“Inside the building?”
“Yes.” I frown. “She jumped on the cart. Made the boxes fall.”
He nods, clearly unconvinced. Fantastic—now he thinks I’m making up the cat.
Wait. Am I making up the cat? Did I hallucinate it? Did I—
“Can I help you with anything?”
“Oh.” I scratch the back of my head. “No. I just wanted to, ah, tell you how excited I am to collaborate again.” He doesn’t immediately reply, and a terrible thought occurs to me: Levi doesn’t remember me. He has no idea who I am. “Um, we used to be in the same lab at Pitt. I was a first-year when you graduated. We didn’t overlap long, but . . .”
His jaw tenses, then immediately relaxes. “I remember,” he says.
“Oh, good.” It’s a relief. My grad school archnemesis forgetting about me would be a bit humiliating. “I thought you might not, so—”
“I have a functioning hippocampus.” He looks away and adds, a little gruffly, “I thought you’d be at Vanderbilt. With Schreiber.”
I’m surprised he knows about that. When I made plans to go work in Schreiber’s lab, the best of the best in my field, Levi had long moved on from Pitt. The point is, of course, moot, because after all the happenings of two years ago happened, I ended up scrambling to find another position. But I don’t like to think about that time. So I say, “Nope,” keeping my tone neutral to avoid baring my throat to the hyena. “I’m at NIH. Under Trevor Slate. But he’s great, too.” He really isn’t. And not just because he enjoys reminding me that women have smaller brains than men.
“How’s Tim?”
Now—that’s a mean question. I know for a fact that Tim and Levi have ongoing collaborations. They even hosted a panel together at the main conference in our field last year, which means that Levi knows that Tim and I called off our wedding. Plus, he must be aware of what Tim did to me. For the simple reason that everyone knows what Tim did to me. Lab mates, faculty members, janitors, the lady who manned the sandwich station in the Pitt cafeteria—they all knew. Long before I did.
I make myself smile. “Good. He’s good.” I doubt it’s a lie. People like Tim always land on their feet, after all. Unlike people like me, who fall on their metaphorical asses, break their tailbones, and spend years paying off the medical bills. “Hey, what I said earlier, about the angular gyrus . . . I didn’t mean to be rude. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay.”
“I hope you’re not mad. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“I’m not mad.”
I stare up at his face. He doesn’t seem mad. Then again, he also doesn’t seem not mad. He just seems like the old Levi: quietly intense, unreadable, not at all fond of me.
“Good. Great.” My eyes fall to his large bicep, and then to his fist. He is clenching it again. Guess Dr. Wardass still dislikes me. Whatever. His problem. Maybe I have a bad aura. It doesn’t matter—I’m here to get a job done, and I will. I square my shoulders. “Guy gave me a tour earlier. I noticed that none of our equipment’s here yet. What’s the ETA for that?”
His lips press together. “We are working on it. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Okay. My RA and I can’t get anything done until our computers arrive, so the earlier the better.”
“I’ll keep you posted,” he repeats tersely.
“Cool. When can we meet to discuss BLINK?”
“Email me with times that work for you.”
“They all do. I don’t have a schedule until my equipment arrives, so—”
“Please, email me.” His tone, patient and firm, screams I’m an adult dealing with a difficult child, so I don’t insist further.
“Okay. Will do.” I nod, half-heartedly wave my goodbye, and turn to walk away.
I can’t wait to work with this guy for three months. I love being treated like I’m a piece of belly button lint instead of a valuable asset to a team. That’s why I got a Ph.D. in neuroscience: to achieve nuisance status and be patronized by the Wardasses of the world. Lucky me for—
“There’s one more thing,” he says. I turn back and tilt my head. His expression is as closed off as usual, and—why the hell is the feel of his thigh in my brain again? Not now, intrusive thoughts.
“The Discovery Building has a dress code.”
His words don’t land immediately. Then they do, and I look down to my clothes. He can’t possibly mean me, can he? I’m wearing jeans and a blouse. He is wearing jeans and a Houston Marathon T-shirt. （God, he’s probably one of those obnoxious people who post their workout stats on social media.）