I want to kick him in the nuts. But I’m sad to report that there are lots of pairs of eyes on me, and while I haven’t passed the Louisiana bar, I fear nut-kicking might be considered assault in this great state. So I smile my best fake smile, ignore the crawling feeling in the pit of my stomach, and reply, “Hey, Tim. You look great.”
He doesn’t. He looks okay. He looks fine. He looks like a Cute Guy™ who needs a Dorian Gray portrait, because his rotten personality is starting to show. He looks acceptable, but nothing compared to the guy standing next to me. Who, by the way, is saying, “Tim.”
“Levi! What’s up?”
“Not much.”
“We gotta start working on those collabs again.” Tim puckers his lips like the asshole he is. “I’ve been swamped.”
Levi’s smile stays on, and when Tim leans in for a bro hug, he accepts it.
Which has me scowling. What the hell? I thought Levi was on my side. Which sounds stupid when said out loud, and unfair of me to expect, because Levi and I are barely friends and my battles are not his and he has every right to man-hug whoever....
My train of thought fades as I notice Levi is not just hugging Tim. He’s also gripping his shoulders tightly, fingers digging painfully into Tim’s flesh as he murmurs something in his ear. I can’t make out the words, but by the time Levi straightens back up, Tim’s mouth is pulled in a thin, straight line, his face is milk white in a way I don’t remember ever seeing before, and his expression looks almost... scared.
Is Tim scared?
“I— You— I didn’t mean to,” he stammers, but Levi interrupts him.
“Nice to see you again,” he says in a commanding, dismissive tone. Tim must take it as what it is: an order to scurry away.
“What just happened?” I whisper while Levi pulls out my chair. Apparently, we’re in 1963.
“Look.” He points at Sam’s food. “They have quinoa bowls.”
“Why does Tim look terrified?”
He gives me an innocent look. “He does?”
“Levi. What did you say to him?”
Levi ignores me. “Sam, does that bowl have eggs in it?”
The first twenty minutes aren’t that bad. The problem with round tables is that you can’t fully ignore anyone’s existence, but Tim and Annie are distant enough that I can chat with others without it being too awkward. Aspects of this are genuinely nice—having Sam around, hearing that old acquaintances got married, had kids, found academic jobs, bought houses. Once in a while Levi’s elbow brushes against mine, reminding me that I’m not wholly alone. There’s someone in my corner. A guy who loves Star Wars, and is too tall for space, and will take care of a kitten for half his life.
Then there’s a lull in conversation, and someone asks from across the table, “How did you two end up working together, anyway?”
Everyone tunes in after that. All eyes are on Levi and me. Sadly, Levi is chewing on a potato wedge. So I say, “It’s an NIH-NASA collab, Mike.”
“Oh yeah, right.” Mike looks a bit buzzed, but he takes another sip of his punch. He was a third year when I joined the lab. Also: he was a shithead. “But, like, how are you two managing it? Levi, do you bleach your brain after every meeting, or...?”
My cheeks burn. Some people chuckle, a couple laugh outright, and others look away, clearly embarrassed. Sam frowns, and from the corner of my eye I see Tim smirk. I wish I had a witty comeback, but I’m too mortified by the fact that Levi finding me disgusting is still the lab’s funniest inside joke. I open my mouth without knowing what to say, and—
“We’re doing great,” Levi tells Mike, his tone a mix of big-dick calm and I could kill a man with a beach ball. He leisurely puts his arm on the back of my chair, and plucks a grape from my plate. A deafening silence falls at the table. Everyone is looking at us. Everyone. “What about you, Mike?” Levi asks without bothering to look up from my food. “I heard there were problems with your tenure packet. How’s that coming along?”
“Oh, um...”
“Yeah. I thought so.”
Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. I guess Levi’s done eating his potatoes?
“Out of curiosity,” he whispers in my ear once the conversation has moved along and Mike is looking down at his own plate, chastised. “Did everyone think that I hated you, back in grad school? It wasn’t just your delusion?”
“It was a widely known truth.”
His arm tenses around my shoulders, as tight as his jaw.
A few minutes later I excuse myself to go to the restroom. I have eye makeup on, but I say “Screw it” and wash my face with cold water anyway. Who’s going to be looking at my runny eyeliner anyway? Levi? Weepy Mess Bee is nothing he hasn’t already seen.