He started kissing her instinctively, before fully coming down. And then he kept on kissing her, and kissing her, and kissing her, through the tail end of her orgasm and through the crest of his own. She didn’t always kiss him back, overwhelmed by the shudders running through her, but her mouth stayed underneath his, even as the pleasure slowly subsided. Sweat cooled on their bodies, the tempo of their hearts quieted, and once it was time to pull away from her, Eli found that he couldn’t. His fingers remained between her thighs, and he began to trace soft, aftershock-inducing circles around her clit, dragging his fingers through the damp mess at her opening, and . . .

It wasn’t over yet. It couldn’t be over. They’d just gotten started, and the things he could do for her, the things they could do for each other were beyond this world, and—

Rue turned away from him. “Eli.” Her fingers slid down to grip his wrist. “I have to go.”

“What?”

“Please.”

He moved away, giving her space. But said, “Rue. Come on.” Body still twitching with pleasure, she slid out of bed. The moment she stood, her legs almost gave out. Eli reached forward, steadying her before she collapsed. “Rue? What the hell?”

“I’m fine.” She took a deep breath and held out a halting hand. She sounded weak. Not like herself. “Just a . . . a cramp, I think.” She turned to him, and she was undone. Destroyed. As ruined as he felt, and Eli wanted to pull her back. Have her underneath him. He wanted to clean her up and do everything all over again, a thousand times over.

“Rue.”

She ignored him, silent in a busy, industrious way that involved cleaning herself of his semen with her underwear, pulling on her T-shirt with trembling hands, retrieving her pants. Not meeting his eyes.

He exhaled a laugh. “Are you really . . . you’re done,” he half said, half asked.

“Yeah.” She shrugged. Her breathlessness belied her indifference. “You aren’t?”

Fuck no, he thought. Said nothing.

“I’m going. I . . . thank you. It was fun. Maybe I’ll see you again. If not, have a good life and all that.” She was gone before he could think of a response. He watched the door close behind her, and when he glanced away, his eyes fell on her panties, forgotten in a heap of dark blue cotton on top of the sheets.

Eli covered his eyes, wondering how he’d ever thought that once was going to be enough.

12

BECHDEL TEST: FAILED

RUE

Early on Sunday I dragged myself out of bed after an unsettled night of tossing and turning. I showered, had a long, quiet, luxurious breakfast of oatmeal and berries, and went to work.

Going in on weekends wasn’t part of my normal routine. I’d done enough free labor during grad school and my pre-Florence internships, and liked to keep a semblance of work-life balance, even if my weekends tended to be spent underwhelmingly, doing very little either at home or at Tisha’s.

But Tisha was somewhere south of Austin at some grandaunt’s birthday party, and even though I had a standing invitation to all Fuli family things, I skipped the ones involving relatives I’d never met. So I went into work, staying until the sky turned dark and my stomach growled. In those nine hours, my phone buzzed with exactly two texts, but I was busy running flow cytometry on my samples. I only bothered to read them as I headed back to my car, and it was almost an accident—a misplaced tap when I pulled up the flashlight app, because the sensor lights outside of Kline were busted, and maintenance hadn’t yet gotten around to switching them out.

The texts were from an unknown Austin number. The first: Are you okay? And, approximately one hour later: Rue, I need to know if you’re okay.

Eli had not deleted my number when I’d asked him to. Or maybe he’d found it in the Kline employee directory—who knew? And really, who cared? The sheer triviality of it all could have swept me away like a leaf in a storm. I tossed my phone in the passenger seat, not intending to reply. After starting the engine, I changed my mind.

So, we’d had sex, and it had been . . .

It had been all that.

We’d agreed that mutually satisfying sexual activity would be the period terminating the sentence of our acquaintance. Not replying would just worry Eli, and tack on subordinate clauses we could both do without. And since he’d probably spent the day trying to convince one of Kline’s board members to hand him the tech that was the product of Florence’s blood, sweat, and tears, I did not want that. I did not want him in my life.

I’m fine. Been working all day. Have a great weekend.

It was Sunday night—little weekend left to be had greatly. I drove home, had dinner, and then tossed and turned until it was finally time to go back to Kline.

Eli did not text again.

Monday I was on duty with Matt, a chore that had me wistfully wishing that giving wedgies didn’t constitute an HR violation. Tuesday I spent holed up in the lab. Wednesday it was my office. For the first time in my life, my paperwork was complete well before its deadline. When Tisha visited, I had to get up and let her in.

“Did you lock yourself in your office? Were you like, masturbating over spandex porn?”

“I’m just sick of people dropping by.”

“Do that many people drop by? I thought your nicely frosty personality was enough of a deterrent.”

“I must be slipping.”

“Don’t worry, I still get ‘would not save ninety-nine percent of humanity in case of apocalypse’ vibes from you.”

“Phew.”

Tisha asked me to go for a walk at the nearby park, to accompany her to the vending machine, to visit Florence. “I’m drowning in reports,” I said, and maybe Tisha knew it was a half lie, but she was the kind of friend who gave me not only unconditional love, but also the space I needed.

Florence stopped by to check on the progress on my patent, and the guilt and shame I felt at seeing her smiling face nearly paralyzed me. “Any updates on Harkness?” I asked, without bothering to sound casual.

Florence rolled her eyes. “All that asshole licking they’ve been doing on Eric Sommers’s taint must have worked, because a board meeting was called. At least the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles of hostile takeovers haven’t been around.” I should have been disappointed that the person I’d gone to great lengths to avoid for the last three days hadn’t even been at Kline, but relief drowned all other emotions. Florence’s expression switched to concern. “Eli Killgore hasn’t been bothering you, has he?”

My stomach sank. I was unable to reply, and Florence could tell.

“Rue, if he’s done anything to you, I swear to god—”

“No, he hasn’t. He . . . I haven’t seen him.”

Liar. Liar. Ungrateful, blatant liar.

“Okay, good.” She seemed relieved. “I can tell you’re worrying about me and Kline, Rue, but don’t, okay? Not worth your time. Just focus on the science.”

Her compassion and protectiveness intensified my guilt. I tried to imagine how I would feel if Florence slept with some guy who was trying to steal my patent, and the magnitude of the betrayal was staggering. I’d fucked up, knowingly. Selfishly. And I was going to have to deal with the shame of it, and the knowledge that being with Eli had been so . . .

It didn’t matter.

By Thursday I’d managed a decent night of sleep, and on Friday I was back on track. Kline’s blue hallways felt less like the open sea, full of ambushing, flesh-mangling sharks, and more like a tranquil pond in which the height of excitement was figuring out who’d started a fire in Lab D.