pulling from their senior or tenured faculty. It sucks, but it works to my benefit tonight because I’m able to stand there looking engaged without being worried that anyone will ask me a question.
Gail shoulders her way into the group. I hate that she feels this need to protect me. That she might think I’m a little less competent because of this. There is no doubt in my mind that is exactly what she’s trying to do, guard me. I touch her elbow and walk toward the bar.
“Gail, I’m fine. I know you have goals tonight. Don’t worry about my drama. I’m good.”
“I don’t like this, Bernie. This isn’t right. You know I care about you—you should have told me.”
“Look, I’m really sorry. I had no idea he would approach you, but please, don’t worry about me. I know you want to hit your contact list.” I try to blank my face, wiping away any sense of distress she might see. But in reality, hot tight rage is roiling in my belly, climbing up my throat, wanting any outlet. I can feel my face flush and my jaw clenches, but I sure as hell am not going to acknowledge it. He’s never touched me in public like that. I was always his dirty secret at work, open in our personal lives and not our professional ones.
I try to steady my breathing and remind myself I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to give Stephen fucking Graham a single second more of my time. I clear my throat. “Now, who else do you want me to chat up?”
I turn to survey the room and pretend like she isn’t looking right through me. We both know there’s no point in acting tough—Gail is the like the OG of tough. But she decides to let it go and relief washes over me as I listen closely to her instructions. On autopilot, I paste a bright smile on my face and go to work.
***
“I’m losing it, Pru,” I whisper into the phone, huddled behind some musty, long curtains in the abandoned conference ballroom. Our dinner starts in fifteen minutes, and I need to get my shit together fast.
“The date was that good?” she whispers back. “Did he go downtown?”
God, I love this woman. I giggle because I can’t seem to help myself. Just thinking about Ash eases a little of my tension. “No. I mean yes, he definitely did, but no, I’m talking about Stephen. He’s been chasing me around this fucking cocktail party for an hour. I am literally hiding behind a curtain before dinner. I’m going to lose my damn mind and stab him with a butter knife. Pru, he’s been asking Gail where I am. I had to tell her we dated. Why is he doing this to me?”
“That motherfucker. I’m going to write a bot that sends him so many spam emails he’ll have to change his freaking name. I’m gonna…”
“Prudence Landry. First, thank god you never took a computer science class. Second, stop it. I will not recover if you get arrested. I need to get through this, help me. ” I take in a shaky breath.
“Wow, naming me and shaming me, huh? Right, okay.” I swear I can hear her sit up. I sniffle and laugh.
She starts to shout over the phone. “You got this. That fucker doesn’t mean anything to you. He’s dirt on the bottom of your shoe. He lost the best thing that ever came into his life, and it’s not your responsibility to hear him whine about missing it. You are a treasure.”
I laugh and lean against the wall with closed eyes.
“That’s right, laugh. Laugh in his face. Your life isn’t over, your life is just beginning. He can go suck a bag of dicks.”
“You’re crazy.”
“You love me. Also, I could totally learn how to make a bot if I wanted to. The internet is a wild place, just ask my students. Now tell me everything.”
And I do. I tell her about the frosting and the kisses. How he wants to date. How good he makes me feel.
“He asked me what I like, Pru. He asked me to show him what I wanted.” I pause. Pru makes approving noises. “I like him. I think I’m going to do it. Date him.” I can hear her typing again.
“Are you going to stay the weekend with him?” she asks almost absently.
“I’m not sure, yet. I don’t like taking vacation days without notice.”
Pru sighs in disapproval on the other line. Being dedicated to a job is one area we are not aligned. “What kind of doctor was he again?” she asks instead of arguing with me about it.
“I don’t know, I think a cardiologist? We didn’t really talk about work. Why?”
“B, I’ve been looking all over for an Ashish Mishra, MD, and unless he lives in Cleveland and is in his forties, I can’t find your guy. You’re sure he’s a doctor?”
I frown. Did he talk about his work? I was kind of busy making sure we used every single one of the condoms he brought. “Well, I called him Dr. Mishra, and he didn’t correct me. He works here in Boston with his brother.”
“Hmm…” More typing. “What if I…” She’s quiet for a while. Pru always said she should have a PhD in Google instead of sociology, and I don’t doubt her sleuthing skills.
My phone beeps. It's a group text from Gail telling us seating has started.
“I got to go, Pru. We have this dinner.” I straighten from the wall and draw back the curtain, walking slowly across the empty space, my heels echoing.
“Okay, B. Umm, okay.”
I pause. Her voice sounds weird. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing. Umm–we can talk later, yeah? After your dinner?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking about meeting Ash for drinks.”
“Oh. Umm.”
“What the hell Pru, you’re freaking me out. What’s wrong?”
“Bernie, are you sure he’s an MD?”
My feet freeze me in place. “What?”
“Did he tell you he was a doctor?” Her voice is quiet.
I think back to the bar, my mind racing over our conversation. Did he tell me? No. We were kind of busy. He told me about his family. About his bikes. How he went to school in the UK. I bite my lip realizing work wasn’t something we talked about.
“He, he didn’t correct me. I…I assumed. Because of the hotel…” The hotel he wasn’t staying in. Unease starts to creep into my thoughts.
“Okay.” I hear her take a deep breath. “Look, are you in a good place to hear some news or do you want to wait?” I don’t know the answer to her question.
“Murph? They’re seating us now. You ready?” Cody pops his head into the ballroom and glances at his phone. Gail must be trying to find me. I blink at him.
“Can you text it to me?” I ask, walking toward the door again, following Cody down the long hallway
“You sure?”
“Fuck, Pru, you’re freaking me out. Just text it. I will look after dinner.”
“Okay. Call me if you need me, okay? I could be wrong. I haven’t seen the guy. And it’s not bad. He’s not like a murderer or anything.”
I nod even though she can’t see me and say goodbye as Cody looks over his shoulder at me quizzically. “You good, Murph?”
I blink and turn off my phone, sliding it into my blazer pocket.
“Yeah. This thing has assigned seating?” I step next to him and bump his shoulder. Cody’s a good guy. He helped me convince his wife to join my cycling group after they had their second baby to help her take time for herself. And his girls have the most adorable squishy cheeks.
“Yeah, I think so. They wanna spread out the talent, I guess,” he jokes, and I snort.
“Whatever, how’s Mia and the girls?”
He tells me about his daughter's plans for Mother’s Day, and I walk into the room smiling.
Gail’s waiting for us at the door, and she guides me around the big square dining setup and places me in a seat, taking the place card in front of me and putting mine there instead. I’m confused as I watch her walk all the way around to the other side of the table to sit right next to Stephen.
She puts her place card in front of her plate and shuffles her chair under the table, not sparing him a glance. I watch as he looks at her and his lips purse just the tiniest bit to show his displeasure. Stephen slowly scans the room to look for me, and I can’t do it. I turn to the side, introducing myself to my tablemates, feeling his stare.
Pru’s right, I don’t owe him shit.
But I do owe Gail Locke, big time.