Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(82)

“Jack Smith.”

“Yeah.”

“You just made that up.”

“No. Well, his actual name is Jonathan Smith-Turner. He runs this research center in Boston. He’s one of those…He calls, you go. And I like him.”

“You like him,” he says. A blank slate of a tone.

“In the sense that I wouldn’t mind working with him. Not in a I cannot wait to bang him on the Hadron Collider way.”

“Mmh.”

“He’s married. To this theoretical physicist who works with Georgina Sepulveda.”

“Oh, yeah. George. You did that internship with her last year, right?”

“Yup. And even if he weren’t…he’s old. And I’m not in the habit of consorting with the elderly.” A beat. “Though I make an exception for you.”

I wait for him to choose from his usual array of retorts—Shut up, Trouble. I feel the same way about you infants. This is why I call, you keep me humble. But he remains uncharacteristically quiet, so I continue, “The girl who was leading this CERN project had a family emergency, which means that someone from her team is stepping up to fill her role. It leaves a research position unfilled, and you know what they say about the allocation of academic budgets and farm pigs.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Nothing can go to waste.”

He chuckles, low and husky. My hand clutches my phone like it’s a lifeline. “You should do it,” he says.

“Hmm. Yeah, I definitely should. I mean, I’d have to move to Switzerland for a while, and I know people your age struggle with the logistics of calling foreign countries, but before I leave we can meet and I can set up your cellular thingamajig—”

“Actually,” he interrupts.

And that’s when I know. If not the details, the gist of what’s about to go down.

“Oh, no. Did you drop your calling machine into the toilet again?” Me, trying to stop it with a joke.

And him, overruling me. “Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, if we…decreased the frequency of our communications.”

He sounds like he’s drafting an intercompany memo. A touch too detached.

Stay calm, I tell myself. Nothing bad is happening. Take a deep breath, don’t be reactive. “Are you out of data?”

A heavy silence. “There is someone, Maya.”

Okay. So, something bad is happening. Doesn’t mean that I should stop breathing. Calmly, I say: “There are about seven billion someones in the world, so you’re going to have to be precise about—”

“I’m going to start dating a woman.”

I don’t recall sitting down, but the angle from which I can see the neighbors’ yard through the window has changed, and there’s something soft under my thighs. “Ah.” I sound surprisingly calm. “When did you meet her?”

“I’ve known her for a while.”

“I see. Out of curiosity, how old is she?”

I can practically hear him close his eyes. That put-upon, paternal irritation he reserves for me only.

“Just wondering. I know how important that is for you.”

“She’s certainly not in her twenties.”

I nod, and if he cannot see it, that’s his problem. A small, leaden weight coalesces at the bottom of my stomach. Rolls and churns around. “I don’t…you and I are not romantically linked, Conor. We have periodic check-ins in which you make sure that I’m not desperately in love with you, that I understand the score. That we’re just friends. I didn’t hallucinate them, right?”

“No.”

“Are you going to quit talking to Eli and Minami? They’re your friends, too.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You’re right, it’s not. You and Minami were in a years-long romantic relationship. Your new girlfriend”—the word tastes like manure—“would probably insist on you cutting ties with her. But why would she care about me?”

The quiet on the other end is so deep, I wonder if he hung up. Then: “Maya, have you been seeing anyone?”

Every relationship has a few potentially inflammatory topics to steer away from. For some it’s politics, or fracking, or ethical hunting. But Conor and I share a lot of values. We see eye to eye on most issues, with some nuance that drags us into hours-long rabbit holes of arguments and Come the fuck on and Ha, gotcha! I enjoy them. He does, too.

What we never, ever talk about is whom we see when we’re not together. Not that I have anything to share.

“Where is this coming from?”

A beat. “Last week, Eli was talking about you with one of the junior analysts.”

“Who?”

“Cameron,” he says. “I forget his last name. He has an interesting background. Started out as a physicist, ended up with us.”

“I did not know about the physics-to-hedge-fund pipeline.”

“For the last time, we do not run a hedge fund, Maya.”

“Sure. And how is this related to you no longer wanting to be my friend?”

“Eli offered to see if you were interested. Maybe set you two up. Said that you hadn’t dated anyone in years.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. “Thank you for thinking of me, but I don’t need to be introduced to someone who studied physics. I live my entire life surrounded by physicists. If I wanted to date one, I would simply wander UT’s hallways and help myself to the first relativistic mechanics freak who also happens to be unable to change a flat tire—”