11
12:01 a.m.
Ethan’s watch read a minute past midnight by the time he hauled himself up from his desk. Bunsen was waiting, and his neighbors—faceless, nameless, but not deaf—would complain if the golden retriever started howling. Oxfords crunching in the litter on his office floor, he knelt in the narrow space between his chair and the wall and began to collect the screwed-up notes and documents, disposing of shredded research reports and sudoku graphs, hands moving mechanically to restore order.
He didn’t remember causing this chaos. He didn’t remember where the hours after his rush from Maiman Auditorium had gone, either. But he remembered Erin Monaghan murmuring to the Director of the United States Office of Science during his talk, remembered her leer at the microphone—
—remembered Chase sauntering up to his booth at a sixth grade science fair, asking why he’d transformed cow’s milk into plastic instead of using soy or almond milk, since he claimed to care so much about animal welfare, leaving his eleven-year-old self struggling to articulate the difference between vegetarianism and veganism in front of his classmates and his teacher, the merits of his project forgotten in his anxiety—
—remembered Dr. Kramer’s frown as the audience visibly lost interest in his scientifically sound but halting discourse, aware of his failure as a public speaker but helpless to course-correct himself under the hot, bright glow of the projector beam, the catastrophe only worsening when his rival chimed in with her glib simplification of the laws and fields of physics—
—kept seeing her in his doorway, barefoot with her shoes dangling in her hand, her loosened hair gilded by lamplight, triumphant—
Paper tore between his fingers, slicing the web of skin beside his thumb.
“Ah!”
He lobbed the offending sheet away. It was a sudoku grid, one of the fifty or so that he’d failed at tonight in his fugue. If she were here, Forster would likely have something clever to say about insults and injuries. He didn’t.
He’d won his challenge with her this morning, but he’d lost the day.
The data was clear on that.
His phone was also clear: no new texts from her. Maybe she was still at her office, too. I have a major work event, she’d written.
There were other notifications on his screen, though.
Karen Meyer had messaged to ask his suit size for Chase’s wedding party.
Could he get a year-long research placement somewhere in Siberia without cell service? Or on an oil rig in Antarctica? Then at least he wouldn’t have to attend that simpering celebration from hell.
Szymanski had also messaged, offering a brief commendation for the good parts of his talk.
His supervisor had sent three words.
Dr. John Kramer
My office. Monday.
…fuck.
He’d thrown off his tie as soon as he’d left the auditorium, but it somehow still managed to choke him. Bracing his palms against his desk, he forced himself to swallow through the pressure on his windpipe, to focus on the manageable sting of his papercut as it stretched wider with his flexing fingers.
Don’t panic. Just breathe. In. Out. In—
By failing to counter Erin’s left-handed questions at the podium, he’d lost attention, funding, and respect for not just his own research, but also for his department head’s work. He’d done it publicly. Dr. Kramer was right to be furious. Were there any research positions for quantum physicists at the South Pole? He never should’ve volunteered to present tonight.
But Dr. Kramer would’ve been displeased if he hadn’t.
Fuck!
No, Antarctica wasn’t far enough—though why… why should he exile himself, when it was Erin who was to blame? He knew his data and his topic, and while he wasn’t a gifted orator, he’d executed his talk creditably—if not up to Dr. Kramer’s standards of excellence, it hadn’t been a disaster—until she’d bulldozed in at the end. He’d contrived one good dig about human error with Fourier transforms, but then…
She’d meant to humiliate him, taking vengeance for his all-hands challenge. Escalating their feud. Making it public. He should’ve known. Who would believe him, though? He had no proof of her intention except his own instinctive, bone-deep knowledge of how she thought and acted. Who would listen to and validate his anger? Who would help him plan his retribution? Not Chase. Not Dr. Kramer. Not even sympathetic but diplomatic Szymanski, with his workplace visa to maintain.
Forster.
And suddenly, what he needed became so obvious. Not the fading pain in his fingers. Not Antarctica. No: he needed to talk to her. He needed to see her. Their messages weren’t enough. He needed to know her. He needed it now.
Standing in his office after midnight with his stomach in knots, he fumbled for his phone, clicked into their thread, and began to type.
Ethan
I know that we’ve talked about the Stanford– Berkeley rivalry as a problem. But what if it’s not?
He paused, exhaled. Then he tapped out a second question. The question. Reckless, like the photo he’d shared.
Ethan
Would you like to meet for coffee or a drink?
Zip.
With the message sent, he locked and pocketed his device. Watching the screen for her response would drive him insane. She’d reply when she was ready. Anyhow, he’d only sent his suggestion a minute ago. If she was out with friends, unwinding from her day in a rowdy dive bar or one of the Peninsula’s craft cocktail lounges, she might not see it for hours. He might have to wait until the morning for her answer. He already knew he wouldn’t sleep.
Despite his tempered expectations, however, Forster’s response came just after he’d exited the northbound freeway. Reaching to read it, he was grateful for the long traffic light near Stulsaft Park when he pulled up to the crosswalk.
Forster
I’d like that. Saturday night?
The tension in his chest lightened, fractionally but discernibly. He drove through the intersection and up the hill to his condominium complex. When he pulled into his parking space and switched off the engine, his pulse was deafening in the quiet. But he could breathe normally.
12:47 a.m.
Ethan
Yes to Saturday. Talk tomorrow, and see you soon.
As he unlocked his front door, stepped out of his Oxfords, and knelt to greet his frantic, slobbering retriever, his phone pinged again.
Forster
See you today.
“…and sitting tall on your mat, hands behind your thighs, curl your tailbone under your body and take a half roll-down until those arms are straight.”
Muscles trembled in her core. Her fingers dug into the backs of her legs.
“Roll back up, using your abdominals, leading with your belly button, not your head…”
She tried not to groan.
On a mat beside her, Martina’s face was pink, sweat beading into the curls making damp snarls around her temples. When their instructor passed back to the front of the exercise studio through the class’s supple, suffering ranks and away from their struggle with six repetitions of the half roll-down routine, she hissed out the universal words of a Pilates devotee:
“I think I’m dying.”
“Join me in hell.”
Erin’s jaw ached with effort. Heat radiated from her cheeks. “I’m already there.”
She was. She’d slept no more than a few minutes at a time last night, and she’d even bruised a knee against her headboard with her turning and thrashing.
Would you like to meet for coffee or a drink?
Bannister.
But: Please go.
Ethan.
She’d tied herself into knots in her sheets.
Not to mention, she’d spent a whole day in heels—well, almost a whole day, except for that brief barefoot moment in the Modern Physics building after hours—no! focus, roll down again—which had left her toes blistered and her hamstrings so tight that she could’ve plucked them like piano wires. Her muscles continued to scream at her.
“Lie back and press your palms to your mat. It’s circle time, guys, gals, and nonbinary pals! Extend your right leg with a flexed foot. Lift your left leg toward the ceiling. Remember to turn out that thigh. Good. Now circle your left leg toward your midline. Five reps. Here’s one.”
Circle. Circle.
Barefoot. Lamplight. Harsh breaths. Ethan. Please go.
Circle.
Breaths. Ethan. Go—
“And five. Release down to the mat. Right leg up.”
“How can you be in hell?”
Martina hissed. “You got one-onone time with—”
“Circle toward your midline…”
“—the Director of the Office of Science, and I heard from a barista at Blue Bottle that you sent someone from the security team over for danishes—”
“Less talking, more circles!”
Their instructor punished them with the shoulder bridge, swimming, and saw exercises, leaving Martina with no breath to probe for details and Erin with none to answer her. Despite the lactic acid coiling in her body, however, she was reluctant to descend from her swan dive pose, huffing into her mat hard enough to fog her glasses but remaining balanced on her chest and stomach with her legs lifted behind her even after the instructor released them to their cool-down. Cool-down meant that class was over, which meant that she and Martina would be headed to brunch soon, which meant more questions.
Reasonable questions. Questions about the Department of Energy’s visit—which Martina had missed due to a blue-moon schedule of three consecutive days off—that she didn’t particularly want to discuss.
She rolled up her Pilates mat, rinsed off her sweat in the bathroom, dropped a twist-back tank top over her sports bra and leggings, then shoved her blistered feet into a pair of sandals, pulling her ponytail so tight against her scalp that her eyelids stretched. But these were bearable discomforts, like the swan dive pose. She twisted her hair elastic even tighter.
“Ugh. I’m never wearing heels again,”
she groused as she and Martina left the studio. They passed a barre class in the next building, a paint-your-own-pottery shop, and several young families with luxury strollers and designer dogs while they threaded their way onto Santa Cruz Avenue.
“Friday was that bad, even with the adhesive strips and your fabulous suit?”
Martina directed them off the sidewalk and flagged down a waiter at Founder’s Toast for a table. “Morning, Jess.”
“Hard class?”
Jess led them to their usual alfresco spot on the patio, where shrubs lined a wrought-iron railing and manicured trees offered shade from the sun. “Coffee’s coming.”
“Thanks.”
They settled into woven chairs and Erin reached for her menu. But Martina steepled her fingers, eyeing her over a fragrant coffee pot that Jess summoned between them.
“Don’t you want to look at the menu?”
“It’s always the same. Everything’s always good. Now, what aren’t you telling me about yesterday? It’s not just the shoes, is it? And it can’t be the suit, because it’s something I actually approve of in your closet. I picked it out for you for your first talk at the International Conference on Physics, remember?”
“How do you even—”
“You hate the swan dive pose,”
Martina said. “Everyone hates it. But you kept at it in class. So you were stalling. You’re stalling now, too. You know that menu inside and out. Also, it’s upside down. Why?”
“Uh—did you see that they’ve started making their egg tartine on challah?”
“Erin.”
“Fine.”
She exhaled and set her menu aside. “The visit—it was fine. I made some connections.”
“And?”
Martina wouldn’t stop.
But she could change their conversation to the one topic guaranteed to distract her friend, couldn’t she?
“I’m meeting Bannister tonight.”
“What?”
Pushing their coffee out of the way, Martina planted her elbows on the table, the Department of Energy forgotten. “Tell me.”
“At the Wine Room in Palo Alto. Seven o’clock.”
“You’re going on a date with your mystery artist!”
“I don’t know if it’s a date—”
“Erin. It’s a date.”
“I… yes.”
She could admit that. Wanted to admit it.
“Oh my God. Finally.”
Martina motioned Jess over. “We’re ready to order. And we’re also having mimosas.”
Jess jotted down their usuals without asking: egg tartine for Erin, croissant Benedict for Martina. “What’s the occasion?”
“Erin has a date.”
“Really? If you need an outfit, a new boutique just opened up the street, near where Ann’s Coffee Shop used to be.”
“What an iconic spot. That 1960s decor. I’m sad it’s gone.”
Martina shook her head.
Jess shrugged. “But the boutique is cute. I’ll be back with those drinks. Congratulations, Erin.”
“It’s just a date,”
she reminded the world at large as Jess weaved back into the restaurant through a raft of serving trays. “Not that I won’t always take a mimosa after Pilates, because hydration is important and I owe you for that tip about adhesive strips with heels, but—”
“How long has it been since you’ve had just a date?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I know. You’ll be busy this afternoon, too, because we have to find something for you to wear. With that lingerie picture you sent? He’ll have expectations. We’ll check out the boutique.”
“I was planning to put on—”
“Jeans? Sneakers?”
“My suede moto jacket.”
“Plus, jeans and sneakers.”
“I’m cycling to the Wine Room, so yes. If I had one of those Santa Cruz boardwalk cruisers, I could maybe wear a dress without flashing traffic, but I don’t… and I don’t think I own any dresses.”
“That can be fixed. The main problem is, though: you’ll have helmet hair. Keep that genius brain safe, but—no, you know what?”
Martina grinned. “I’ll drive you to the Wine Room tonight.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
She hesitated while Jess approached with their plates.
“I won’t if you don’t want me to. But I’m curious about your mystery man. Bannister. I wouldn’t get in your way, but then if this really is some niche catfishing and he’s too good to be true—you saw those muscles and that dog!—I’ll be there for you.”
“How could it be catfishing? I was the one who reached out to him. And I know him now. I do. He’s a good man. A friend, even if nothing else comes of it.”
“I’m your best friend.”
Martina swirled hollandaise sauce across her Parma ham and croissant, tapping her fork for emphasis. “I’ll be thrilled for you if your date turns out well. But Bannister—whose real name you don’t know, I should remind you—is a stranger.”
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Maybe not. Still, you haven’t vetted him through any of the filters on a dating site. Which admittedly aren’t always accurate—what sort of person labels themselves as a political conservative and expects to match with anyone around here? But what I’m saying is that you only know what he’s told you about himself. You have no outside data. You’ve said that he doesn’t have much of an online presence. You can’t verify details independently. So, unless you tell me not to, I’ll be in the background tonight. Just in case.”
“Martina…”
Erin punctured a poached egg onto her challah. Then she sighed. “Fine. You’re right. Honestly, Wes and Adrian would probably thank you.”
“Which is why I’m doing this. Not to snoop on your artist, or to drink Riesling in a swanky spot with cute shoes on.”
Martina raised her mimosa.
“I’m glad I can facilitate your fun.”
“And my investigation of Jess’s boutique.”
They finished up brunch while Martina reviewed her progress lobbying Menlo Park’s city council for the preservation of her local pocket green space—the Perezes had lived in the area for generations in the same modest house, and Martina, her younger sibling Desi, and their father had seen the Peninsula’s eddies of gentrification and urbanization swell to a torrent—and then meandered up Santa Cruz Avenue to the boutique. A quick browse of the racks became an hour in a dressing room, Martina sampling herbal candles and assembling accessories, Erin abandoning her exercise clothes to pivot before a mirror in pretty, impractical outfits. She was careful to keep her phone out of reach. She didn’t want to accidentally send another picture to Bannister. She didn’t want the temptation of checking her work email, either. Not after Friday night. After…
“Try this one next.”
Martina passed a sleek blouse with semi-sheer paneling that slid off its hanger on one shoulder through the curtain. “This I could authorize with jeans.”
Grateful for the distraction, glad to busy her twitching hands before she could cave and reach for her screen, she slipped the top over her head, then turned to evaluate herself. Shimmers of bronze in the dark, asymmetrical fabric highlighted her collarbones and a hint of her navel through the paneling. It really was gorgeous.
“Yes?”
from Martina.
She shrugged at the mirror, smiling now. “Yes.”
Despite her earlier protestations, she was relieved to spend the afternoon with her friend. With the shimmery top purchased, they fetched Martina’s own colorful going-out clothes from her house. Then they returned to Live Oak Avenue for an assessment of potential jeans to pair with her blouse, decisions on what to do with her hair, and a wave at Kai and Ashley as her roommates headed out for a ride up Skyline Boulevard. Singing along to a golden oldies radio station kept her mind occupied and her nerves at bay while she showered, then sat still as Martina wove a slender braid behind her ear, brushing out the rest of her hair until it crackled with electricity and sweeping it over her shoulder.
When Wes’s watch read six forty-five—she’d refused to swap it out for a bracelet, though she’d conceded to wearing simple gold studs in her ears—she was dressed in flats with tapered dark jeans, the semi-sheer top skimming her ribcage and hips under her suede motorcycle jacket, her half-down hair a tangle waiting to happen, perfume on her pulse points, and walking down to Martina’s car on the street.
It was time.
“Are you feeling as good as you look?”
Martina pulled her ancient coupe through the intersection onto El Camino Real. The vehicle trembled slightly with their southbound acceleration, but she ignored it to appraise Erin again.
“The physiological results of anxiety and excitement are the same.”
“So you’re excited.”
“I’m excited.”
They parked underneath Palo Alto’s city hall, then crossed onto Ramona Street. The pedestrian block between Hamilton Avenue and University Avenue was lined with European-themed restaurants, a popular cafe chain, tea shops, and a pricey salon. Balconies overflowed with wisteria, and art projects or political signs leaned in the windows of upper floor apartments. Rock tracks blaring from a college bar clashed with an Italian eatery’s Pavarotti mix. The tables encroaching onto the street and sidewalks were packed with crowds of Stanford students, patent tech lawyers, families with labradoodles, and couples leaning close over candle centerpieces. Waiters sped by with cocktails and artisanal pizzas. They edged through the crush, heat lamps blazing on their faces, twinkling lights shining from the trunks of trees in planter pots on the pavement, windows along the street fogged with exhaled conversations and alcohol.
Erin shed her jacket before she and Martina even reached the Wine Room. An adobe building modeled after the classical Old California style, exposed timbers upheld its roof above squashy leather chairs and a glossy bar. Open shutters spilled light and the shadows of bottles onto upright wine barrels doubling as tables outside. People sat on benches near the windows, leaning against the sills and trailing their hands into the fresh air, fingers tapping to the bass beats of barely audible music. Others chatted under a hanging sign by the door, friends and strangers mingling to enjoy the night and Saturday’s freedom from spreadsheets or quarterly earnings reports. It was packed. Despite the heat radiating out onto the sidewalk, she shivered.
“Not anxiety. Anticipation,”
Martina reminded her. Taking Erin by the hand, she amiably pushed a path past the bouncer and into the front room, then cleared their way to a corner by one of the windows with smiles and elbows.
While her friend flagged down a waiter for a wine list, Erin settled onto her bench. Wes’s watch showed two minutes to seven. She was early—take that, Ethan!—but just barely.
Was Bannister here, too?
She could’ve already run into him, their shoulders jostling in Martina’s wake. The blond near the unlit fireplace, several buttons popped loose on his shirt to reveal a waxed chest shinier than the bar…; a group of software engineers in graphic hoodies crowding the doorway to the back room, tossing off a tasting flight of sparkling wine like shots…; the stubbled jaw with glasses and a swirl of ink on his forearms…
Their gazes caught. The man cocked his head. He straightened up from his casual lean against one of the couches. He set down his drink.
But Bannister didn’t have tattoos.
So she looked away—and her stomach hopped into her throat when a hand tapped hers.
“It’s seven o’clock. I’m going to fade back.”
Martina.
“Flag me down if you need me, all right?”
She breathed. “I will.”
“Now, knock him dead.”
Martina tweaked her blouse an inch lower, grinning at the result—but as she turned to the bar, her smile froze. Then it dropped. Paused mid-step in her dainty, spiky heels, she stared past Erin’s shoulder. Her nails pinched down hard.
“Ouch! What’s—”
“Erin.”
Ignoring her protest, Martina swiveled her toward the window. “Look outside.”
She did.
Ethan Meyer was approaching the Wine Room.