Page 45 of My Brother’s Best Friends Entanglement

She noticed. She remembered.

And there's that twist in my chest again.

She's not done though. "But, I can see how you might want to try something else now that you've been here for four years. You like to challenge yourself. I mean, you don't like other people challenging you.” A little smirk tickles the edges of her lips. “Only you really know what motivates you. Because it's not money, or recognition, or even normal career success." She tilts her head, regarding me. "I guess only you will ever know. But it's probably doing things that only you know are hard for you."

Then she stares at me.

And I stare back, every word sinking into my skin like a balm.

"So, the Hargreaves Fellowship," she moves on without me prompting her. “I printed out the description, I know you told me to email it, and I did, but I like looking at things in hard copy, which I think you do too, so I brought you a copy."

Shit.

In one minute she's shown that she knows me better than the people I've worked with for four years.

Abort. Abort.

I can not do this.

Even this giant desk is not enough separation.

I must be staring, because she starts to pull the folder back, her ears turning pink. "But you don't have to use it. I can⁠—"

I reach for it, and for a second our fingers graze before we both yank them back like the other is a branding iron. “No! That’s, I mean, yeah, thank you. Next time, you can have it printed here. I don't want to use up your printing credits. I know the uni can be stingy with them."

She relaxes as I take the folder and waves her hand at my offer. "Oh, no, I always request way more than I need. When I die, I offer my body to the trees as payment for all the paper I used in my lifetime." She stops. "Is that weird? That was weird. Put down in your notes, 'discourage Alexi from talking about her corpse as tree noms at job interviews.'"

I'm not sure what I'm more surprised by, her use of the term "tree noms" or my nickname for her. It's quirky. And cute.

I'm quickly remembering why I was so addicted to her.

I open the folder and read, comparing the criteria against her credentials.

Publication record, check.

Grant history, thin but workable.

At least one year of professional experience in the field. Ouch.

I look up.

Her jaw sets, instantly defensive. "I know."

“I’s going to be tough going up against the other PhD graduates when you technically haven't yet."

"Yup, I got it." She says it fast, flat. "I didn't come in here for you to tell me the bad news I already know. I came here because you're apparently good at your job. Because you promised me you’ll be able to help me."

Her words are harsh, demanding. But I can see the fear behind them, and I've done this job long enough to know the apathetic aren't scared. Only the ones with something to lose are. She wants this. Badly enough to be here, in my office. The least I can do is make it happen for her. Whether it’s my job or not.

"Okay," I say, sliding to the edge of my chair, looking at her dead on. “Look, it’s not impossible, these are just guidelines. I've put together plenty of submissions for candidates who didn't tick every box. The trick is making yourself undeniable despite the things you’re lacking. This criteria usually just means they don't want someone too green, and you can prove professional experience other ways — this RA position is one. Think about what they're actually looking for, and show it. I've looked at what you've done during your PhD. You've got a lot to work with."

Her face eases, relief smoothing the divot in her forehead that formed when she sat down. Which is my job, providing plans, not platitudes.

We spend almost an hour on her plan. She's sharp, quick to spot the gaps before I point them out, and before long we're both seeing the bigger picture.

"You're better at explaining things than Pollack," she says, sinking back into her chair once we've got a working timeline sketched out.

"Wow, high bar," I say, with a low exhale.