Not in love

10

WE SETTLE THIS. ONCE AND FOR ALL.

RUE

My idea of a fun Friday night tended to include skating, or

Tisha, or sleeping, and while I wasn’t delighted to be accompanying Florence to an event that was unlikely to have any of those, the party came with one saving grace: the attire was formal, and I always welcomed a chance to dress up.

Large social gatherings full of people I wasn’t familiar with were gas giants yielding infinite supplies of nightmare fuel, but at least I got to dig into my closet and show off my cat-eye routine—trained by the incessant pipetting, my lines were straighter than a bubble level. As in awe as I was of Tish’s habit of showing up to the lab with Met Gala–like sophistication, I didn’t have it in me to make that kind of effort on a daily basis, and never before 11:00 a.m. When I met up with men from the apps, I rarely bothered with makeup or nice outfits, aware the clothes would come off soon enough, and that nobody wanted my face goop smeared on their skin. It meant that most of my fancy dresses were beloved but unworn, and they’d only get a chance to come out for Tisha’s wedding—because she was the kind of person who’d require three engagement parties and a handful of rehearsal di

And for parties like tonight’s.

“You look beautiful,” Florence told me when I slid in the back of the Lyft, fingering the shimmery fabric of my green cocktail dress—which had pockets.

“So do you. It feels like there should be some chromatic reason for gingers to look bad in pink, but that’s not true at all.”

She laughed. “This is why you’re a better date than my ex.”

“Because I tell you that you defy color theory?”

“That, and you’re hopefully not sleeping with my accountant.”

When I first met Florence, she’d been married to a guy named Brock who worked some bank-related job, had been her childhood sweetheart, and, according to Tisha, was “a total silver fox thirst trap.” Privately, I’d always considered him a giant bag of dicks unworthy of scraping grime off the grout lines in a public restroom. I’d hated his brash, car-salesman humor, how he’d presumed to tell Florence how to run Kline, and the way he looked at my chest and Tisha’s legs whenever Florence would have us over, like we were pieces of meat, little more than chicken wings delivered to his doorstep for his pleasure. I’d been relieved when they’d divorced, because Florence deserved better than him.

Then again, I was always a little too protective when it came to my friends, maybe because I had so few of them. Like in eleventh grade, when Cory Hasselblad had cheated on Tisha because she wouldn’t sleep with him and I’d sprayed a bottle of Heinz ketchup through the grates of his locker. Or in college, when I’d filled two Hefty bags with my roommate’s ex’s belongings after she’d caught him stealing money from her. My very few friends were the best people I knew, and I was ready to cut a bitch. Or, on one memorable occasion, a tire.

“Are you interested in doing that again?” I asked Florence. The AC in the car struggled against the summer heat. The sun would set soon, providing no respite, and yet downtown Austin had been buzzing for hours. I had no idea where we were headed, just that it’d be swanky.

“What? Sleeping with my accountant?”

“Dating. Maybe get married again?”

She laughed. “After all I went through to get rid of Brock? No, thanks. If I get lonely, I’ll adopt a cat, like Tisha. Is that who she’s with tonight?”

“I believe she’s with Diego, the tech bro. But Bruce might be tagging along.”

“I’m sure things will get wild.” She gave me a sideways look. “What about you? Are you going to start dating again?”

A flash of Eli Killgore flooded my brain, and I swiped it away with the vehemence it deserved. “Technically . . .”

“Technically, it wouldn’t be again, because you’ve never actually dated ?”

“Correct.” I shrugged as the car slowed down. Not only was interacting with others a challenge for me, but the feeling was mutual.

Why are you always so quiet?

If you smiled more, people would think you like them, and then they’d actually want to spend time with you.

I wish I was as cold as you. I love that you just don’t care about stuff.

I’d been an odd child, then an odd teenager. Then I’d become, maybe as a result, maybe unavoidably, an odd adult. Tisha had been easy—Want to jump rope with me? she asked in first grade, and the rest smoothly unfolded—but as grateful as I was for my best friend, she was also a constant reminder of what I could never be. Tisha was smart, outgoing, quirky, imperfect in a way that was universally considered fun. I was weird. Cringe. Too awkward or too withdrawn. Off-putting. There had been whispers, snickering, and a conspicuous lack of invites by the same crowds that adored my best friend. Tisha had never chosen others over me, and she never hesitated to tell those who were openly rude to me to piss off. But we both knew the truth: people were inexplicably, neverendingly difficult for me. So while Tisha had boyfriends, friends, high grades, a promising future, I was busy with figure skating and faint hopes of getting the hell out of Texas, soon.

But then I had gotten out. And while being with humans hadn’t been any easier in college, I’d realized that there was one type of social interaction I could rock. I may struggle to keep the conversation flowing, or fail at exuding the kind of warmth that made others want to be in my orbit, but some people did approach me. Men, for the most part, with something very specific in mind, something I discovered I found highly enjoyable myself. I didn’t mind if they wanted to use my body, not if I got to use theirs back.

Only fair, I thought.

As college morphed into grad school and grad school bled into internships, meeting new people organically became harder. On top of that, lots of men my age seemed to be looking for something more. Shortly after joining Kline, I had some fairly mediocre sex with another team leader at the company, and was confused when he emailed the following day, asking me out for di

I must have gotten better at hiding the way I am, I thought. I briefly let myself imagine saying yes, and the scenarios rolled through my head like a movie. Me, frantically trying to keep up the pretense of being an appealing, easygoing person and not just dozens of neuroses in a lab coat. The dismay I’d feel when my ability to fake it finally reached the end of its rope. His disappointment after my mask slipped, showing how socially inept and messed up I was. The potential for hurt was bottomless, and I didn’t even like the guy.

Sticking to the apps and avoiding repeats seemed like the better course of action.

“Is this the place?” I asked Florence when the Lyft came to a stop outside of a manor-like building.

“Yeah. We won’t stay long, just an appearance. But he has an ego and would notice if I didn’t show up.”

“There’s nowhere else I need to be. I’ll find a nice corner and wait for you.”

Florence squeezed my hand over the leather seats. “You take such good care of me.”

“You do the same.”

I’d never been to this part of Lake Austin, but I recognized the name of the club from some of the charity drives Mom would take us to as kids, to stock up on hand-me-downs and school supplies. It was the sort of fancy place frequented by people who loved prenups and air-kisses, where folks like me should set foot only on select, philanthropy-themed occasions. I spotted an easel at the entrance, and on top of a picture that could have been the stock photo for an investment banker, the words Happy Retirement, Eric in handwritten calligraphy. Florence signed the guest book, but I gave it as wide a berth as I could.

The crowded reception area was full of suits and evening gowns. A small band was preparing to play, and waiters weaved through the crowd, carrying large trays of drinks and appetizers. My stomach clenched at the idea of eating anything among these people.

“There is Eric,” Florence said, pointing at where the stock photo held court. “I’ll introduce you. He’ll say, ‘You’re too young and beautiful to be in a lab all day,’ or some shit—sorry in advance.”

He didn’t say that. But he did tell me that if he’d “known engineers came in this pretty shape,” maybe he “would have switched majors.” Because I loved Florence, and Kline, I smiled amiably down at him, and didn’t mention that I’d have reported him for sexual harassment without hesitating. In my high heels I brushed six feet and relished his obvious discomfort when he had to crane his neck to utter his crap.

While he and Florence chatted, I glanced around, trying to be discreet in my boredom. Then Sommers’s tone switched to delighted surprise. “Ah—you came! Look at you!”

I turned to find Conor Harkness, and my heart sank.

“No, sir.” His smile was all charm. “Look at you.”

He had a slight accent—Irish, according to Tisha, who’d spent a summer in Dublin for a research fellowship. My first impression of him had been of someone a few years older than Eli, but now that I studied him up close, I could tell that he was just prematurely graying. He had a magnetic presence, something I could tell even without being a victim of its pull. Men and women around us turned to glance at him, eyes lingering, and he seemed accustomed to having that kind of effect.

He and Sommers hugged like father and son, which they could easily have been, given the “white man with money who summers in New England” energy they both exuded. “Ladies, this is Conor Harkness, a dear family friend of mine.” Sommers gri

I did not come to his aid. Come on, Eric. I thought we had a thing.

“Um, was it Rose . . . ?”

“Rue,” a deep, familiar voice said from beside Harkness. “Dr. Rue Siebert.”

My lungs turned into concrete.

“Ah, perfect.” Sommers rubbed his hands. “I see you all know each other.”

“You might be the odd man out, sir. Have you met Eli Killgore? He’s a partner at Harkness.”

He was here. Standing right here.

“I have not—nice to meet you, son. Do you happen to play golf ?”

“I’m more the hockey type,” Eli said affably, southern accent on broad display. In the soft lights, his eyes seemed as dark as my own. I couldn’t tear my gaze away.

“Well, you look it.” Sommers admiringly took in his shoulders, broad in the three-piece suit. “I grew up in Wisconsin, and used to play, too. Then, of course, I got old.”