Wonder why when I win, he seems as happy as I feel.

“Well played,” he says, ignoring the way everyone is ribbing him for breaking his eight-month streak.

I nod. Suddenly, again, I’m all heartbeat.

I duck inside the bathroom, high on victory. When I slip out, George is right there, scaring the shit out of me. “Jesus.”

“I fully own that I followed you,” she says, leaning casually against the wall.

“Were you listening to me pee?”

“No. Well, yes. But it wasn’t the primary purpose. Just a pleasant bonus.” She grins. “I thought I’d harass you about the job offer.”

“Oh.” I clear my throat. “I don’t have an answer yet. Sorry.”

Her eyes narrow. “Is Jack trying to influence you one way or the other? Because I will use the cattle prod on him. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course he’d try to convince you to take the job. I’m reasonably sure that ninety percent of his spank bank is fantasies of driving you to work and buying you a latte on the way.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t—”

“What are your thoughts?”

I swallow. Then I glance around the hallway, as though George’s niece’s macaroni art might hold the key to my academic future.

It does not.

“I . . .” I take a deep breath. “I would love to say yes.”

George blinks. Then smiles. Then repeats, “Yes?”

“But”—I force myself to continue past her face-splitting grin—“I can’t formally accept until I talk with my advisor. Don’t worry, though,” I add quickly, because her smile is fading fast. “I’m sure I’ll get his approval next week! I’ll explain how much I want to take the job, and he’ll agree that it’s the best choice.”

George stares for a second, looking considerably less excited. “Okay.” She nods. And when I’m about to leave, she adds, “For the record, I’d love to continue being your friend. Even if you end up not accepting.” Her smile is a little strained. “Now peace out. I gotta pee, and no, you can’t listen, you weirdo.”

I’m making my way back to the living room, wondering why it feels like George just resigned herself to me not taking the job, when I overhear it.

“. . . slumming it with the theorists now?”

It’s Andrea’s voice from the kitchen, and I stop in the hallway. I can see only about half of Jack: broad back, light hair curling on his neck, large hands storing dirty dishes in the dishwasher. I should go in and help clean up, but something tells me to skulk around like I’m corporate-espionaging in a Bond movie.

“Excuse me?” he says, confused.

“So, does she know?”

“Who?”

“Elsie.” A quarter of Andrea appears in my field of view. Just her smile, small and private, pointed up at Jack. “Does she know that you despise people like her?”

“Andy, are you drunk?”

“A bit.” She laughs nervously. “Aren’t you? Elsie must be rubbing off. She must be a great lay, if you fucked over Pereira and Crowley for her. I guess she’s hot, in a bland way—”

“They fucked over themselves. And you should go back to the others,” Jack says firmly. “You’re more than a bit drunk if you think telling someone that their girlfriend is bland is a good idea.”

“She’s not your girlfriend.”

“She is if she wants to be. She can be my damn wife if she wants to be.” Jack’s losing his usual cool. For all his commanding presence, he’s rarely truly irritated, and Andrea knows this, too. There’s a fracture on her face, masked by another weak laugh that hurts my ears.

“A theorist, Jack? You having a slow year?”

“Are you serious—”

“You lost to her at Go,” she says, petulant even as she tries to keep her tone light. I should be offended by what she’s saying, but something’s stopping me. Something heartbreaking. “You never lose at Go. You said you’d never lose at Go.”

“I never said that.” Whatever I recognized in her tone, Jack did, too. His voice softens.

“I bet you lost on purpose. If that’s how bad you want her—”

“She won it fair and square.” They’re talking about something else altogether. Something that has nothing to do with Go or anything that happened tonight. She cares about him deeply, I realize. More than that. “Even if I had lost to her on purpose—it has nothing to do with you.”

“I think it does.”

“Andy.” He sighs. “I’ve been honest about how I feel. You said you understood—”

“Jesus, Jack. She’s a theorist.”

“She’s a better scientist than you or I will ever be. You’re hurt, and I’m trying to cut you some slack, but you’re way over the line—”

“Why are you her champion now? You’re you and—she makes up stuff. Is it because you’re sleeping with her?”

“It’s because I know her work.”

“But you’ve been saying shit about people like her for fifteen years. You’re the entire reason her field was discredited—you ruined careers, Jack. And now you’re telling me she is the person you’re willing to feel something for?”

“That’s it,” Jack orders. “I’m done.”

“You—”

“I’m serious. We can talk about this when you’re sober. But you need to give me some space before I say something I regret.”

“If—”

“Andy.”

A second later, Andrea appears in the hallway, eyes shining with tears. She looks at me for a painful, uncomfortable moment, then moves past without a word. I press my shoulders against the wall, trying to stop the centrifuge in my brain.

Does she know that you despise people like her?

He doesn’t despise me. Does he? No. Honesty, right? No, Jack doesn’t despise me.

But it’s not surprising that Andrea would believe that. It’s exactly where I believed he stood, approximately two meltdowns in his apartment ago. He’s Jonathan Smith-Turner. What he did to theoretical physics one and a half decades ago is in the Library of Congress and has a Wikipedia entry.

“What are you doing?” George says, appearing in the hallway.

“Oh, nothing. Just . . . looking at this art.” I point to a flower painting to my right.

“Do you want it? My wife made it with her ex at one of those paint-and-sip things. I’ve been trying to get rid of it.”

I laugh shakily. “Um, maybe next time.”

She enters the living room and I go to Jack, who’s staring out the window, back stiff and muscles coiled.

“Grumpy because you lost?” I ask, even though I know he’s not. I just want to watch the tension leave his body. Because maybe it’ll leave mine, too.

“Elsie.”

I heard you, I should say. Do you really despise—

You said “girlfriend”—

What did she mean, when—

But there’s no time. He leans forward, hands around my neck, and kisses me deep for a long time. People walk by, make jokes, give us looks, but he doesn’t stop. I don’t want him to, either.

“Everything okay?” I ask when he pulls back.

He looks away. Grabs his bottle from the counter and drains what’s left. “Want to leave?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

The ride to my place is quiet. I feel cold everywhere except on my knee—where Jack’s hand rests, his grip just a bit tighter than casual. I’m not sure why I invite him upstairs. Maybe I know what needs to happen. Maybe I’m just trying to hold on to him, to prolong that point of contact.

Cece’s not home, probably out on Faux business, and I’m vaguely relieved. Our place is messy, because the last time we cleaned was when Mrs. Tuttle came over to convince us that the green stuff on the wall was totally paint, totally not mold. I try to see the apartment through Jack’s eyes, but to his credit he doesn’t act too Smith about the conditions I live in. Instead, he does something so Jack, my chest almost explodes with it: he picks up the top of the credenza like it weighs nothing. His biceps strain against the flannel as he puts it where it belongs, perfectly centered on the bottom part.