Lewis pushes his empty plate to the side and rests his elbows on the table. “I know.”
I set down my silverware with a clang. “That paper made your career. It’s been cited—”
“Five hundred sixty-two—”
“Five hundred sixty-threetimes,” I correct him, because yes, I checked again this morning, and yes, it’s pretty awkward that I know and he doesn’t. “It was wildly, vastly unscientific of you to leave my name off of it.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Listen, I’m sorry. I was then”—he pauses, as if to find the right words—“and I still am. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how to, for so long, until I felt like it was too late. I tried making it up to you, instead.”
His reaction blew the anger out of me in a gust, but with the bullshit he’s serving me now, it’s back in an instant. “By requesting me as a reviewer on your next paper? Gee, thank you very much.”
“I suggested you as a reviewer because I thought you’d see its worth,” he tells me, voice sharp. “It tied neatly into one of the open questions we’d discussed, and I thought it would be good for you, being able to listNeuronas a journal you were reviewing for. And anyway, that’s not what I meant.”
Is he getting frustrated? Great, that makes two of us.
“Whatdoyou mean, then?” I hiss back. “Because between publicly sharing everything you think I do wrong—”
“I don’t think you do anythingwrong,” he cuts in. “I just want to help.”
“Help?” I echo, unable to get out anything else while I process his obnoxiousness.
“Yes,” Lewis exhales. “Because that’s what peer reviews are all about: making the science better. That’s what youshouldcare about, too. The science and not whether you’re seen as successful or not.”
I’ve never engaged in a physical fight, never been kicked, but I imagine this is what it must feel like. The blow hits me deep in the pit of my stomach, pain spilling bluntly, hitching my breath for one, two, three maddening seconds, until the adrenaline kicks in and anger seethes through my chest.
“Oh, the science? That’s easy foryouto say. Also, why even bother.” His pages-long review on my last paper is fresh on my mind. “If all I produce is research that—how did you put it?” I tilt my head, “Is ‘uninspired and lacking major contribution to the field.’?”
“I said what?”
His question confuses me, but I barrel on. “It’s a little hard for me to see how any of that would make up for not crediting me in the first place, but maybe you can help me with that, too, since apparently, I’m not fit to produce anything ‘remotely publishable’ without your contribution.”
“Why would I ever say such a thing?”
“What—”
But he cuts me off when he reaches across the table, his expression replaced by a forced smile. He cups my jaw and rubs his thumb over my temple. “I see Brady,” he says. “And as much as I get that you’re angry, maybe the sight of us fighting would tip her off.”
“Oh.”
He’s shielding my face from Brady’s view, drawing lazy circles on the side of my cheek. I lower my eyes and take a few slow breaths to wrestle down the anger. There’s another lifelong skill grad school has trained me for. Every time my advisor decided to send a male postdoc in his stead when he couldn’tmake it to an invited lecture, or when I noticed he only ever responded with “good question” or “excellent thought” when said questions and thoughts came from one of the male lab members. I not only have a PhD but also an unofficial diploma in how to keep the burning unfairness to myself to not disadvantage myself further as a woman by appearing emotional in the leagues of oh-so-rational male scientists.
“How did you know she’d pass by at exactly this time?” I ask, when I can trust my voice to sound level again.
“Brady is a creature of habit,” Lewis explains. “She has dinner on her walk home from the Sawyer’s, then goes to her room to write fan fiction. After about two hours of that, she goes outside for another burst of inspiration. And here she is.”
Right at that moment, Brady notices us. Tote bag over one shoulder and a massive bottle of water dangling on a strap from her arm, she stops in front of the window. She waves at us, we wave back like the insanely happy couple that we are, and she continues on her walk. A few seconds later, the pocket of my borrowed jacket buzzes. I hand Lewis his phone.
“Mission accomplished,” he declares and angles the screen for me to read. I’VE NEVER LIKED ENEMIES TO LOVERS BUT YOU GUYS ARE MY NEW FAV SHIP, it says.
“What’s a ship?” I ask.
Lewis puts his phone face down on the table. “It’s a fan-fiction term,” he says and then pauses, a nick appearing between his brows. “Basically, it’s when you want two people—two characters—to be together, whether they’re portrayed as a couple or not.” His eyes catch mine, then dart away.
“And you know this how?”
He pulls up one shoulder. “Brady’s one of my best friends. Sometimes she asks me to give her feedback.”
Surprise pulls at my features. Either Brady likes scathingfeedback, or Lewis doesn’t go around telling everyone how uninspired they are.
