Not in love

I was no PR strategist, but it was obvious that the framing had been brilliant: a woman, a female scientist, was being stripped of her life’s work and intellectual property by some greedy Texas bureaucrats. The news had picked up steam, and UT had backtracked faster than a yo-yo.

“You were able to maintain ownership of what you created,” I told Florence, truthful. “I thought it was very impressive.”

“Right. Well, that’s nice.” She seemed to be wondering whether she was being patronized by a grad student nobody who was clearly wearing someone else’s too-small pants, so I didn’t mention that I would have known about Florence even sans patent scandal, because her name was brought up often in UT’s chemical engineering department, usually in the hushed tones reserved for those who were deeply resented for managing to free themselves from the ruthless academic clutches of teaching Biophysics 101 every third semester.

“You seem like a great scientist,” Florence said. “If you apply for jobs, do consider Kline.”

I thought about it for a handful of seconds, but dismissed the idea. “Biofuel is not really my area of interest.”

“What is your area of interest?”

“Shelf life extension.”

“Well, it’s pretty closely related.”

“Not as much as I’d like.” I sounded inflexible and stubborn, and I knew that. But I also knew what my endgame was, and could see no value in pretending that no

Compromise was never my forte.

“I see. Want to stay in academia?”

“No. I’d like to do something that’s actually useful,” I said solemnly, with a self-importance I’d manage to shake off in the second half of my twenties, but whose memory will make me cringe well into my eighties.

Florence, however, laughed and handed me a card. “If you’re ever looking for an internship, a paid internship, shoot me an email. I’d be open to hearing about your project ideas.”

I had grown up poor, poor in a way that meant duct tape on ski

That summer, I did shoot Florence an email. And I did begin an internship at Kline, and then another, and a few more. I worked in research and development, manufacturing, quality assurance, even logistics. Above all, I worked with Florence, which turned out to be life altering in the best possible way.

Before her, all of my mentors had been men—some of them great, supportive, brilliant men who’d made me into the scientist I’d become. But Florence was different. Something closer to a friend, or a brilliant older sister who could answer my reaction kinetics questions, pat my back when my experiments didn’t work out, and later, once I’d graduated, provide me with the means to do the kind of work I wanted. I didn’t fuck with emotions, not if I could avoid it, but it didn’t take a therapist and months of navelgazing to tease out what I felt for Florence: gratitude, admiration, love, and quite a bit of protectiveness.

Which was why I absolutely loathed the deep lines that halved her forehead when she walked into her office.

“Shit on a tit!” Florence clutched her chest, startled. After a calming breath, she eyed us with an indulgent expression: the way I’d helped myself to her orthopedic chair, and Tisha’s enthusiastic mouth shoveling of the peanut butter pretzels on her desk. “Why, don’t be shy. Make yourselves at home. Break your bread.”

“They’re not even good,” Tisha said, scarfing down two more.

Florence closed the door and smiled wryly. “Thank you for your sacrifice, then.”

“Anything for you, my liege.”

“In that case, could I bother you to key a couple of people’s cars?” She dropped her tablet on the desk and massaged her bloodshot eyes. She was young for the size of her success, barely in her forties, and tended to look even younger. Not today, though. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” It was clear that she was pleased to see us.

“Seemed like you might be having a shit day, so we let ourselves in.” Tisha’s blinding smile displayed no shame.

“I do love a pity visit.”

“What about recon visits?” Tisha laid her chin on her hands. “Also a fan of those?”

Florence sighed. “What do you guys want to know?”

“So much. For instance, who the hell are those Harkness people, and what the hell do they want?”

Florence glanced back to make sure the door was closed. Then exhaled slowly. “Fuck me if I know.”

“Anticlimactic. And a bit less informative than I expected. Wait, I know that look. Fuck you if you know, but . . . ?”

“What I say doesn’t leave this room.”

“Of course.”

“I’m serious. If anyone hears of this, they’ll panic—”

“Florence,” I interrupted, “who would we even tell?”

She seemed to briefly consider our lack of meaningful relationships and then nodded reluctantly. “As you know, they bought our loan. Neither the board nor I had any say in the sale, and Harkness only ever interacted with the lender. We only communicate through lawyers.” She sighed. “According to legal, the most likely case is that Harkness bought the loan because they want full control of the fermentation tech.”

“The tech is yours, though.” I scowled. “They could take the company, but not the patent, right?”

“Unfortunately, Rue, the tech is the company. More accurately, the patent is part of the collateral for the loan.” She grabbed one of the chairs and took a seat. “The problem is, whenever we borrow funds to expand our operations, we have to make certain promises.”

“Of course. The covenants,” Tisha said with the tone of someone who’d appeared on god’s green earth with a genetic knowledge of the myriad facets of bankruptcy law and had not learned the word five minutes earlier, courtesy of a twenty-three-year-old lab technician. Florence gave her an approving nod, and Tisha made a show of dusting herself off.

I shook my head at her.

“Some of these covenants are straightforward—provide financial statements, noncompete, that kind of stuff. But others are . . . harder to interpret.”

I scratched my temple, already suspecting where this was going despite the heights of my managerial ignorance. If both parties approached a contract in good faith, muddy covenants could be resolved with a simple conversation. But if one party had ulterior motives . . .

“Now that Harkness owns the loan, they still don’t own the company, but they have the right to enforce those covenants. Which gives them the right to come in, snoop around, and find something to complain about. If you ask them, they’ll say they’re just making sure we’re using their capital in the best way, like good little borrowers.” Florence sank back in her chair. Her posture was exasperated, but not defeated. “This has been in the making for weeks.”

“Weeks?” Tisha’s jaw dropped. “Florence, you should have told us. We could have—”

“Done nothing, and that’s why I didn’t tell you. Legal has been fighting, but . . .” She shrugged.

“They are trying to take the tech away from you.” I leaned forward, a frisson of some intense emotions I couldn’t immediately name stirring inside me.

I was concerned. Or angry. Or indignant. Or all of the above.

“That seems to be the case, yes.”

“Why? Why your tech and not a million others?”

Florence widened her hands. “I’d love to spin an elaborate tale in which I once abducted Conor Harkness’s dog to traffic him to pelisse makers, and his sudden interest in Kline is just a tassel in his revenge master plan. But I think it simply has to do with the earning potential of the biofuel.”

Tisha turned to me. “Rue, did Eli mention anything about Kline when you two met last night?”

“Hang on—Eli?” Florence’s eyes widened. “You met Eli Killgore last night?”

If I’d been the fidgeting type, this would have been my time to squirm. Luckily, I’d long trained myself out of that kind of stuff. Robotic, I’d once heard another grad student whisper after I was cold-called in bio-nanotech class and neglected to display whatever the appropriate amount of distress was. Stone-cold bitch, my fellow ice skaters had said, because I was the only one not to burst into tears when our team missed the podium by a fraction of a point. “I did.”

“How?” Florence scowled. “Was it a date?”

“Ha. A date.” Tish waved her hand and ignored the narrow look I gave her. “That would imply a degree of emotional availability homegirl could only aspire to after a heart transplant.”

It was true enough. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been on a date—in fact, I was sure I had not. “We matched on an app, made plans to meet last night. Nothing physical happened.” Even if it feels like it did.

My hookups were pleasurable but ultimately insignificant parts of my life, and with the exception of Tisha, who was my built-in safe call—If you ever get abducted, I’m going to cheese grate the guy’s dick and rescue you in no time—I never discussed them. Everything Florence knew of my sex life came from Tisha’s occasional jokes, but it must have still been a pretty thorough overview, because she seemed befuddled by the idea of me going out with some guy and not getting laid. “Why not?”

“Long story. Vince is involved.”

“I see.” Unlike other men, Vince was a frequent topic of conversation among us.

“What a dick,” Tisha muttered. “I’ve let years of him parentifying you and holding you responsible for the utter fuckup your mother was slide, but now he’s cockblocking you? Not on my watch.”

“I guess a line has to be drawn,” I murmured.

“Damn right.”

“Did he say anything about me?” Florence asked, alarmed.

“Who?” I cocked my head. “Vince?”

“No, Eli. Did he say anything about Kline?”

“No. He . . . I don’t think he knew I worked here.” Or did he?

Florence’s eyes narrowed. She parted her lips to add something, but Tisha was faster. “Listen, Rue, when you next see him—”

“I won’t.” I remembered the blossoming heat in my chest this morning, when I found myself wondering if a man would call for what felt like the first time in decades—maybe ever. The way he’d studied me last night, as if amused by his own inability to untangle me. His warm skin when I’d kissed him on the cheek, freshly shaven and yet already stubbly. “Not now that I know what he does.”

“It might be for the best,” Florence said slowly. “But not as easy as you think.”

“Why?”