“Yeah. That could be nice,” I agree, though I don’t think my lie is a good base for whatever friendship we might strike up.
“I was a little apprehensive when Jacob suggested hosting this dinner, because there was already so much else going on,” she continues, her smile lighter now. “You know, with a whole two-week summer program to organize. But I’m glad we’ve done it. It’s great to see everyone relax and get some time to chat.” She motions me to head back outside and leans in conspiratorially. “Gives us the chance to talk a little more, too. How do you like living in the Netherlands?”
“I like it,” I respond as I tuck away the unexpected fact that Jacob planned this evening. Whether he’s changed for the better or not, I don’t know, but at least he’s not leaving everything to Vivienne. “I’ve only been there for a year, and it’s not like I get out much, but I wouldn’t mind staying there.”
“Oh, I totally get that. I was at the Donders for an internship during my master’s and absolutely loved it,” she tells me, then points at my glass. “How’s the wine?”
“Really good.”
We reach the large sliding doors leading out to the patio and I let my gaze drift around, searching for Lewis, as Vivienne says, “Don’t let me keep you any longer from yourbeauthen. We have another two weeks to talk, but this probably doesn’t happen very often.”
“What?” I look back at her.
She lifts her shoulders. “That the two of you get to spend a lot of time with each other. I know how busy the postdoc life is.”
“Yeah, we don’t, um, see each other that often.” I can’t quite tamp down the hesitance in my voice. Is she truly this invested in our relationship? Or have Lewis and I done such a horrible job and she suspects something?
But Vivienne makes anughsound, followed by a dry, “Long distance is truly the worst,” which makes me, a) wonder what experience she has in that department, seeing as Jacob seems to be allergic to the concept, and b) feel she might actually be genuine. “I need to say hello to some colleagues, but you go and enjoy your time with Lewis,” she says and heads off toward a couple of people standing by the table.
It’s good that she leaves then, because I’m pretty sure the panic is blatantly obvious on my face. Maybe Vivienne believes us, but I know Lewis and I need to step up our game if we want to leave no doubt that we’re in a happy relationship.
Chapter Eight
Outside on the patio, dusk has settled in, streaking the clouds in shades of pink on a lavender sky. I finally spot Lewis at the back corner where, with his back to me, he’s talking to a woman with thick, black hair pulled into two space buns atop her head. Every few words, she pushes a huge pair of glasses back up the bridge of her nose. They look like they know each other—closely, I suppose, given the relaxed set of his shoulders and the animated gestures she makes, followed by a hearty laugh. My steps falter as I approach. Faking a relationship in front of random colleagues is one thing, but one of Lewis’s friends?
Go and enjoy your time with Lewis, Vivienne’s words echo in my mind, making my decision for me.
As I make a beeline for the pair of them, I flip through my options of how I could slide into the conversation in a determinedlycouplyway. Call him a pet name? Or hold hands? We’ve done that before, and he didn’t mind, even when I was crushing his fingers. Although Vivienne’s probably looking elsewhere, I need to prove to myself that I can do this. So, I takethe leap and stretch my arm into the space between us until my fingertips graze the back of his hand.
Lewis jumps. He snatches his arm back and clutches it to his chest.
A hole in the floor would be nice. Or a collective, very short-lived amnesia for everyone attending.
He turns, eyes wide, and his mistake registers as he sees the chasm of space between us, my pained expression, and the quizzical look on his companion’s face. I curb the urge to down my glass of wine in one gulp and force myself to keep looking at him instead of checking if Vivienne—or worse, Jacob—witnessed this little show.
It’s fine. It’s all fine. It’s totally normal for a person to jump at a tender gesture from their girlfriend.
“Static shock,” Lewis says unconvincingly. There’s a hitch to his voice, as if his body wants to tell each and every person around us that he is capital-L Lying.
Hell, this is not working.
He makes a grab for my hand, but his grasp is so tight that it hurts. I plaster a smile on my face and wiggle my fingers, forcing him to loosen up.
“Hi, I’m Frances,” I introduce myself, nodding at Lewis’s friend.
As Lewis clears his throat, her gaze shoots to him. “Frances, uh—I don’t believe you’ve met each other. This is my friend Brady. We did our PhDs in the same lab. And this is Frances, my girlfriend.”
Her brown eyes grow wide on that last word, then snap to Lewis. “Okay, so while I’ve been word-vomiting at you about my idea of a small-town AU with Geralt of Rivia as a hot grumpy veterinarian, you didn’t thinkonceof interrupting me to tell me you are dating? And Dr. Frances Silberstein, of all people?”
She turns to me and, without letting Lewis get another word in, continues, “It’ssonice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you!”
Lewis blushes furiously, as though he doesn’t want Brady sharing what he’s told her about me and my uninspired, flashy research.
“It’s really nice to meet you, too.” I smile, although I only understood about fifty percent of what she said, and even that was confusing.
“Brady, um.” At my side, Lewis rubs the nape of his neck with his free hand.
“Listen,” Brady murmurs, leaning in as she rights her glasses. “You have to tell me everything about how angel eyes over here”—she nods her head in Lewis’s direction—“groveled and finally made it up to you because last timeIheard, you were still very much enemies and far away from being lovers.” Her mouth gapes open. “Ohh, or is that your thing? Intellectual sparring as forepl—”
