“Um...” I have no idea what to say. Zero. Nada. Maybe Dr. Curie left behind helpful tips to handle similar situations? If only her notes weren’t too radioactive to be touched before the year 3500. Maybe I can go to the Bibliothèque Nationale with a hazmat suit and—
“I won’t write up a complaint,” Boris says, “and I trust Bee and Levi will take care of...” He gestures vaguely at two of the smartest women I’ve ever met, who must be going through a spell of nymphomania. “But I beg you on my knees. Don’t do anything similar ever again.”
“Thank you, Boris,” I say, hoping I sound as grateful as I feel.
The walk to the outside of the building is deadly silent—until we form a circle and stare at one another with varying levels of hostility (Rocío), mortification (Kaylee), and poorly hidden amusement (Levi). I hope I look neutral. I probably don’t.
“So... that happened,” I start.
Rocío nods. “Sure did.”
“How did Boris even... find you?”
“Guy came into our office looking for something, found us on your desk, ratted us out.”
“On my—why did you have to do it on my—” I stop. Take a deep breath. “To be clear.” I look between them. “This was... consensual?”
“Very,” they answer in unison, locking eyes and smiling like idiots.
I clear my throat. “Is there anything you’d like to add?” I ask Levi, meaning please help, but he shakes his head, biting his lip to avoid smiling. He fails.
“Okay. Well. It’s none of our business what you guys do.”
“For the first time in my life I agree with you,” Rocío says.
“Really? For the first time?” She nods. Ungrateful little gremlin. “If you’re happy about this, so are we. But please, don’t, um, have intercourse in front of cameras. Unless you’re making a sex tape,” I rush to add, “in which case just... don’t do it in public places?”
Kaylee nods silently, looking a smidge less mortified. Rocío rolls her eyes. “Whatever.” She takes Kaylee’s hand and drags her away. “You’re not my real mother, Bee!” she yells without turning around.
Levi and I watch them walk away in the late afternoon sunlight. When they’re just little dots on the street, he tells me, “That was excellent practice for when we’ll have teenage daughters.”
My heart skips. He doesn’t mean together, idiot. “They’re young. Their frontal lobes are not fully developed yet.”
He takes the car keys out of his pocket and dangles them in front of my face. “Want to process the trauma of our twenty-three-year-olds role-playing on top of your Marie Curie mouse pad while I take you home?”
“They better be going to Kaylee’s place.”
“Why?”
“The walls between my apartment and Rocío’s are very thin.”
“You should invest in noise-canceling headphones.” He tugs me toward the car. “Order online while I drive.”
•••
“IT JUST SEEMS far-fetched,” I say in the passenger seat. “First of all, Rocío’s in a relationship. Oh—I wonder if they’re poly?”
“Should we be discussing our RAs’ love lives?”
“I’d normally say no, but them bumping uglies on my desk automatically grants us a waiver.”
He contemplates it. “Fair.”
“And—those two are so different from each other.”
“You think that’s a problem?”
It might not be. They might produce well-rounded children who know how to apply raccoon-style eyeliner and glitter. “Okay, it’s not. But Rocío disliked Kaylee. She kept clamming up whenever Kaylee was around. She made an entire list of things she hated about her.”