Love on the Brain(56)

“Wait.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. I need to invest in a headband. “That’s it?”

“Yup.”

“I only run for two minutes? That’s my training?”

“Yep.”

“How do you know? Have you ever done a Couch-to-5K? Have you ever even been on a couch?” I give him a skeptical once-over. He looks upsettingly good in his mid-thigh shorts and Pitt T-shirt. A patch of sweat is spreading on his back, making the cotton stick to his skin. I can’t believe there are people who manage to look hot while running. Screw them.

“I did some research.”

I laugh. “You did research?”

“Of course.” He gives me an affronted look. “I said I’d train you for the 5K, and I will.”

“Or you could just release me from our bet.”

“Nice try.”

I shake my head, laughing some more. “I can’t believe you did research. It’s either incredibly nice, or the most sadistic thing I’ve ever heard.” I contemplate it. “I’m leaning toward the latter.”

“Hush, or I’ll sign you up for the Meat Lovers 5K.”

I shut up and keep on walking.

Three hours later, we end up in a bar in the French Quarter.

Together.

As in, me and Levi Ward. Getting drinks. Sipping Sazerac at the same table. Giggling because the waitress served mine with a heart-shaped straw.

I’m not sure how it happened. I think some googling was involved, and intense skimming of a website called Drinking NOLA, and then a five-minute walk in which I determined that one of Levi’s steps equals exactly two of mine. But I’m blanking on how we came to the decision that venturing out together would be a good idea.

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.”