Love on the Brain(60)
What a cluster of a day. And it’s only seven minutes past ten.
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VISUALIZE THIS: YOU step into a restaurant, and the hostess guides you to your party’s table. It’s round and full, but when you and your companion arrive two chairs will be pulled up, guaranteeing lots of cozy elbowing. Yay. You’re welcomed by many pairs of wide eyes, and gasps, and a few “My gosh, how long has it been?” Some are for you, some for your companion. Some for both. You realize that aside from the person who invited you, no one was expecting you. Double yay.
You want to focus on catching up, ask old friends about their lives, but there’s something that nags at you. A tiny worm slithering in the back of your skull. It has to do, you initially think, with the two people who’ve yet to stand to greet you, and with the fact that you used to be engaged to one of them, and to love the other like a sister. Fair. That would nag at anyone, right?
But then there’s an extra something cranking up the tension: almost everyone at the table knows exactly what happened between you, your former fiancé, and your not-so-sister. They know how poorly you left off, how you ended up having to find another job, how miserable it made you, and even though they’re not mean people, there’s a sense swarming around, a sense that a show is about to happen. A show that involves you.
You following this? Good. Because there’s one more layer to this onion. It elevates this brunch above your run-of-the-mill trash-fire, and it has to do with your companion. He wasn’t exactly a fan of yours the last time you two hung out with these people, and seeing you arrive with him is making their heads explode. They cannot compute. The show was always gonna be good, but now? Now it’s fucking Hamilton, baby.
Are you visualizing this? Are you feeling the deep unpleasantness of the situation smack inside your bones? Are you considering crawling under the table and rocking yourself to sleep? Okay. Good. Because it’s exactly where I’m at when Timothy William Carson comes to stand in front of me and says, “Hi, Bee.”
I want to kick him in the nuts. But I’m sad to report that there are lots of pairs of eyes on me, and while I haven’t passed the Louisiana bar, I fear nut-kicking might be considered assault in this great state. So I smile my best fake smile, ignore the crawling feeling in the pit of my stomach, and reply, “Hey, Tim. You look great.”
He doesn’t. He looks okay. He looks fine. He looks like a Cute Guy? who needs a Dorian Gray portrait, because his rotten personality is starting to show. He looks acceptable, but nothing compared to the guy standing next to me. Who, by the way, is saying, “Tim.”
“Levi! What’s up?”
“Not much.”
“We gotta start working on those collabs again.” Tim puckers his lips like the asshole he is. “I’ve been swamped.”
Levi’s smile stays on, and when Tim leans in for a bro hug, he accepts it.
Which has me scowling. What the hell? I thought Levi was on my side. Which sounds stupid when said out loud, and unfair of me to expect, because Levi and I are barely friends and my battles are not his and he has every right to man-hug whoever. . . .
My train of thought fades as I notice Levi is not just hugging Tim. He’s also gripping his shoulders tightly, fingers digging painfully into Tim’s flesh as he murmurs something in his ear. I can’t make out the words, but by the time Levi straightens back up, Tim’s mouth is pulled in a thin, straight line, his face is milk white in a way I don’t remember ever seeing before, and his expression looks almost . . . scared.
Is Tim scared?
“I— You— I didn’t mean to,” he stammers, but Levi interrupts him.
“Nice to see you again,” he says in a commanding, dismissive tone. Tim must take it as what it is: an order to scurry away.
“What just happened?” I whisper while Levi pulls out my chair. Apparently, we’re in 1963.
“Look.” He points at Sam’s food. “They have quinoa bowls.”
“Why does Tim look terrified?”
He gives me an innocent look. “He does?”
“Levi. What did you say to him?”
Levi ignores me. “Sam, does that bowl have eggs in it?”
The first twenty minutes aren’t that bad. The problem with round tables is that you can’t fully ignore anyone’s existence, but Tim and Annie are distant enough that I can chat with others without it being too awkward. Aspects of this are genuinely nice—having Sam around, hearing that old acquaintances got married, had kids, found academic jobs, bought houses. Once in a while Levi’s elbow brushes against mine, reminding me that I’m not wholly alone. There’s someone in my corner. A guy who loves Star Wars, and is too tall for space, and will take care of a kitten for half his life.
Then there’s a lull in conversation, and someone asks from across the table, “How did you two end up working together, anyway?”
Everyone tunes in after that. All eyes are on Levi and me. Sadly, Levi is chewing on a potato wedge. So I say, “It’s an NIH-NASA collab, Mike.”
“Oh yeah, right.” Mike looks a bit buzzed, but he takes another sip of his punch. He was a third year when I joined the lab. Also: he was a shithead. “But, like, how are you two managing it? Levi, do you bleach your brain after every meeting, or . . . ?”