“If that’s what you want to call it, yes.”
“Huh.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Lewis says. Ahead of us, in front of what turns out to be an ice cream parlor, the sidewalk is clogged with people. I momentarily lose track of him as we weave around the crowds, but then catch the unmistakable swoop of his hair, the set of his shoulders and his canvas backpack. He reaches for me, wrapping his fingers around my elbow, and throws me a look, as if to make sure that this is okay. I nod, trying not to catalog how rough the pads of his fingers feel against my skin, how his knuckles brush against my waist, how his scent envelops me. A whiff of pine trees, a hint of sweat. As we cross another side street, he lets go of me.
“We were attracted to each other,” Lewis picks up the conversation again, “and we both didn’t feel like dating, but needed a way to,” he drops his voice as he leans in close, “decompress after work. It’s as easy as that.”
The technical term makes me snort. “Decompress. How romantic.” How did this whole thing between him and his colleague start? Did their paths cross at the printer? Did she come on to him with a calendar invite? Until three days ago, the thought of stuck-up Dr. Theodore L. North seducing anybody other than a robot would’ve been laughable.
But now that I’ve gotten glimpses of his quiet charm, I suppose I can acknowledge that he can be attractive. To some people. Under a certain light, which annoyingly includes the cold neon glare inside planes and the milky glow of the streetlights on Eighth Avenue.
I clear my throat. “And here I thought you were plenty busy with waging social media wars against me and finding the holes in my analyses. And learning German, of course.”
“Well,” he says, ducking his head, “I’m not that good.” As he pulls a steel bottle from his backpack, his ears and cheeks flush pink.
Interesting. He’s proud to a fault when it comes to his science, so his humility surprises me. Those three German words he said at the dinner were more than Jacob ever deigned to learn.
“You’ve lived in Berlin for what?” I backtrack the moment the footnote of his affiliation switched from University of Oxford to Berlin School of Mind and Brain. “Like, a year?” I ask, though I know it’s been longer than that.
Lewis takes a swig from his bottle. “Almost two,” he corrects once he’s swallowed. “Being able to speak German is sort of expected on the job. It’s not like patients who just underwent open brain surgery should make the effort to speak English to me. Not that I expect them to in the first place. Speak English, I mean.”
“They don’t call youBärchen, though, do they?”
He laughs. “No. A nurse I work with is married to one of the neurosurgeons, and that’s what he calls him. Not in the OR, but when they have me over for dinner.” He angles his shoulders toward me and takes another sip from his bottle. I watch his throat work and get distracted by the droplet of water that clings to his lower lip. “Anyhow, what was that whole thing about?”
“The language thing?”
He nods.
A deep sigh rolls out of me. “Just something we used to fight about. I know it’s hard to learn a language that has two more grammatical genders than what he’s used to. And I know understanding the difference between the accusative and dative case can be harder than grasping MR physics.” I shrug. “But he never even tried to make an effort and learn German to meet my parents halfway. He didn’t care enough about me, I guess?”
Lewis shifts his jaw, and he looks at me in a weird way, like he’s trying to figure something out, but all he says is, “So, what else do we need to plan?”
“Aren’t you the expert on fake dating?” I counter.
“Sure, if expertise for you is watching a handful of romantic comedies that are probably considered misogynistic by now.”
“Hey,” I say, nudging his biceps with my shoulder. There it is again, that humility I wasn’t expecting from him. “Claim it with the confidence of a medical doctor who did one credit of statistics in his undergrad but criticizes your choice of nonparametric test.”
Sixty blocks, four manholes spewing out questionable fumes, and countless passing ambulance cars later, we’ve not only come up with a plan, but a blister has formed under my left toe and exhaustion has settled in my bones. Noting my slowing tempo, Lewis motions forward with his chin where, at the center of Columbus Circle, the monument juts out from a circle of water fountains.
I sink onto one of the stone benches. A group of girls sits a few seats down, sharing a bucket of popcorn and lobbing pieces at their friend who wades through the water as she heatedly argues with someone over the phone.
“So,” Lewis murmurs next to me. “We’ve got our schedules down from when we would’ve seen each other. I’ll send you photos of this when I get to the hotel later. As for the next days, we sit together in the lectures, join some of the same workshops, skip some of them to work at the library,” he rattles off, and when I turn back to him, he’s flipping over a page in his tiny notebook and adding to the list he started on our walk. Our plan etched into reality in his blocky handwriting.
I’m about to make fun of him for taking notes, when he sets aside his pencil and takes my hand. This time, his grip is warm and just right, his thumb drawing a lazy circle over my skin.
“What’s this about then?” I nod at our linked hands. “It’s okay if you’re not into holding hands. We probably should’ve talked about it before, but if you’re uncomfortable with touch, we’ll find another way.”
“No, it’s fine. You know I don’t mind holding your hand,” he murmurs, reminding me of the times he’s grounded me with his touch on the plane and outside Vivienne’s office. Lewis meets my gaze straight on, and I glance up, at the wave of his hair. How can it still look this… soft and neat after the long day we’ve had? “I’m not sure what happened back there. I wasn’t expecting you to come up behind me like that, and with all those people—” He pulls my hand closer, rests it on top of his knee and emits a deep sigh. “I was nervous.”
He said something similar earlier today, in front of Jacob’s door. It was hard to believe then, and is hard to believe now. “You’re never nervous around me,” I point out.
Lewis scratches the back of his neck and for a moment it’s quiet except for the lapping water. “Because it doesn’t matter. You’re not someone who might have a job for me,” he says eventually.
What a lovely reminder of my low position in the grandhierarchy of academia. It’s not like it’s news to me, but it stings nonetheless.
I tug at my hand, but he doesn’t let go, just touches his jaw with his free hand and gives me a small smile. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. What I meant is that with you I don’t have to think about the second layer—if I could be useful for your lab, how we might work together—and that makes things easier. You and me, we can cut to the important things.”
