Oh well. Might as well focus on the Sazerac.
“So,” I ask after a long sip, whiskey burning sweetly down my throat, “who’s engaging with Schr?dinger’s anus this weekend?”
Levi smiles, swirling the amber liquid in his tumbler. After his shower he didn’t dry his hair, and some damp wisps are still sticking to his ears. “Guy.”
“Poor Guy.” I lean forward. The corners of the world are starting to get fuzzy in a soft, pleasant way. Mmm, alcohol. “Is it difficult? Who taught you? Does it require tools? Does Schr?dinger like it? What does it smell like?”
“No, the vet, just gloves and some treats, if he does he hides it well, and awful.”
I take another sip, fully entertained. “How did you end up with a cat who needs . . . expression, anyway?”
“He didn’t when I first got him, seventeen years ago. He spent fifteen years long-conning me into loving him, and now here I am.” He shrugs. “Expressing once a week.”
I burst into more laughter than is probably warranted. Mmm, alcohol. “You got him as a kitten? From the shelter?”
“From under the garden shed. He was chomping on a sad-looking pigeon wing. I figured he needed me.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“You guys have been together most of your lives.”
He nods. “My parents aren’t exactly pet people, so it was either bringing him wherever I went or leaving him to fend for himself. He came to college with me. And grad school. He’d jump on my desk and stare at me all accusing and squinty-eyed when I slacked off. That little asshole.”
“He’s the real secret of your academic success!”
“I wouldn’t go that far—”
“The source of your intelligence!”
“Seems excessive—”
“The only reason you have a job!” He lifts one eyebrow and I laugh some more. I’m hilarious. Mmm, alcohol. “It’s so nice of Guy to do this for you.”
“To be clear, Guy’s just feeding Schr?dinger. I did the expressing before leaving. But yeah, he’s great.”
“I have an inappropriate question for you. Did you steal Guy’s job?”
He nods pensively. “Yes and no. He’d probably be BLINK’s lead if I hadn’t transferred. But I have more team-leading and neuro experience.”
“He’s awfully graceful about it.”
“Yup.”
“If it were me, I’d stab you with my nail filer.”
He smiles. “I don’t doubt it.”
“I guess deep down Guy knows he’s cooler.” I take in Levi’s confused expression. “I mean, he’s an astronaut.”
“。 . . And?”
“Well, here’s the deal: if NASA were a high school, and its different divisions were cliques, the astronauts would be the football players.”
“Is football still a thing in high school? Despite the brain damage?”
“Yes! Crazy, right? Anyway, the engineers would be more like the nerds.”
“So I’m a nerd?”
I sit back and study him carefully. He’s built like a linebacker.
“I actually played tight end,” he points out.
Shit. Did I say it out loud? “Yes. You’re a nerd.”
“Fair. What about the neuroscientists?”
“Hmm. Neuroscientists are the artsy kids. Or maybe the exchange students. Intrinsically cool, but forever misunderstood. My point is: Guy’s been to space, therefore he’s part of a better clique.”
“I see your reasoning, but counterpoint: Guy has never been to space, never will.”
I frown. “He said he worked with you on his first space mission.”
“As ground crew. He was supposed to go to the ISS, but he failed the psychological screening last minute—not that it means anything. Those tests are ridiculously selective. Anyway, most of the astronauts I’ve met are very down to earth—”
“Down to Earth!” I laugh so hard, people turn to stare. Levi shakes his head fondly.
“And to become an astronaut, you’re required to have a STEM degree. Which means that they’re nerds, too—nerds who decided to take on additional training.”
“Wait a minute.” I lean forward again. “You want to eventually be an astronaut, too?”
He presses his lips together, pensive. “I could tell you a story.”
“Oooh. A story!”
“But you’d have to keep it secret.”