I nod slowly. And then I nod again, inhaling deeply, untangling my overwhelmed thoughts.

Yes, academic interviews are optimized to ensure the candidate’s maximum suffering—but this is situation-room-level politicking, more than I prepared for. I’m a simple girl. With simple needs. All I want is to spend my days solving hydrodynamic equations to calculate the large-scale spatiotemporal chaos exhibited by dry active nematics. And maybe, if possible, buy life-compatible levels of pancreatic hormones at reasonable prices.

But—I bite my lower lip, thinking quickly—maybe I can do this. I’m a great physicist, a pro at giving others what they want, and once I get this job, it’ll be just me and my science. And being selected over Smith-Turner’s candidate? It’d be like avenging Dr. L. and theoretical physics, even just a little. What a lovely, heartwarming thought.

“Okay,” I tell Monica. I met her all of ten minutes ago, but we’re looking at each other like lifelong allies. That accelerated camaraderie that comes from plotting a murder together. Jonathan Smith-Turner’s, of course. “I can do that.”

She’s pleased. “I know this is unorthodox. But you’re the ideal candidate. What’s best for the department.”

“Thank you.” I smile, projecting self-assurance I don’t quite feel. “I won’t let you down.”

She smiles back, at once warm and steely. “Very well. Let’s go. The rest of the search committee should be here.” I follow her to the entrance, head spinning with new information, trying not to walk like a T. rex. “Ah, there they all are.”

The people nestled in the waiting area are, it pains me to say, embarrassingly easy to identify as physicists. It’s not the cargo pants or the sweater vests or the widespread uncombable hair syndrome. Not the eyeglass chains, worn unironically. It’s not even that they’re all men, in line with the hyperabundance of dudes in my field.

It’s that they’re having a physics pun-off.

“What’s the best book on quantum gravity?” an elderly gentleman in transition lenses is asking. He looks like a benign version of the Penguin from Batman. “The one that’s impossible to put down! Get it?”

The laughter that follows sounds genuine. Ah, my people.

“Everyone.” Monica clears her throat. “This is Dr. Elsie Hannaway. So pleased that she’s joining us tonight.”

I smile warmly, feeling like I’m auditioning for a reality show. Academia’s Got Talent. Dancing with the Profs. The Bachelor (of Science). I’m greeted by the hesitant, awkward handshakes of those who feel more at home staring at a whiteboard than exchanging physical contact, but I don’t hold it against them. I’m the same; I’ve just learned to hide it a bit better.

Several faculty members are familiar to me, both theorists and experimentalists, some just by name, others from conferences and guest lectures. Penguin turns out to be Sasha Volkov, and he gets a wider smile than the others. “I am a fan of your articles on dark matter,” I say. It’s not a lie—Volkov’s a big deal. I’m familiar enough with his work to kiss his ass a bit. “I’d love to chat about—”

“Dr. Hannaway,” he interrupts me, all sharp consonants and round belly, “I have a very important question.”

Oh? “Of course.”

“Do you know what the formula for a velociraptor is?”

I scowl. The what, now? Is he quizzing me on something? The formula for the—oh.

Oh, right.

I clear my throat. “Is it, by any chance, um, a distanceraptor divided by a timeraptor?”

He regards me icily for a second. Then he breaks into a slow, pleased, belly-deep laugh. “This one”—he points at me, glancing at Monica—“I like this one. Good sense of humor!”

Clearly, the Elsie that Volkov wants doles out physics dad jokes. I’ll have to build a repertoire.

“I think we’re all here. We should head for the table—oh.” Monica stops, staring at someplace high behind my shoulder. Her expression hardens. “There are Jonathan and Andrea. Better late than never.”

I take a deep breath, bracing myself for this meeting. I can be nice to Jonathan Smith-Turner. I can be polite to this waste of academic space. And I can make him cry by getting this job.

My eyes hold Monica’s for a fraction of a second, a silent promise, and then I turn around, ready to be perfectly pleasant, ready to shake the asswipe’s hand without saying Yikes or I hate you or Thank you for ruining physics for us, dick.

And then I stop.

Because the person who just came in—

The person standing in the entrance of the restaurant, snowflakes melting in his light hair—

The person unbuttoning his North Face coat—

—is none other than Jack Smith.

OceanofPDF.com

I blink stupidly—one, two, seven times.

Then I blink again, for good measure.

Why is Jack here, brushing snow off his parka, shrinking the entrance to half its size with his overgrown shoulders? Is it keto night at Miel? Did he get lost on his way to a calisthenics convention?

I’m debating whether to ignore him or briefly wave at him when Monica says, “You’re late.” She sounds chiding. And she looks a lot like she’s talking to Jack, who checks his wristwatch (a wristwatch, in this year of our lord) and calmly replies, “I was in the lab. Must have lost track of time.”

“I had to pry him off the optical tweezers,” the blonde next to him—Andrea?—butts in.

Monica all but rolls her eyes. I glance back and forth between them, disoriented. Does Jack know Monica? Are they SoulCycle buddies? What’s he late for?

“Since you’re finally gracing us with your presence, this is Dr. Elsie Hannaway, one of the candidates for the faculty position. Elsie, this is Dr. Andrea Albritton, an associate professor in the department. And Dr. Jonathan Smith-Turner, the head of the MIT Physics Institute.”

I almost look around. I almost scan the restaurant in search of the elusive Jonathan Smith-Turner. But then I don’t, because Jack is staring down at me, looking exactly how I feel.

Confused. Puzzled. Concerned for Monica’s mental health.

“You’ve got it wrong,” he tells her with that good voice he has, shaking his head, amused. “Elsie’s not a . . .”

He trails off, and his demeanor switches: the amusement dissolves. Something twitches in his ridiculous superhero jaw. The frown between his eyes deepens into a W—for What the everloving fuck? I can only assume.

Jack Smith’s always stubbornly, peculiarly unreadable, but right now I can safely guess that he’s pissed. He wants to curse me. Slaughter me. Feast on the tender marrow of my bones.

Though he does none of that. His expression switches again, this time to a polite blank as he offers his hand. I have no choice but to shake it.

“Dr. Hannaway,” he says, voice rich and disturbingly familiar. His skin is Boston-in-January-with-no-gloves cold. Calloused. Scary. “Thank you for your interest in MIT.”

“Dr. Turner,” I manage around the catch in my throat.

“Smith-Turner.” The correction is a punch in the sternum. This can’t be. Jack Smith and Jonathan Smith-Turner cannot be—

“But call me Jack.”

—the same person.

“Dr. Hannaway goes by Elsie, Jonathan,” Monica says archly.

Jack ignores her tone. “Elsie,” he says, like he’s trying it out for the first time. Like he didn’t use my name just last night, over the sole game of Go I haven’t won in years.

Shit.

I wait for one of us to acknowledge that we already know each other—in vain. My mouth remains closed. His, too. Brown eyes stay on mine, and I feel as pinned as an exotic dragonfly.

This is wrong. Jack Smith is a PE teacher. Greg told me so when we met at that coffee shop to plan our backstory. Right?