CECE: Elsie?

I answer with a quick I’m fine. With Jack. Go home, please. When I look up, Jack is staring.

I clear my throat. “Bad-faith interview. What does it mean?”

His expression darkens. “That would be any interview in which the outcome is, for whatever reason, predecided. Like positions that are advertised as open when they’re meant for a specific candidate.”

“The MIT position was created for Georgina?” I feel a pang in my chest.

“More complicated than that. The position was originally left vacant when James Bickart—an experimentalist—retired two years ago. He was, I believe, three million years old.”

I chuckle despite myself. “Sounds about right.”

“You know the type. Lots of tweed. Lots of distrust toward computers, lots of opinions on girls who wear nail polish despite the distraction of their male peers. I was still at Caltech, but I heard some stories. The position should have been refilled immediately, but there were issues with the budget. Then my grants and I moved here.” He pushes the forgotten mug closer. I’m impatient to hear more, but I take a sip to please him. The warmth spreading into my stomach is delicious. “I offered to help fund the position to hire another experimentalist—not out of some deep hatred for theorists, if you can believe it. I was hired by MIT to beef up their experimental output. Experimentalists are currently outnumbered, and we were filling a specific position. I mentioned the opening to George, and she told me she was interested in applying. She’s at Harvard right now, and physics academia is an old boys’ club everywhere, but . . . Harvard’s bad. So she sent in her materials, and . . . You said you’re familiar with her work. As you can imagine, everyone knew it was going to be her from the start.”

I can imagine it very well. Her thesis experiments were stepping stones to massive advancements in particle physics. Georgina is the epitome of inspiring.

“Then you applied. And Monica was so impressed by your CV, she decided to bring you in despite the committee recommending against it. It was pointed out to her that there was nothing you could have done during the interview that would have gotten you the job, but she insisted, reasoning that George already had an excellent position at Harvard and might decide not to accept an offer.” He sighs. “Even if George weren’t a rock star, you have to understand: she and I were in grad school together. We’ve had half a decade longer than you in the field. Half a decade worth of scientific output, publications, grants.”

You’re the ideal candidate, Monica told me the first night we met, but I wasn’t. I simply wasn’t. “Why did Monica . . . ?”

“She tried her all to hire a theorist. And I have to admit, she played her cards well by choosing you as her candidate.” He leans forward. I drag my eyes up to his. “Elsie, I was there for the final vote. George won, because she was best qualified, but everyone in the department was impressed with you. Which doesn’t surprise me, after I saw your talk and read your articles.”

“Right.” I press my fingers into my eyes. “My articles.”

“They’re excellent. And also . . .”

I look at him. “Also?”

He wets his lips, like he needs time to phrase something. “Sometimes, when I read them, I can almost hear them in your voice. Your personality.” He shakes his head, self-effacing, like he knows he’s being fanciful. “A turn of sentence here. A formula there.”

I thought we’d agreed that I don’t have a personality, I’m tempted to say. But I’m too tired to be bitter, and Jack . . . he’s been nothing but kind. I try for a smile. “I can’t blame you for voting for her.”

“I didn’t.”

My eyes widen.

“I recused myself.”

“Why?”

He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come immediately. “I had a . . . conflict of interest.”

“Because of George.”

He smiles faintly. “Because of you, Elsie.”

I have no idea how to interpret this. So I just don’t. “Aren’t you and Georgina . . . ?”

He cocks his head, confused. God, he’s going to make me say it.

“Together. Aren’t you two together?”

He laughs. “No. But we are close friends. And unlike Dora, her wife, I’m scared enough of her to let her drag me to see movies that bend the space-time continuum and feel several hours longer than they actually are.”

“Oh.” Oh. “During the interview, did she . . . know about me? That I was the other candidate?”

“Not until a few minutes ago. I wasn’t allowed to tell her who the other candidate was.”

“It’s just . . .” I scratch my neck, where heat is slowly creeping up. “Earlier, when I introduced myself, she seemed to know who I was.”

He freezes—a millisecond of hesitation—then resumes with his casual, stone-strong confidence. “I did talk to her about you. But that was long before your interview. I told her that Greg was finally seeing someone. And that I was struggling.”

“Because you disapproved.”

“Elsie.” His tone is patient but firm. “I understand if you are uncomfortable with what I told you. But I’ve never lied to you, and I’m not going to start now.” His eyes hold mine like a vise. “I was attracted to someone I shouldn’t have been attracted to. I felt guilty and frustrated, and I confided in George.” There’s a frog in my throat. An entire ecosystem. Five astral planes. Something glows and pulsates inside my stomach, and I don’t know how to even begin to respond. Luckily I don’t have to, because Jack adds, “Greg wanted to meet with you this week. I asked him not to.”

“Why?”

“Because I had to tell him that you wouldn’t get the job. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t slip up, and . . . I was planning to be the one who explained everything.”

I feel myself smile. “Not a good liar, is he?”

“I’m surprised he didn’t blurt out about your arrangement on your first date.”

“Yeah.” Me too, actually. “How is he?”

“Good. Fine. The tooth healed. We talked about . . . him. Honestly, he didn’t insult me nearly as much as he should have.”

“Lucky for you, you found me.” Your resident nutjob. Screaming abuse on the sidewalk.

“Elsie.” He’s doing that intense eye-holding thing again. “It’s fine.”

Nothing about this is fine, and it likely won’t be for a long time. But I nod anyway and stand. “Right. I . . . Sorry, again. Thank you for explaining everything. And for the hot chocolate. I should go home before the snow gets bad.”

He turns to one of the million windows. “Looks bad already.”

It does. The outside’s a whiteout of flurries, and my post-crying-jag exhaustion is swallowing me whole. Maybe I can throw a smoke bomb and disappear into the quantum vacuum. “Before it gets worse.”

He stands, too. “I’ll drive you.”

“What? No. The roads aren’t safe. I’ll just take an Uber.”

He lifts one eyebrow.

“With Cece,” I add, checking my phone. “No need to put you in danger if . . .” I trail off and go through my texts.

CECE: George assumes you’re staying with Jack???? Does she know something I don’t?????

CECE: Uber surge pricing is insane. George offered to drive me home, but we need to leave now or the snow will strand her car.

CECE: Pls text me to reassure me that he’s not making sausages out of your small intestine.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. This is fine. It’s okay.

“You need a new phone,” Jack says quietly, glancing at the cracked screen.

I need a new job. “I’ll take the bus, actually.”

“You think buses are running?”

“Hopefully.” I attempt a smile. He’s been nothing but kind, and he deserves a smiling, less-than-depressive Elsie. “Unless you’d like me to camp out on your couch,” I joke.

“Nah. You can take the bed,” he says without pause. Like he’s been thinking this through.