His supervisor had sent three words.
Dr. John Kramer
My office. Monday.
…fuck.
He’d thrown off his tie as soon as he’d left the auditorium, but it somehow still managed to choke him. Bracing his palms against his desk, he forced himself to swallow through the pressure on his windpipe, to focus on the manageable sting of his papercut as it stretched wider with his flexing fingers.
Don’t panic. Just breathe. In. Out. In—
By failing to counter Erin’s left-handed questions at the podium, he’d lost attention, funding, and respect for not just his own research, but also for his department head’s work. He’d done it publicly. Dr. Kramer was right to be furious.Werethere any research positions for quantum physicists at the South Pole? He never should’ve volunteered to present tonight.
But Dr. Kramer would’ve been displeased if he hadn’t.
Fuck!
No, Antarctica wasn’t far enough—though why… why should he exile himself, when it was Erin who was to blame? He knew his data and his topic, and while he wasn’t a gifted orator, he’d executed his talk creditably—if not up to Dr. Kramer’s standards of excellence, it hadn’t been a disaster—until she’d bulldozed in at the end. He’d contrived one good dig about human error with Fourier transforms, but then…
She’d meant to humiliate him, taking vengeance for his all-hands challenge. Escalating their feud. Making it public. He should’ve known. Who would believe him, though? He had no proof of her intention except his own instinctive, bone-deep knowledge of how she thought and acted. Who would listen to and validate his anger? Who would help him plan his retribution? Not Chase. Not Dr. Kramer. Not even sympathetic but diplomatic Szymanski, with his workplace visa to maintain.
Forster.
And suddenly, what he needed became so obvious. Not the fading pain in his fingers. Not Antarctica.No: he needed to talk to her. He needed to see her. Their messages weren’t enough. He needed to know her. He needed itnow.
Standing in his office after midnight with his stomach in knots, he fumbled for his phone, clicked into their thread, and began to type.
Ethan
I know that we’ve talked about the Stanford– Berkeley rivalry as a problem. But what if it’s not?
He paused, exhaled. Then he tapped out a second question.Thequestion. Reckless, like the photo he’d shared.
Ethan
Would you like to meet for coffee or a drink?
Zip.
With the message sent, he locked and pocketed his device. Watching the screen for her response would drive him insane. She’d reply when she was ready. Anyhow, he’d only sent his suggestion a minute ago. If she was out with friends, unwinding from her day in a rowdy dive bar or one of the Peninsula’s craft cocktail lounges, she might not see it for hours. He might have to wait until the morning for her answer. He already knew he wouldn’t sleep.
Despite his tempered expectations, however, Forster’s response came just after he’d exited the northbound freeway. Reaching to read it, he was grateful for the long traffic light near Stulsaft Park when he pulled up to the crosswalk.
Forster
I’d like that. Saturday night?
The tension in his chest lightened, fractionally but discernibly. He drove through the intersection and up the hill to his condominium complex. When he pulled into his parking space and switched off the engine, his pulse was deafening in the quiet. But he could breathe normally.
12:47 a.m.
Ethan
Yes to Saturday. Talk tomorrow, and see you soon.
As he unlocked his front door, stepped out of his Oxfords, and knelt to greet his frantic, slobbering retriever, his phone pinged again.
Forster
