Eli rolled his eyes. “How about decency?”

“Eh. Overrated.”

Eli and Minami exchanged a long, conversation-containing look, punctuated by Minami clapping once and getting to her feet. “Since Rue might be too polite to ask Hark to go drown himself in a claw-foot bathtub, how about we just call it a night?”

“Sounds good even to me,” Hark muttered.

“Fantastic. You’re clearly not sober, so we’ll just drop you off on our way home. You can pick up your car tomorrow, when you slink back here to beg for Eli’s forgiveness for the way you acted in the presence of his friend.”

“I should leave, too,” Rue said. Eli hated how small her voice sounded, or the idea of her going anywhere. But her posture was tense, and it was obvious that she didn’t want him to protest.

He held out his hand. “Give me your keys.” He glared at Hark. “I’ll move your car out of whatever mess this jackass made.”

When Eli came back from the rain, Minami was talking with Rue in hushed tones. “. . . just drunk,” he heard her murmur. “He gets weird. Honestly, the Verdicchio should have been CBD infused. Hey, if you ever want to get coffee, my corporate email is just my first name. I check it, like, every twenty minutes. It’s a problem.” He sighed, went into the kitchen, and returned with a Tupperware of leftovers.

“For me?” Hark asked. His smile was sheepish, but Eli wasn’t going to let him off the hook just yet.

“Nope. You can eat shit.” He deposited the container in Rue’s hands, then murmured, only for her: “Drive carefully, okay?” He leaned in and pressed a kiss on her soft lips, one that she may not have expected, but still returned. “And if you want to . . .” He had no idea how to finish that sentence. Talk? Fuck? Play Uno? All of the above?

She nodded, but Eli wasn’t sure she understood what he meant, or how to explain it without sending her running.

“Okay, we’re going,” Minami said. “Byeee, thank you for dinner!”

Eli sighed and watched them trickle outside, desperate for one last glimpse of Rue’s face, but he caught none.

24

I DON’T DISLIKE HIM

RUE

And you’re assuming they were referring to Florence, because . . . ?”

I watched Tisha’s forehead crinkle on FaceTime and nodded. It was the same question I’d asked myself a handful of times since yesterday.

Or one hundred.

“Because I have exactly two friends. And if it’s not Florence . . . is there something you want to tell me?”

“Good point,” she conceded.

I scratched my temple. I’d slept poorly and fitfully, my brain an agitated mess of Conor Harkness’s taunting voice, white wine filling my glass, and the way Eli had rested his chin over my head as he stirred the boiling water. At some point early in the morning, right before falling asleep, I decided that I needed some distance from Eli. To help my body process what he could do to me.

“I looked them up,” I told Tisha. “As much as I could. Most of the hits regarding those four—”

“Eli and his Harkness friends?”

“Correct. Most hits are about their recent finance work, but with some digging—”

“Define ‘some’?”

“A couple hours of exploration of digital archives. Tisha, I can place three of them—Minami, Hark, and Eli, at UT ten years ago. In the chemical engineering department.”

“What about the other one?”

“Sul. Still at UT, but in chemistry.” I pressed my lips together. “I’m not the best at reading interpersonal dynamics—”

“Understatement. Please continue.”

“—but I think that the original friend nucleus was Minami, Hark, and Eli. Sul became part of the group when he married her.”

“I can see that.”

I was glad Tisha thought so, because I wouldn’t have bet a string of used dental floss on my own analytical skills. “They did overlap with Florence at UT. Minami got her PhD from Cornell eleven years ago, with a dissertation on biofuels, so she must have been a postdoc there. Hark’s mentor was Dr. Rajapaksha.”

“Who?”

“Some guy who retired before our times, even though he was still young. And I found an old page about Eli. It misspelled his last name—only one l—and that’s why it took me a while. His mentor was also Dr. Rajapaksha. And in his first year Eli won some kind of early-career grant for his work. Guess what on?”

Tisha’s forehead wrinkled even more. “Please, tell me it’s not biofuels.”

I couldn’t do that, so I said nothing.

“Okay.” Tisha blew out some air. “Could they have been at UT when Florence was, and involved in her area of work, and not have crossed paths with her? Would that be possible?”

I worried my lower lip. “I don’t think that there were any faculty I wasn’t aware of back in grad school. But one of my thesis committee members called me Rhea throughout my defense, and I doubt he’d recognize me if we met at the supermarket.”

“But what if you launched a hostile takeover of his lemonade stand?”

“I . . .” That’s where the tangle of my thoughts became unteasable. “In that case, I cannot imagine that he wouldn’t at least do some research on me.” Tisha nodded, and I continued, “It’s possible that that’s exactly what Florence did. Maybe she had no memories of them until she researched them.”

“And forgot to update us.”

“Or maybe she simply hasn’t had the time or energy to look them up.”

“Only one way to find out.”

I nodded. “My performance evaluation meeting is tomorrow. I’ll ask then.”

“Good plan. Except, how are you going to bring up the fact that you were sharing a meal with those people?” I winced. “I guess you could just tell her the truth. ‘Florence, my monthly dose of shitty orgasms is currently being provided by Eli Killgore—nothing personal.’”

I glanced at the pepper plant on my windowsill.

“Oh, wow.” Tisha whistled. “Not shitty, then.”

Not shitty. More like magnificent, and nuclear, and probably sex redefining. At least for me.

“What’s he like?” Tisha asked. “Eli, I mean.” I massaged my temples, trying to stave off the mortification, and she quickly followed up with “It’s not—Rue, I’m not trying to be accusatory. If despite my advice and your common sense you’re still seeing this guy, I’ll support you through your questionable choices because I love you and because you’ve done the same for me. The least you can do is share the filthy deets.”

“Right. He’s good. Very good.” It’s the whole damn point, to see you lose it. “He’s a little . . .”

“What?”

“Bossy.”

Tisha’s eyebrows rose. “In a bad way?”

“No.” I wasn’t sure I was ready to get into the weeds of it, yet. Not that Tisha wouldn’t cheer me into buying my own set of flogs.

“Okay. What else? What’s he like as a person?”

“I don’t know him as a person.”

“You’ve spent some time with him. You must have talked about something. What did you find out?”

Nothing, I nearly said, but the word was swallowed by an avalanche. College athlete. Sister, friends, dog—they all love him. Honest, but never cruel. Not put off by how awkward I am, my silences. Formerly engaged. May be destined for tragedy, just like me. Easy to talk to. Almost a pro scientist. Would have been good at it, too. Has some horrific stories—almost as horrific as mine. Teases me, but never like he’s laughing at me. Kind. Funny. That undercurrent of unease that seems to permeate most of my social interactions—it’s just not there with him. Great cook. Great to cook with. Effortless. “That I don’t dislike him.” Not at all.

“Hmm. He is cute in that ‘I play rugby on Sundays’ kind of way.”