With movies like this, who needs waterboarding?

“Wasn’t it amazing?” She beams.

“It sure was lots of things.”

Cece is not too high on the cinematography to notice my tone. “You didn’t like it?” She frowns. “I do agree that the ‘Dawn of Man’ scene where the ape looks at the bone was dearly missed.”

“Um, yeah. That’s it.”

She steps in front of me, cocking her head. Bundled up in her red maxi coat, she looks about sixteen. “You didn’t enjoy the movie?”

It’s easier like that, isn’t it? Never showing anyone who you really are . . . When you’re yourself, that’s when you’re exposed.

For a split second, what Jack told me flashes through my head, a too-catchy tune earworming around. It’s nothing I hadn’t known, but once put into words, it got harder to ignore—a brusque shift from procedural to semantic knowledge.

Say I considered it. Cece, after all, is my closest friend. I could smile, slide my arm under hers, pull her toward the T station, and say conversationally, I didn’t like the movie. I have no idea what even happened. My favorite character was the evil computer, and twenty minutes in I was on the verge of letting out the piercing shriek of a million Brood Ten cicadas. Also I’d love to never again watch the director’s cut of literally anything—in fact, I’d rather spend an afternoon staring at my student loan portal, the one that makes me burst into tears once a month. And since we’re at it, the other day I caught your hedgehog defecating on my pillow. My tea is next.

The thought of admitting any of this makes my right side ache. That ulcer, probably.

I still slide my arm under Cece’s, but what I say is, “It was sublime. The journey of man’s consciousness into the universe. The eventual passage of that consciousness onto a new level.” It’s a line from Roger Ebert’s 1997 review of the movie. I memorized it this morning.

“Unparalleled.” She beams, then squints. “It’s the job—that’s why you’re blergh.”

“I’m not blergh. Am I blergh?”

“Yes. Are you worried about the job?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Well,” I concede, “yes.”

She stops me in the middle of the sidewalk. “You’ll get it. You did great.”

“I’m . . .” Cece’s in a good mood from watching slo-mo space ballet, and I don’t want to spoil it. I smile. “Very optimistic.”

“Maybe we should watch another movie when we get home.” She tugs at my sleeve. “Something light and funny. Modern Times? Or The Great Dictator? Laughter is the best medicine.”

“I think antibiotics are the best medicine. Unless it’s a viral infection, in which case—” I stop because someone behind me is saying my name.

The worst thing is, I know exactly whose voice it is, because it’s burned into my auditory cortex in a way that signifies certain neural damage. But I turn around anyway, and there he is.

Jack.

In his black North Face coat, which is familiar by now. With his broad shoulders and light hair and inexplicable, gut-felt presence. Taking up more room than he should on the sidewalk, looking at me as though I’m the ghost of Nikola Tesla and meeting me by chance in downtown Boston is unforeseen but very welcome.

“Oh,” I croak. Shit. Shit? Shit. Why is he here? “Um . . .”

“It’s hi.” God, his voice. That lopsided smile. “That’s what you say when you meet someone, Elsie.”

“Right.” I swallow. “Hi.”

My first thought is that I’ve conjured him. By thinking about him forty times a day—up to and including seconds ago.

The second: I must be cursed. All I want is to excise Jack from my life, but I’m just like the Australopithecus afarensis in 2001: trying to frolic in the prehistoric veldt, forever doomed to be hunted by an alien monolith. (I think? I dozed off.)

The third: he’s not alone. There’s a tall woman by his side, with long braided hair and deep-red lips. They were clearly in the middle of laughing about something. When Jack stopped to talk to me, she bumped against him and never moved away.

He’s on a date.

With someone else.

Jack’s out on a date with someone, and it feels like a stone in my belly.

“One of your grads?” the woman asks, entertained. Her dark skin is immaculate, and she looks familiar in the way very beautiful people often do.

“No.” Jack has yet to look away from me. “Not quite.”

“Hi.” Cece interrupts with her most charming grin. “Clearly Elsie is experiencing a breakdown in the social pragmatic skills necessary to introduce us, so . . . what’s your name, tall gentleman?”

“Jack.”

“Nice to meet you, Jack.” She thrusts out her hand, which disappears inside his. I stare, half-paralyzed. “I’m Celeste, Elsie’s most favorite person in the whole world.”

“Are you?” His eyes slide to mine. “Must be nice.” He’s still half smiling, like this is making his Saturday night.

“Well, you know, it’s hard work. Lots of cheese sharing. And I did just take her to watch 2001, which she loved.”

“Oh my God!” The Most Beautiful Woman in the World is delighted. “We were in there, too.”

“Stunning, right?”

“A masterpiece. Despite Jack’s commentary on the predictability of the ‘evil space Siri’s’ arc.”

He lifts one eyebrow. “I got bored.”

“You always get bored at the movies.” She presses her shoulder against his. “I have to confiscate his phone and poke him awake.”

“Because you always take me to see boring movies.”

She pinches his arm through the coat. “If it were up to you, we’d only watch Jackass.”

“It was once.”

“Once too many.”

He shrugs, unbothered. I cannot stop looking at the two of them framed by the snowflakes. The easy banter. Jack’s obvious affection. The woman’s fingers, still around his sleeve. Something slimy and cold presses behind my sternum.

“So,” Cece butts in, “how do you guys know Elsie?”

“I don’t, actually,” the woman says with a curious look at Jack. “How do you know Elsie, Jack?”

His eyes are fixed on me again. “She dated my brother. Among . . . other things.”

The atmosphere changes instantly. The air was already icy, dense with the promise of snowstorms, but the temperature drops colder as people parse the meaning of Jack’s words.

First there’s Cece, who knows that I don’t date, not for real, and is putting together where she last heard the name Jack. She scowls and takes a protective step closer, ready to defend me against my most recent archenemy, kitten-hissing-at-a-bison style.

And then there’s the woman. Her expression morphs, too, into something knowing and intrigued. “You’re Greg’s girlfriend. That Elsie.” She looks between me and Jack once, twice, and then holds her hand out to me. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s really nice to meet you. I’m George.”

My brain halts.

“Well, Georgina. Sepulveda. But please, call me George.” Her smile is warm and welcoming, as though I’m a dear friend of Jack’s whom she’s been dying to meet.

“Georgina Sepulveda,” I mouth, barely audible. The name unlocks a drawer in my brain, full of scientific papers, TED Talks, conference addresses. Georgina Sepulveda, young physics hotshot. I’m a fan of her work. She doesn’t look familiar—she is.

“Yup, that’s me.” Her hand is still outstretched. I should take it. “I work with Jack.”

“George,” Jack warns.

“Okay, technically not yet. But I’ll start at MIT next year. What? Come on, Jack. I got the formal offer, sent back the signed contract this morning. I can tell people.” She gives me a conspiratorial look. My stomach churns. “You’re a librarian, right? I love libraries.”

Next to me, Cece sucks in a breath. Meanwhile, I nod. It must be an automatic reaction, because all my neural cells are busy, sluggishly processing what I just heard.

Georgina.

George.

MIT.