Love on the Brain(26)

“What’s the alternative?” I ask. I see none.

“I’ve been working on it.”

“How?”

“I think having Boris on our side would help immensely. And there are . . . things that I might be able to leverage to persuade him.”

“And how are those things working out for you?”

He gives me a dirty look, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Not great. Yet,” he grumbles.

No shit, Sherlock. “Basically, I’m the only person in the world who wants BLINK to happen now.”

He frowns. “I want it, too.” I remember his earlier anger, when I accused him of not caring. God, that was probably less than an hour ago. Feels like nine decades. “And so do other people. The engineers, the astronauts, contractors who’d be out of a job if it were postponed.” His broad shoulders seem to deflate a bit. “Though you and I seem to be the highest-ranking people on board. Which is why we need Boris.”

“It sounds like if you sit tight for a few months the project will fall in your lap and—”

“No.” He shakes his head. “BLINK has to happen now. If it’s delayed there’s a chance that I won’t be in charge, or that the original prototype will be modified.” He sounds so uncompromising, I wonder if this is his pick-up-your-toys-and-go-to-bed dad voice. It sure seems effective. If I end up having kids, I hope I can pull off something this authoritative.

“Still, you’ll be fine no matter what.” I can’t keep the bitterness out of my tone. “While NIH is making personnel cuts, and the main criterion is successfully completed grants. Which I don’t have because of . . . reasons, reasons that have little to do with me not trying or not being a good scientist—which I am, I promise I am good at this, and—”

“I know you are,” he interrupts. He sounds sincere. “And this project is not just another assignment for me. I transferred teams to be here. I pulled strings.”

I run a hand down my face. What a dumpster fire. “You could have told me that NASA was roadblocking. Instead of letting me believe that you were . . .”

He looks at me blankly. “That I was?”

“You know. Trying to oust me for the usual reasons.”

“The usual reasons?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “From grad school.”

“What reasons from grad school?”

“Just the fact that you . . . you know.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

I scratch my forehead, exhausted. “That you despise me.”

He gives me an astonished look, like I just coughed up a hair ball. Like the person who avoided me like I was a flesh-eating porcupine was his evil twin. He’s speechless for a moment, and then says, somehow managing to sound honest, “Bee. I don’t despise you.”

Wow. Wow, for so many reasons. The blatant lie, for instance, like he doesn’t consider me the human equivalent of gas station sushi, but also . . . this is the first time Levi has used my name. I haven’t kept track or anything, but there’s something so uniquely him in the way he says the word, I could never forget.

“Right.” He keeps staring at me with the same disoriented, earnest expression. I snort and smile. “I guess I must have misread every single one of our grad school interactions, then.” He did tell Boris I’m a good neuroscientist, so maybe he doesn’t think I’m incompetent like I always suspected. Maybe he just hates . . . literally everything else about me. Lovely.

“You know I don’t despise you,” he insists with a hint of accusation.

“Sure I do.”

“Bee.”

He says my name again, with that voice, and all I see is red.

“But of course I know. How could I not know when you’ve been so relentlessly cold, arrogant, and unapproachable.” I stand, anger bubbling up my throat. “For years you have avoided me, refused to collaborate with me without valid reasons, denied me even minimally polite conversation, treated me as though I was repulsive and inferior—you even told my fiancé that he should marry someone else, but of course you don’t despise me, Levi.”

His Adam’s apple bobs. He stares at me like that, stricken, disconcerted, like I just hit him with a polo mallet—when all I’ve done is tell the truth. My eyes sting. I bite my lip to keep the tears at bay, but my stupid body betrays me once again and I’m crying, I’m crying in front of him, and I hate him.

I’m not mad at him—I hate him.

For the way he’s treated me. For having the solid career I don’t. For concealing the politics of this damn septic tank of a project. I hate him, hate him, hate him, with a passion I thought I could only reserve for defective airbags, or Tim, or the third move of the year. I hate him for reducing me to this, and for sticking around to see his handiwork.

I hate him. And I don’t want to feel so much.

“Bee—”

“This is not worth it.” I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and walk past without looking at him. Of course he has to be massive and make that hard, too.

“Wait.”

“I’ll tell NIH about what’s happening,” I say without stopping or turning back. “I can’t risk my superiors thinking that the project failed because of me. I’m sorry if that puts you in a bad position, and I’m sorry if that means delaying BLINK.”