I’m not sure how to explain. “After Dave,” I say carefully, “I’m very wary of any relationship where the other person takes it more seriously than I do.”
“Okay, but how will you know—”
“And there’s kind of someone,” I interject. “She’s not local. Nothing’s going on. But I like her a lot. I’m not getting into a serious relationship with anyone I like less than her. It wouldn’t be fair. Not to me, not to anyone else.”
It’s funny. I said those words as an excuse. But the moment they’re out of my mouth, I realize they are true. I couldn’t start a serious relationship with anyone else while I’m still wondering what Em looks like.
I’m not going to stop chatting with her. Or flirting with her. I could date someone else, but how could I ever agree to be exclusive if I was still wondering what Em looks like? It’s not that I don’t want to be serious. It’s that non-serious is the only fair thing under the circumstances. It wouldn’t be right.
Good thing I don’t know anything about Em, or I’d be so fucked.
Gabe sighs. “I think that’s bullshit,” he says, “and I think you know that.”
“Fuck you,” I respond, but I smile so he knows I don’t mean it.
“And I think we’ve hit the end of your free time. So can I make you go on another forced social outing at any point in the near future, or is this going to be too awkward?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s cool. I’m busy now, but I like seeing you. You’re not forcing me to do anything.”
“So.” Gabe looks at me “Bioinformatics?”
I shake my head. “Not that. Kick my ass if I ever agree to date anyone you know.”
10
MARIA
December
I obviously hadn’t really thought through what was entailed in a massive Cyclone event. “A few hundred people,” Blake told me before we drove down, but it seems like more than that. The house we’ve come to—“Sai’s house,” Blake says simply as we pull up, “but everyone calls her Saint K.”—is massive, and the streets are lined with cars.
I’m not an expert on Cyclone corporate structure, but Sai, whoever she is, either has an enormous salary or…or no, there is no other option. Her house is long, two stories tall, in a California Spanish style. There’s a tiled courtyard visible through a gate, an enormous affair with a multi-tiered fountain that’s dry in order to pay respect to this year’s drought. Signs direct us into the even more enormous backyard—a multi-acre fenced-in affair with terraced levels, xeriscaped gardens, views onto the Bay, a pool house, and a tennis court. The smell of barbecue and smoke fills the air. This place feels more like a park than a piece of private property.
Blake is mobbed the moment he arrives. He laughs, tells a joke to someone neither of us know, and introduces us once, then twice. It doesn’t matter. He’s soon cut off from us by the press of people.
Tina doesn’t try to stay by him. She takes my hand while the attention focuses on him, and together, we slip to the back of the crowd.
The last thing I hear is Blake telling everyone that he has to go help his dad.
“Come on, guys, he’s shitting bricks,” Blake says. “Do you want to tell him you delayed me?”
“Oh, shit,” someone replies. “Let the Eye of Sauron pass over me. I didn’t see you. I didn’t talk to you.”
Whoever says that is joking. I think. Maybe. Blake gives Tina a wave over the crowd, mouths some words we can’t hear over the throng, and heads over to sparkling glass French doors from the house that open onto the yard. He proceeds to take off his shoes, still talking to the people around him.
“Well, okay.” Tina stares after him, then looks over the crowd. “This is going to be fun.”
“Yay,” I manage glumly. “Fun.”
We turn to the backyard.
The house is nestled in foothills. I can’t help but calculate the cost of all that land. Double the price for a view of the glittering waters of the bay. Triple it today, for the blue sky and wispy clouds pinked by sunset. It would probably be gauche to look up the estimated value online, and besides, those online estimates would never include the value of the amenities.
There are two grills, one close, one far, both manned by uniformed caterers. People are everywhere—by the blue infinity pool, seated on a stone wall under a wooden arbor…
Tina scoots closer to me. “Crap,” she mutters in a low voice. “I am so bad at this shit.”
Here’s the thing: I don’t like being in crowds of people I don’t know, mostly because I feel like I’m not in control. I don’t mind people; I just don’t like surprises.
Tina, on the other hand is a giant introvert. She doesn’t like small talk, and this—being abandoned by her boyfriend in a crowd of strangers—has to be her version of hell.
Our eyes meet.
“Poor Tina,” I tell her. “It sucks that Blake is just looking for a trophy wife. Now that he knows you’re shit at parties, he’s probably going to get rid of you forever.”
She glares at me.
“See?” I shrug. “Worst-case scenario is that you’re just going to be uncomfortable for a couple hours. It’s not really that bad.”
“You’re too reasonable. I need a beer.”
“Let’s find Anj.” I take out my phone and send a text. Where are you, girl?
Tina exhales. “Is it bad that even the thought of Anj makes me feel better? Yeah. I can do this.”
“It could be worse. You could be with Blake right now, talking to his dad.”
She grimaces, and at that moment Anj answers the text I sent earlier. Out by the pool house! Come have fun!
Fun. Sure.
We weave our way through the crowd, stopping to grab bottles from a cooler. It’s a bit of a trek to the pool house. When we arrive, we discover that Anj—unsurprisingly—has amassed a following around her.
Some people, like Tina, are massive introverts—happiest when alone, with the occasional friend to talk to. I’m not that bad. I don’t hate large crowds, but I don’t like the ones where I don’t know anyone.
Anj is, and always has been, unclassifiable. She’s perfectly happy disappearing for weeks on end in her attempts to make a chickenosaurus from a poultry embryo; she’s equally delighted surrounded by a dozen people.
She’s traded her usual flannel shirt for a little black dress, which she has paired with chunky boots. “Hey, Maria,” she says with a smile. “And…” She pauses, looking at Tina. “Clara?”
Tina almost, but doesn’t quite, roll her eyes. “Tina.”
“Right.” Anj nods. “Do you guys know everyone here?”
We know nobody. She introduces everyone mostly by profession; everyone else has to supply their own names. There are three programmers, a marketing guy, two adult children of Cyclone parents, and a researcher at Stanford who does cybersecurity work.
Unfortunately, I recognize the last guy, and not as myself. His name is Daniel van Tijn. He emailed me months ago about cowriting a piece together. It feels odd and invasive to know him when he’s unaware of our acquaintance.
I shake his hand when Anj introduces us. Our arrival, it turns out, is only a temporary interruption.
He and Anj are having a heated discussion on the question of de-extinction.
“I don’t need to know anything about biology or ecosystems,” he’s saying. “I can already bloody guarantee you it’s a bad idea to bring back species.”
He’s a fifty-five-year-old chaired professor. He reads my blog. I shift uneasily from foot to foot.
“I hate Jurassic Park.” Anj frowns. “It ruined everything. I’m not bringing anything back that isn’t already here. Prehistoric genes are still buried in current DNA, which is like nature’s biggest copy/paste file. It’s more like knitting by hand. Nobody has to do it anymore, but the skills are still there.”
“You are the definition of a mad scientist,” Professor van Tijn responds. “There’s a blog you really should read. It’s about the possibility of technology gone wrong. It’s called MCL from—”
“MCL from the future,” Anj finishes with a grin.
I shrink back. Oh. Good. Me. My least favorite topic of conversation. Tina doesn’t react beside me. I try not to look out of place. Luckily, I’m not the center of anyone’s attention.
Anj doesn’t look at me. “And stop threatening me with fiction. Why are lionfish-spearing robots okay, but transgenic sharks so impossible?”
“Oh, for god’s sake.” Van Tijn throws his hands in the air. “Who said lionfish-spearing robots were okay?”
Anj just folds her arms. “I bet MCL would love my transgenic sharks.”
It’s the Lisa effect. I feel weary just watching. Mention the existence of a genetically modified shark, and all other conversation comes to a screeching halt.
Van Tijn wrinkles his nose. “You actually have a transgenic shark?”
“Only one so far. Just a little GFP shark.” Anj is beaming with pride. “Anyone can splice GFP into anything, you know. Do you want to see a video?” She pulls out her phone. “This is Lisa.”
Everyone crowds around. Everyone but me. The thought of Lisa reminds me of biting back worry. Of sneaking out the fire escape because our landlord was in the hall. If I had opened the front door, he would have seen Anj’s massive aquarium still in place. Lisa’s presence in our apartment hung over my head like a glowing, transgenic shark of Damocles.