Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Three months ago

There’s nothing wrong with the waveguide. That, I know for sure. The transformer and the stirrer seem fine, too, which has me thinking that the problem is in the magnetron. Now, I’m not really an expert, but I’m hoping that if I tinker with the filament the assembly will fix itself and—

“Is this because last night we watched Transformers?”

I look up. Liam, a soft smile on his face, is standing on the other side of the kitchen island, taking in the microwave oven parts I meticulously laid out over the marble countertop.

I might have made a mess.

“It was either this or writing Optimus Prime fanfiction.”

He nods. “Good choice, then.”

“But also, your microwave isn’t working. I’m trying to fix it.”

“I can just buy a new one.” His head tilts. He studies the components with a slight frown. “Is this safe?”

I stiffen. “Are you asking because I’m a woman and therefore unable to do anything remotely scientific without causing radioactive pollution? Because if so, I—”

“I’m asking because I wouldn’t know where to start, and because I am so ignorant about anything remotely scientific that you could be building an atomic bomb and I wouldn’t be able to tell,” he says calmly. As though he doesn’t even need to be defensive, because the idea that me being a puny-brained girl never even entered his mind. “But you clearly can.” A pause. “Please don’t build an atomic bomb.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

He sighs. “I’ll make room for the plutonium in the cheese drawer.”

I laugh, and realize that it’s the first time I’ve done it in hours. Which, in turn, makes me sigh. “It’s just?.?.?. Sean is being a total dick. Again.”

His expression darkens with understanding. “What’d he do?”

“The usual. That deco project I told you about? I was explaining this really cool idea about how to fix it, but he only let me talk for half a minute before telling me why it wouldn’t work.” I fiddle with the magnetron, then start reassembling the oven. The second both my hands are occupied, a strand of hair decides to fall into my left eye. I blow it away. “Thing is, I’d already considered all of his objections and found solutions. But did he let me continue? Nope. So now we’re going with a much-less-elegant method, and?.?.?.” I trail off. At this point, Liam gets two to four Sean-related rants a week from me. The least I can do is keep them short. “Anyway. Sorry for being defensive.”

“Mara. You should report him.”

“I know. It’s just?.?.?. this constantly belittling behavior is so hard to prove, and?.?.?.” I shrug—bad idea, since my hair is now back in my eyes. I feel a little stuck. A lot stuck.

“So, what’s Sean’s last name?” Liam asks.

“Why?”

“Just curious.” He tries to sound casual, but he’s so bad at it. He’s clearly the worst liar in the world—how did he get through law school? It makes me smile every time.

“You need to practice,” I say, pointing my screwdriver at him.

“Practice?”

“Practice telling?.?.?.”

My voice trails off. Because Liam is reaching up to brush his fingers against my cheekbone, a faint smile on his lips. My brain short-circuits. What—? Did he—?

Oh. Oh. My hair. My lost, wayward strand of hair. He tucked it behind my ear. He’s just being nice and helping his ginger klutz roommate, who in turn is having a major brain fart. Classy, Mara. Very classy.

“Practice telling what?” he asks, still staring at the shell of my ear. It’s probably misshapen, and I never even knew it.

“Nothing. Lies. I?.?.?.” I clear my throat. Get it together, Floyd. “Hey, you know what?” I try to keep my tone light. Change the topic. “The beginning of this cohabitation was an absolute nightmare, but I like this a lot.”

“This?”

“This thing.” I begin to screw in the back plate of the microwave. “Where we chat without throwing chairs at each other and you offhandedly ask for the last names of dudes who are mean to me with the obvious idea of committing unsanctioned acts of vigilante justice against them.”

“That’s not what I—”

I lift my eyebrow. He blushes and looks away.

“Anyway, I like this much better. Being friends, I guess.”

He glares at me. “I’m not your friend.”

“Oh.” I almost recoil. Almost. “Oh. I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that—”

“The other night Eileen gave Bernie a rose, and you said that it was a good move. That’s not something I can accept from a friend.”

I burst out laughing. “Come on, he’s cute. He is a dog trainer. He likes K-pop!”

“See, this? The reason you’re my sworn enemy.” He shakes his head at me, and I laugh harder, and then my laughter dies down and for a second we’re just smiling at each other and an unfamiliar, liquid warmth spills inside me.

“I am positive Helena would have rooted for Bernie.”

He snorts. “You say it like it’s an endorsement. Like she didn’t constantly try to set me up with random people I cared nothing for.”

“She did the same with me!”

“And when I was a teenager she dated this guy who had been on a four-month shower strike.”

“Oh God. Why?”

“Not sure. The environment?”

“No—why was she dating him?”

Liam winces. “Apparently—and I quote—‘astounding carnal chemistry.’?”

I morbidly contemplate Helena’s sex life until Liam breaks the quiet and asks, “Do you ever think about switching jobs?”

I shake my head. “It’s the EPA. Where I always wanted to be. Seriously, fifteen-year-old Mara would travel through time to shank me if I were to quit.” I think I picked up on an odd note in his question, though. “Why did you ask? Do you ever think about switching jobs?”

He shakes his head, too. “I couldn’t,” he says. But I’m starting to know him, a little bit. I’m more attuned to his moods, his thoughts, the way he turns inward whenever he considers something serious. There is a wall of sorts that he builds between himself and everyone who tries to know him. Sometimes I wish it weren’t there. So I push gently against it and ask, “How are things at work?”

He is silent for a while, hands pressed wide against the island, watching me quietly as I finish screwing the pieces back together. My hair remains safely tucked behind my ear. “He asked me to fire someone today.”

“Oh.” I already know who he is. Mitch. Liam’s boss. Whom I privately hate with the intensity of a thousand microwave ovens. Who’s the reason Liam feels like he cannot pack up his black-market-organ-priced graduate degrees and his years of experience being a corporate meanie and find another job. “Why?”

“Someone on my team made a really stupid mistake. But fixable. And still?.?.?. it’s just a mistake. We all fuck up—I know I do.” He absentmindedly rubs the back of his hand against his lips. “I really thought I could talk him out of it.” He shakes his head, and I frown. And press my lips together. And order myself to count to five before I say anything, just to avoid being intrusive or aggressive. Five, four, three—

“Honestly, your boss is a shit nugget and he doesn’t deserve you and you should quit and leave him to stir in his shit broth!”

Liam looks up, surprised. And amused, I think. “A shit nugget?”

I flush. “A valuable but underrated insult. But Liam, really, you deserve to have a better job. And before you point out that it’s hypocritical of me to tell you to switch jobs while I won’t do it myself, let me say that it’s a totally different situation. I love my job—I just hate the people I have to do it with. Including Sean. Especially Sean. Really, mostly Sean.” Oh, how I’d love to boil my post-run socks, make soup out of them, and then feed it to Sean.

“You could ask for a transfer.”

“I plan to. But it won’t help.” I shrug and plug the microwave back in. “The EPA’s opening a new unit. I’m applying to be transferred, but Sean the Asshole is, too.” I roll my eyes. “He’s impossible to shake off. Like a parasitic toenail fungus.”

“So you’ll be competing with him for the position?”

“Well, no. He’s applying to lead. I’d be among the plebs—a lowly team member.”

“You can’t lead because you don’t have enough seniority?”

“Oh, I don’t think there are seniority requirements.”

“Then why are you not applying to lead it?”

“Because—” I snap my mouth shut and look down at my screwdriver. Yes. Why? Why wouldn’t I apply for a leader position? What is wrong with me? It’s not like Sean is smarter than I am. He just loves to impose the sound of his own voice to unsuspecting passersby. And maybe I don’t have enough leadership experience to know that I’ll be a good boss, but I do have enough Sean experience to know that he won’t be. He keeps calling me Lara, for fuck’s sake. In emails. That he writes to my email address, [email protected]. Dude, you can literally copy and paste?

I look up. Liam is staring at me with a calm expression, as though patiently waiting for me to reach this very exact conclusion: I am better than Sean. Because everyone is better than Sean, and that includes me.

I feel a shiver of something warm run down my spine, as though I’m being held. Which is weird, since I haven’t hugged someone in?.?.?. God, months. Not since Helena.

“Tell you what.” I put my hands on my hips, suddenly determined. “I’m going to apply for the leader position.”

“That’s exactly what you should—”

“If you leave your job.”

He pauses, then exhales a laugh. “If I leave my job, who’ll keep you in the expensive multi-ply toilet paper lifestyle you’re accustomed to?”

“You will, since you’re probably sitting on generational piles of old New England money. Plus, you could totally still be a lawyer for other, slightly less disgusting corporations. If there are any, that is. And if we strike this blood pact and I get the job, there’s something even better in it for you.”

“You let me hold Sean’s head in the toilet bowl?”

“No. Well, yes. But also, if I get a team leader position, I’d be making more money. And I’ll finally be able to move out.” Without needing to sell my half of the house.

Liam’s expression shifts abruptly. “Mara—”

“Think about it! You, walking around naked in a pleasantly freezing house, scratching your butt in front of a fridge full of tartar sauce, cooking tacos at three a.m. while listening to postmodern industrial pop on your gramophone. All around are giant screens, broadcasting video game playthroughs twenty-four/seven. Sounds nice, huh?”

“No,” he says flatly.

“That’s because I forgot to mention the best part: your pesky ex-roommate is gone, nowhere to be seen.” I beam. “Now, tell me you’re not going to love every second of—”

“I won’t, Mara. I—” He turns away, and I can see his jaw clench like it used to before, when my presence in this house annoyed him and he considered me the bane of anything good. But his hand tightens around the edge of the counter once, and he seems to collect himself. He studies me for a long moment.

“Please,” I press. “I won’t apply if you won’t. Do you really want to condemn me to a lifetime of Sean?”

He closes his eyes. Then he opens them and nods. Once. “I won’t leave my job—”

“Oh, come on!”

“—till I have another lined up. But I will start looking around.”

I smile slowly. “Wait—for real?” I did not think this would work.

“Only if you apply for the leader position.”

“Yes!” I clap my hands. “Liam, I’ll help you. Are you on LinkedIn? I bet recruiters would be all over you.”

“What’s LinkedIn?”

“Ugh. Do you at least have a recent headshot?”

He stares at me blankly.

“Fine, I’ll take a picture of you. In the garden. When there’s good natural light. Wear the charcoal three-piece suit and that blue button-down—it looks amazing on you.” He cocks his eyebrow, and I instantly regret saying that, but I’m too excited at the idea of this weird professional-suicide pact to blush too hard. “This is amazing. We’ve got to shake on it.”

I thrust out my hand, and he takes it immediately, his own firm and warm and large around mine, and—it might be the first time we touch on purpose, as opposed to arms brushing while we’re working at the stove, or fingers grazing as he sorts out my mail. It feels?.?.?. nice. And right. And natural. I like it, and I look up to Liam’s face to see whether he likes it, too, and?.?.?. there are a thousand different expressions passing on his face. A million different emotions.

I can’t begin to parse even one.

“Deal,” he says, voice deep and a little hoarse.

He uses his free hand to turn on the microwave—which, lo and behold, is working again.