I’m not sure how to explain. “After Dave,” I say carefully, “I’m very wary of any relationship where the other person takes it more seriously than I do.”
“Okay, but how will you know—”
“And there’s kind of someone,” I interject. “She’s not local. Nothing’s going on. But I like her a lot. I’m not getting into a serious relationship with anyone I like less than her. It wouldn’t be fair. Not to me, not to anyone else.”
It’s funny. I said those words as an excuse. But the moment they’re out of my mouth, I realize they are true. I couldn’t start a serious relationship with anyone else while I’m still wondering what Em looks like.
I’m not going to stop chatting with her. Or flirting with her. I could date someone else, but how could I ever agree to be exclusive if I was still wondering what Em looks like? It’s not that I don’t want to be serious. It’s that non-serious is the only fair thing under the circumstances. It wouldn’t be right.
Good thing I don’t know anything about Em, or I’d be so fucked.
Gabe sighs. “I think that’s bullshit,” he says, “and I think you know that.”
“Fuck you,” I respond, but I smile so he knows I don’t mean it.
“And I think we’ve hit the end of your free time. So can I make you go on another forced social outing at any point in the near future, or is this going to be too awkward?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s cool. I’m busy now, but I like seeing you. You’re not forcing me to do anything.”
“So.” Gabe looks at me “Bioinformatics?”
I shake my head. “Not that. Kick my ass if I ever agree to date anyone you know.”
10
MARIA
December
I obviously hadn’t really thought through what was entailed in a massive Cyclone event. “A few hundred people,” Blake told me before we drove down, but it seems like more than that. The house we’ve come to—“Sai’s house,” Blake says simply as we pull up, “but everyone calls her Saint K.”—is massive, and the streets are lined with cars.
I’m not an expert on Cyclone corporate structure, but Sai, whoever she is, either has an enormous salary or…or no, there is no other option. Her house is long, two stories tall, in a California Spanish style. There’s a tiled courtyard visible through a gate, an enormous affair with a multi-tiered fountain that’s dry in order to pay respect to this year’s drought. Signs direct us into the even more enormous backyard—a multi-acre fenced-in affair with terraced levels, xeriscaped gardens, views onto the Bay, a pool house, and a tennis court. The smell of barbecue and smoke fills the air. This place feels more like a park than a piece of private property.
Blake is mobbed the moment he arrives. He laughs, tells a joke to someone neither of us know, and introduces us once, then twice. It doesn’t matter. He’s soon cut off from us by the press of people.
Tina doesn’t try to stay by him. She takes my hand while the attention focuses on him, and together, we slip to the back of the crowd.
The last thing I hear is Blake telling everyone that he has to go help his dad.
“Come on, guys, he’s shitting bricks,” Blake says. “Do you want to tell him you delayed me?”
“Oh, shit,” someone replies. “Let the Eye of Sauron pass over me. I didn’t see you. I didn’t talk to you.”
Whoever says that is joking. I think. Maybe. Blake gives Tina a wave over the crowd, mouths some words we can’t hear over the throng, and heads over to sparkling glass French doors from the house that open onto the yard. He proceeds to take off his shoes, still talking to the people around him.
“Well, okay.” Tina stares after him, then looks over the crowd. “This is going to be fun.”
“Yay,” I manage glumly. “Fun.”
We turn to the backyard.
The house is nestled in foothills. I can’t help but calculate the cost of all that land. Double the price for a view of the glittering waters of the bay. Triple it today, for the blue sky and wispy clouds pinked by sunset. It would probably be gauche to look up the estimated value online, and besides, those online estimates would never include the value of the amenities.
There are two grills, one close, one far, both manned by uniformed caterers. People are everywhere—by the blue infinity pool, seated on a stone wall under a wooden arbor…
Tina scoots closer to me. “Crap,” she mutters in a low voice. “I am so bad at this shit.”
Here’s the thing: I don’t like being in crowds of people I don’t know, mostly because I feel like I’m not in control. I don’t mind people; I just don’t like surprises.
Tina, on the other hand is a giant introvert. She doesn’t like small talk, and this—being abandoned by her boyfriend in a crowd of strangers—has to be her version of hell.
Our eyes meet.
“Poor Tina,” I tell her. “It sucks that Blake is just looking for a trophy wife. Now that he knows you’re shit at parties, he’s probably going to get rid of you forever.”
She glares at me.
“See?” I shrug. “Worst-case scenario is that you’re just going to be uncomfortable for a couple hours. It’s not really that bad.”
“You’re too reasonable. I need a beer.”
“Let’s find Anj.” I take out my phone and send a text. Where are you, girl?
Tina exhales. “Is it bad that even the thought of Anj makes me feel better? Yeah. I can do this.”
“It could be worse. You could be with Blake right now, talking to his dad.”
She grimaces, and at that moment Anj answers the text I sent earlier. Out by the pool house! Come have fun!
Fun. Sure.
We weave our way through the crowd, stopping to grab bottles from a cooler. It’s a bit of a trek to the pool house. When we arrive, we discover that Anj—unsurprisingly—has amassed a following around her.
Some people, like Tina, are massive introverts—happiest when alone, with the occasional friend to talk to. I’m not that bad. I don’t hate large crowds, but I don’t like the ones where I don’t know anyone.
Anj is, and always has been, unclassifiable. She’s perfectly happy disappearing for weeks on end in her attempts to make a chickenosaurus from a poultry embryo; she’s equally delighted surrounded by a dozen people.
She’s traded her usual flannel shirt for a little black dress, which she has paired with chunky boots. “Hey, Maria,” she says with a smile. “And…” She pauses, looking at Tina. “Clara?”
Tina almost, but doesn’t quite, roll her eyes. “Tina.”
“Right.” Anj nods. “Do you guys know everyone here?”
We know nobody. She introduces everyone mostly by profession; everyone else has to supply their own names. There are three programmers, a marketing guy, two adult children of Cyclone parents, and a researcher at Stanford who does cybersecurity work.
Unfortunately, I recognize the last guy, and not as myself. His name is Daniel van Tijn. He emailed me months ago about cowriting a piece together. It feels odd and invasive to know him when he’s unaware of our acquaintance.
I shake his hand when Anj introduces us. Our arrival, it turns out, is only a temporary interruption.
He and Anj are having a heated discussion on the question of de-extinction.
“I don’t need to know anything about biology or ecosystems,” he’s saying. “I can already bloody guarantee you it’s a bad idea to bring back species.”
He’s a fifty-five-year-old chaired professor. He reads my blog. I shift uneasily from foot to foot.
“I hate Jurassic Park.” Anj frowns. “It ruined everything. I’m not bringing anything back that isn’t already here. Prehistoric genes are still buried in current DNA, which is like nature’s biggest copy/paste file. It’s more like knitting by hand. Nobody has to do it anymore, but the skills are still there.”
“You are the definition of a mad scientist,” Professor van Tijn responds. “There’s a blog you really should read. It’s about the
possibility of technology gone wrong. It’s called MCL from—”
“MCL from the future,” Anj finishes with a grin.
I shrink back. Oh. Good. Me. My least favorite topic of conversation. Tina doesn’t react beside me. I try not to look out of place. Luckily, I’m not the center of anyone’s attention.
Anj doesn’t look at me. “And stop threatening me with fiction. Why are lionfish-spearing robots okay, but transgenic sharks so impossible?”
“Oh, for god’s sake.” Van Tijn throws his hands in the air. “Who said lionfish-spearing robots were okay?”
Anj just folds her arms. “I bet MCL would love my transgenic sharks.”
It’s the Lisa effect. I feel weary just watching. Mention the existence of a genetically modified shark, and all other conversation comes to a screeching halt.
Van Tijn wrinkles his nose. “You actually have a transgenic shark?”
“Only one so far. Just a little GFP shark.” Anj is beaming with pride. “Anyone can splice GFP into anything, you know. Do you want to see a video?” She pulls out her phone. “This is Lisa.”
Everyone crowds around. Everyone but me. The thought of Lisa reminds me of biting back worry. Of sneaking out the fire escape because our landlord was in the hall. If I had opened the front door, he would have seen Anj’s massive aquarium still in place. Lisa’s presence in our apartment hung over my head like a glowing, transgenic shark of Damocles.
It’s not Lisa’s fault I’m a ball of anxiety.
“She is kind of cute,” one of the marketing guys says.
“I know. MCL would love her. Come on, Maria.” She looks at me over the crowd. “Say she’s the best shark.”
My head empties of all thoughts. My breath seems to stop. Anj, you idiot.
She realizes a second later what she’s done. Her face goes pale.
It’s been a long time since I got hit by an intense wave of irrational fear. The last time was…also caused by Lisa, when our landlord found out and yelled at us. My chest tightens with a constricting, crushing pain. My gorge rises. I reach out; my palms scrape the stone wall, and I steady my buckling knees.
I wait for everybody to look at me. To say something.
A second after that—the seconds seem to crawl by like sea snails on smooth glass—I realize that nobody is looking at me. Nobody else heard those sentences as connected. They heard two separate things—MCL would love it; Maria also loves my shark.
It’s okay. Anj didn’t just give me away.
She just got so carried away by her damned shark that she almost did. The pool house starts to spin in lazy circles around me.
It takes my body a few beats to catch up with my brain. To relax. I breathe, and my stomach slowly unclenches. My heart is still racing.
“Maria,” Anj says quietly, “my shark is awesome, right?”
She’s not asking me about her shark. Except she is.
I exhale slowly. “You know what? I need another beer.”
Tina looks at me. “Want me to come with?”
For a second, I hesitate. I need a moment to catch my breath. To steady myself so I can pretend that everything is okay again. I want to be alone. I need to be alone. And Tina needs to spend some time with Cyclone people.
“Nah.” I hope I manage to sound carefree. “Keep Anj company. I’ll be back soon-ish.”
Tina bites her lip. “Text me, okay?”
I go off to hide.
11
JAY
I have to park five blocks away to get to my parents’ house. As events go, Saints and Dinosaurs stretches the limits of residential neighborhoods. Even with the buses set up to shuttle people in from the Cyclone parking lots, too many people still drive in. Add in caterers, professional waitstaff, and it’s officially a zoo up here.
I don’t come in through the front door. For one thing, I’m sure there are people I don’t know all over the house. For another, I want a chance to take a breath. Set my things down. Instead, I sneak into my parents’ home through the garage. I kick off my shoes on the threshold and open the door to the mudroom.
It’s not empty.
Instead, the very last person I expect to see is here. Maria Lopez is standing with her back to the door, her head down. She’s wearing a green sundress that comes up to her mid-thighs. Speaking of thighs…
Of its own accord, my gaze slides down the long, satiny expanse of her legs. There’s a little scar on one knee. Her calves are firmly rounded. Her ankles are…
Shit. What am I doing, looking at her legs? I jerk my eyes to her face just as she straightens.
“Oh, fuck.” She plasters herself against the door, a look of horror on her face. “Are you serious? What are you doing here?”
I can’t quite get the memory of her legs out of my mind. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her not wearing shoes, and I keep wanting to look down at the metallic gold polish on her toes. Without her heels, she’s shorter than me.
She draws herself up as if she’s just noticed the exact same thing and wants every inch of height she can get. She glares at me, too, as if this bizarre situation is somehow my fault.
I blow out a breath. “You’re Cyclone adjacent,” I mutter. “Shit. Of course you would be.”
Some days it feels like half the Bay Area is related to, or friends with, someone from Cyclone.
Her arms fold in front of her chest. “My housemate is dating a Cyclone guy. What’s your excuse?”
I’m trying not to get baited into another heated exchange with her. I’m counting to five when she snaps her fingers.
“You know what?” she says. “I know why you’re such a jerk. You’re jealous.”
No. She had it right the last time we talked in the rain. I was a jerk because I took all the hurt and guilt from one experience and poured it into permanent blinders. Because I told myself that I had female scientist friends and that made me immune from whatever charge she laid at my feet.
It’s embarrassing just to look at her and remember what she told me.
“I’m not jealous,” I say slowly.
“No? I bet you always wished you could make decent arm candy. Is that why you’re here? I can’t imagine that an assistant professorship pays particularly well, not in comparison with this.” Maria indicates my parents’ house. “And there are some pretty impressive Cyclone women.”
It’s not like I don’t deserve this. Not with the shit I’ve given her. Still, even though I keep telling myself that I need to do better, she knows exactly how to get under my skin.
“Give me some credit,” I tell her. “If I wanted to date someone from Cyclone, I wouldn’t limit myself to women.”
She flushes slightly.
“And I wouldn’t do it for the money,” I continue, holding up my keyring. “You may have noticed that this is not a public entrance.”
She blinks.
“This being Cyclone, whoever you’re with likely said it was Sai’s house. Maybe they called her Saint Karawek. But Cyclone has this obsession with the whole first name hierarchy.”
She hesitates one second—she probably doesn’t know about the first name hierarchy—before nodding.
“So I’ll explain. They call her ‘Saint’ for a number of reasons. First, because Sai is actually religiously observant. Second, because she works miracles. Third, because she intercedes on behalf of Cyclone employees with Adam Reynolds.”
“Sure, Professor na Thalang.” She folds her arms. “The job suits you. You get to be pedantic all day long. Are we done with this lecture yet?”
We aren’t, and it rankles that she’s…not entirely wrong about my tendency to go on. “Finally, she’s called ‘saint’ because her login name at Cyclone is a combination of her nickname—Sai—and the initials of her last name.”
Maria gets it the moment I say those words. She shuts her eyes. “Oh, shit.”
“Sai na Thalang is my mother,” I tell her. “You’ll get no disagreement from me. There are some impressive Cyclone
women. My mom is one of them. I’m proud of the fact that she will always outshine me, no matter what I accomplish. I wouldn’t have it any other way. So if you’re wondering what I’m doing here, I have the keys to this house.”
She looks me over with a glint in her eyes. “No,” she finally says bitterly. “Of course you belong here. You and your stupid put-on fake accent. Nobody picks up an accent in college. That is such pretentious bullshit.”
My temper finally snaps. “Yes, of course. I talk like this because I just love it when people constantly ask me how it’s possible that I have anything other than a vaguely caricatured accent. Globalism does not exist; my experience is just fake bullshit. But then, you would be the expert on fake bullshit.”
I shouldn’t have said that last. I know it the instant those words come out of my mouth.
Maria’s fists clench and her eyes flash. “Call me fake one more time.” She takes a step toward me. “I dare you. I really dare you.”
She’s not wearing perfume. I can still smell her. She reminds me of something sweet and feminine. There’s a little lace over her cleavage, white against her skin.
And that’s the moment when my brain intervenes, putting all the clues together.
I saw her face when I walked in, and while the view of her legs might have temporarily short-circuited my rational mind, details trickle back. Lips narrowed to a thin, pale line. Shaky breathing. The fact that she’s here, alone in the mudroom, instead of outside with the crowd.
She did not look okay.
She does not sound okay now. Her voice trembles as she speaks, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was on the verge of tears. For all the crap I’ve given her, I don’t get the impression that Maria Lopez cries easily.
She was upset when I came in. She’s worse now.
Shit. Shit. Shit. I wrestle with what to do for about three seconds before my conscience kicks in. It’s early December, and I don’t walk away from people who are upset.
Even if we will never get along.