He has admired my work for years?
As I look at Lewis his words echo through my mind, a loop ofbrilliantandsmartand something abouthaving admired my work for years?
I think back to the evening in his hotel room when he told me that he scrutinized my papers because he wanted to understand me. The email he wrote in the library where he said he’s always been eager to hear my thoughts. All his cryptic comments whenever I made assumptions about his opinion of me.
I want to see you succeed.
The memories pull at others, too; how he confessed he liked us together on the deck of that yacht after the graduation party, the way he said, “Hardly,” when I asked him whether he was sick of me yet, even the playful nip of his teeth when he nibbled that cashew off my finger.
Understanding sinks in and sends a heart-racing, palm-tingling, core-clenching twist through my body.
There’s a different feeling nestled against the bite of angernow. It still makes me want to get into his space, but now I want it differently.
From the way he shifts against me, I think he does, too. So, before I can convince myself that this is a bad idea, I push onto my tiptoes and press my mouth against his.
Chapter Sixteen
I realize my mistake when our mouths meet. Sure, there’s the fact that it’s an ungracious kiss, that my glasses get in the way of Lewis’s nose and the metal digs into my temple. But what’s worse is that he freezes—literally freezes with his lips stock-still against mine. It’s mortifying. I must’ve imagined the way his gaze snagged on my mouth and how he swayed in my direction.
Those compliments? Probably just a way to cheer me up.
That rant? A way to show empathy.
Because we’re friends. Or, well.Were. For a very short amount of time. Because whatever nonsense I just did doesn’t seem conducive to any kind of friendship. All these years of studying brains and yet I keep reading him all wrong.
“Oh my god,” I blurt out, breaking away from him.
“Frances.” Lewis’s hands fly to the nape of my neck before I can put more distance between us.
“I thought—” I start, but then falter because clearly, I thought wrong. “Never mind. I’m sorry.”
Lewis rests his forehead against mine, fingers tangling intomy hair. “Hey,” he whispers, breath fanning over my cheek. “I’m sorry. It’s not—”
“Not me?” I push out a laugh. “Right.”
When he draws in a breath, the movement shifts his chest against mine and reminds me how close we are. Then he steps back and places a kiss on the top of my head. It’s the kindest of letdowns, but another rejection nonetheless, and the back of my throat burns with how they’ve been piling up over this past half hour.
“We should head back inside,” Lewis says against my hair and swipes his thumb over the edge of my jaw, up to my cheeks that are aflame with humiliation. “I’ll buy you a drink later and then you can rant about science all you want. I promise.” His lips bend into a not-quite-smile. “But let’s wrap up this evening first.”
For the next hour, I answer more questions, all while Lewis keeps checking in on me, glancing over with soft eyes and curved lips. Every time he does, something inside my chest glows. All the rejections tonight, including his, should make me feel far from glowing, but still, inexplicably, I do. In under a week he’s turned from the person I could not stand to be around to the one whose presence makes me feel better, and once that realization takes hold, the glow hardens into a tense ball of nerves.
The Q and A was scheduled to last until 10 p.m., and soon after, the first students leave the bar. Lewis and I say our goodbyes, and he guides me to the exit. “You promised me a drink,” I protest once we’re outside in the sticky heat.
“Unless you want the students to eavesdrop, I’d suggest we go somewhere else for that drink.”
Halfway back to the next L stop, I slow as I spot a dive bar across the street, but Lewis keeps walking. “I have a better idea,” he says enigmatically. “Trust me on this?”
My confusion only grows the deeper we rattle down the tunnels and under the East River. Lewis keeps his eyes on me, brows curved into lines of worry, but instead of looking back at him, I take in the Friday night crowd; the group of girls in glittering miniskirts, the two guys blasting hip-hop on a portable speaker, and the woman finishing her cat-eye with a hand so steady a surgeon would kill for it. When we reach Union Square, Lewis pulls me out of the subway, up the steps, across the street, and down Broadway.
We pass the shuttered doors of the Strand, the red flag of the book store flapping above us in the nightly breeze. The courtyard of an old church interrupts the tall buildings looming over us, and I still have no clue where we’re going. “Are you taking me to NYU? To vandalize some lab or something?”
“Don’t get any ideas.” Lewis shakes his head, stopping in front of a lit-up shop on the ground floor of a high-rise. In the window, a neon sign blinksDonut worryin pink cursive. The firstois a doodle of a donut. “Here we are.”
“Donuts?” I wonder. “How is this better than a drink?”
Lewis holds the door open and waves me in. “Wait and see.”
Inside, I’m hit by the sweet scent of butter and sugar. The shop is pink and bright, with a checkered floor, and a bar counter stretching down the long, narrow space. Behind the counter, shelves carry trays of donuts in a plethora of options: powdered, glazed, covered in chocolate, or topped with a dollop of cream. A few couples and some lone patrons sit on the stools lining the length of the counter.
