“I like rare occurrences.”

I need to leave. I can’t stand here, shivering, being snowed on in the middle of the sidewalk. With Jonathan Smith-Turner. Bawling like I’m on an onion farm. But crying my heart out and thoroughly humiliating myself in front of a professional rival takes up all my energy, which means I can’t leave.

“It’s cold,” he says, like he’s reading my mind. “I live five minutes from here.” I sniffle, unsure how to answer. Bully for you? But then he adds, “Come over.” I must have shown some kind of reaction, because he continues, “Not for anything you’re thinking. Come over so I can warm you up. I want to explain what happened with the search.”

“No. I—” I’m not . . . No.

“I’ll answer your questions. Tell you exactly what happened.”

“I can’t—”

His hand comes up to cup the back of my head, like he wants to make sure that our eyes are locked for this. That we understand each other. “Elsie, if I let you go right now, you’re just going to replay the whole interview in your head and reach the misguided conclusion that it’s your fault you didn’t get the job. And you’re never going to let me talk to you again.” His expression is painfully honest. How does he know all this stuff about me? I don’t even know it.

“Maybe I’ll just blame it on you.” I sniffle.

He huffs out a laugh. “There she is.”

“I’m sorry. I know you want to help, but I just—I can’t talk now. I’m crying.”

“That’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine. Because I almost never cry”—a sob—“which m-means that I have no idea how to stop.”

“Then you can cry forever.”

“No. I d-don’t want to cry. And I left Cece b-behind. And I need to tell Dr. L. that I didn’t get the job. And you need to let Georgina k-know where you are. And I’m f-fucking freezing. I hate this city, and I hate being a physicist, and I hate Volkov’s stupid p-puns, and—”

His arms are wool and iron around me. Perfectly warm, perfectly solid. It’s several more moments of crying before I realize that he has pulled me against him. That this is a hug. His lips, dry and warm, press against my forehead as though he cares, as though all he wants is to comfort me. Low murmurs warm my frozen skin, soft sounds that I cannot immediately decipher.

“Shh. It’s okay, Elsie. It’s going to be fine.”

I want to believe him. I want to sink into him more than I’ve ever wanted anything else. I want to bury my face in his black coat and make it my own personal wormhole. Instead I keep crying huge, silent tears, curl my fingers into the fabric of his sleeve, and hold on tight.

This, this is the worst. My lowest yet. And not only is Jack Smith-Turner witnessing it, I also don’t have it in me to mind too much.

So when he says, “Let me get you warm. Let me do this one thing for you,” and his hand slides down to take mine, I allow him to guide me wherever he wants.

OceanofPDF.com

His condo is large, especially for downtown.

Two-story, 90 percent windows, open floor-y. There might even be a color scheme, dark blues and warm whites, but I can’t picture Jack using the word palette, so I chalk it up to chance. Still, the place is clean and uncluttered enough that I automatically take off my shoes at the entrance, then pad my way after him to the open-plan kitchen, hoping Jack won’t notice that my socks match in pattern (stripes) but not color (pink and orange).

I wish there were hints that he’s a closeted brony, or an avid collector of genital casts, but this place screams I might be an unmarried man in his thirties, but it’s not because I don’t have my shit together.

Then again: he might be unmarried, but he’s not quite single.

I sit gingerly at the wooden dining table and eye a bowl of fresh fruit; books and printouts of journal articles stacked neatly on the breakfast island; Jack’s large back, his muscles bunching under green flannel as he putters around the stove, quickly types something on his phone, and sets a mug on the counter. The snow is picking up, giant flakes swirling under the streetlight, and getting home is going to be a bitch. I could splurge on an Uber. Shouldn’t, though.

This is weird. So, so weird.

I should be too devastated to feel awkward, but like I said, I’m an excellent multitasker. Able to experience the existential dread seeping into my unemployed bones and to fantasize about crawling into a golf hole out of sheer embarrassment. Even worse, I’m so damn cold. I wrap my hands in the tear-sticky sleeves of my cardigan, slide them between my thighs, and close my eyes.

I take a slow, deep breath.

Another.

Another.

Seconds or minutes later, porcelain clinks against the wood. I blink up and Jack’s forearm is there, with its roped muscles, and the light hairs, and that cut of tattoo peeking from under the rolled-up sleeve. I’ve seen him half-naked, and I still don’t know what it’s supposed to be.

“Hot chocolate,” he says gently, as though I’m a skittish kitten.

It smells delicious, of sugar and comfort and heat. I watch a handful of marshmallows float happily around the top, and my mouth waters.

“Do you know,” I start, then shake my head and fall silent.

Food can be such an ordeal when your pancreatic cells have left the chat. I remember my last year of middle school, at Chloe Sampson’s birthday party—the most amazing sheet cake with buttercream frosting. Before eating a slice, the diabetes-havers (i.e., me) needed to know exactly what was in it, to counteract it with the appropriate dose of insulin. But who knows what’s in a slice of Costco cake? Not me. And not Mrs. Sampson. And not the Costco website or the customer service hotline, which Mrs. Sampson called while fifteen starving teenage girls glared at me for holding up the party, and . . .

Well. The point is, I’ve learned to say no to unexpected sugar, no matter how tasty looking. People don’t like nuisances.

“Thank you, but I’m not thirsty.”

“You need the carb count?” Jack sets the package with the nutritional info beside it. “To adjust your bolus?”

I tilt my head. “Did you just use the word bolus?”

“Sure did.” He takes a seat right across from me. Even the chairs in his house look too small for him.

“How?”

“I went to school. I know words.” He seems amused.

“You went to school for words like centripetal and brittleness and Rosseland optical depth. The only people who know stuff about basal insulin and bolus are doctors.”

“How fortunate, then.”

“Medical doctors. And people with diabetes.”

He stares for a moment. Then says, “I’m sure others do, too. Families of people with diabetes. Friends. Partners.” His voice is deep and rich, and I need to look away from the way he’s studying me.

So I take out my phone and quickly check my insulin, pretending I can’t feel his eyes on me. I lift my T-shirt to make sure that the pod didn’t get dislodged in the single act of exercise I engaged in during the last decade, and . . . Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I did this in front of someone who isn’t Cece. I want to ask Jack if he read up on diabetes after finding out about mine, but it’s possibly the most self-centered thought I’ve ever had.

I have about forty new notifications across five apps. All from Cece.

CECE: Where are you?

CECE: We’re going to the Starbucks across from the theater to wait for you guys to come back.

CECE: Pls, let me know you’re okay. I know this sucks but I’m with you. We can do this. We’ll move into a basement. I’ll pick up more Faux dates, you’ll be my sugar baby.

CECE: Jack texted George and told her you’re okay. She seems to think he’s trustworthy but idk. He looks like an oak tree on steroids with a six-foot-eight wingspan. Is he even human?