Love on the Brain

by Ali Hazelwood

The real villain is love: an unstable isotope, constantly undergoing spontaneous nuclear decay. And it will forever go unpunished.

Levi’s team appears to be WurstFest™ material. The well-known Meatwave. A Dicksplosion in the Testosteroven. The good old Brodeo.

“You’re left-handed,” Kaylee says while Rocío signs. “Me too. Lefties power, right?” Rocío doesn’t look up. “Left-handed people are more prone to migraines, allergies, sleep deprivation, alcoholism, and on average live three years less than right-handed people.”

Yay me

“What do you mean, we can’t get inside our office?” “I told you. Someone dug a moat around it and filled it with alligators. And bears. And carnivorous moths.”

Maybe it’s an overactive amygdala. Maybe it’s too much estrogen. Maybe it’s the lack of parental role models in my formative years. I honestly don’t know what the cause is, but the fact remains: I sometimes daydream about murdering people. By “sometimes,” I mean often. And by “people,” I mean Levi Ward.

I miss knowing where the olives are at the supermarket.

Preach

MARIE: Did she at least get ugly while she was gone? SHMAC: She’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Just follow my lead,” Levi says, gesturing me inside. “We’re supposed to be co-leads,” I mutter. The corner of his lip twitches up. “Follow my co-lead, then.”

SHMAC: I’m sorry that happened to you. MARIE: I’m sorry this is happening to you. SHMAC: Look at us. Two sorry scientists. MARIE: Is there any other kind? SHMAC: Not that I know of.

He sounds very . . . in charge. Self-assured. Not that he usually doesn’t, but it’s having a new . . . effect on me. Oh my God. Am I a damsel in distress?

“How will we retrieve the ladder?” “I’ll drive by tomorrow morning and pick it up.” “What if someone steals it?” “I’ll have lost a precious heirloom passed down my family for generations.” “Really?” “No. Ready?”

“Not that family. Your other family.” His head tilts. “Does my father have a secret family you want to tell me about, or . . . ?”

I have no idea how to tell him that this is, like, the tenth thing we have in common. Sci-fi and cats and science and obviously men’s deodorants and who knows what else. It’s so incredibly upsetting to me, I can’t even imagine how much he’d hate it if he knew.

She’s everything I ever wanted and I want to inject her into my veins and also to never see her again.

I blink. Several times. “Wow.” “Wow?” “That was an excellent apology.” I shake my head, disappointed. “How am I supposed to keep up my very adult silent treatment for the next three and a half hours?”

“And who knows where the possum was going? Maybe she had a family? Maybe she was bringing home food to kids who now wonder where Mommy is?” I’m making myself cry harder. I wipe my cheek and sniffle. “I’m not sure wildlife abides by the rules of traditional nuclear family structure—” Levi notices my glare and instantly shuts up. He scratches his nape and adds, “It’s sad.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine. I’m emotionally stable.” His lips curl up. “Are you?”

“He’s the real secret of your academic success!” “I wouldn’t go that far—” “The source of your intelligence!” “Seems excessive—” “The only reason you have a job!”

“What are you wearing tomorrow?” He gives me a puzzled look. “I don’t know. Is it relevant?” “Of course! We’re spying.” He nods in a way that clearly showcases how full of shit he thinks I am. “Something inconspicuous, then. A trench coat. Sunglasses. You brought your fake mustache, right?”

“You know what? It was a raccoon, but it had clearly died of old age.”

I love this man

“Right. That’s where I’m going to scare you.” “Scare me?” “Yes.” I make room on the table, and start sketching a diagram. “But don’t be scared.” “I’m not scared.” “Good. Stay unscared.”

I want to try them all. All the kisses Levi Ward is capable of, I want to sample them like fine wine.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, and I could fall in love with this hesitant, shy version of Levi Ward—the same man who nibbled my throat awake at three a.m. to say that he’d die if he couldn’t fuck me again.

“I can’t believe you didn’t just tell me.” In retaliation, I pluck a broccoli rabe from his plate. “I’m an excellent communicator with outstanding interpersonal skills, according to my résumé.”

“You overheard me?” He sounds skeptical. “Through Sam’s solid wood slab of a door?” I bat my eyes angelically. “Yes.” “Were you eavesdropping in the ficus?”

“I’ll also, um,” I murmur against his lips, “do stuff for you. Afterward.” Whoa. Very sexy, Bee. Very smooth, you temptress.

“Bee. You want to belong. You want someone who won’t let go. I’m it. I didn’t let go of you for years, and I didn’t even have you. But you need to let me.”

I’d quote the most dramatic verses here, but then I’d have to kill myself and everyone who read them.

Really easy to get one.” He holds the gun like he hates it almost as much as I do. “NRA’s crazy here.” “I guess I’m having the full Texas experience,”

Now THATS crazy

I am begging you on my knees to return—” “You’re standing,” Rocío points out, unimpressed. Levi looks away, biting back a smile. “Rocío,” I scold her gently. “What? Make him grovel harder.”

“Will you mention that I had sex at work with the most beautiful woman in the world?” She glances at Kaylee, who blushes prettily. “I—” He rubs his temple. “I actually forgot about that.” “Is that a firm no? Because it’s one of my proudest accomplishments.”

“I must thank you. For saving Bee’s life,” she says solemnly. “To me, she is like a mother. The mother I never had.” “You have an amazing mother back in Baltimore,” I point out, “and I’m only five years older than you.” I am ignored.

I love Rocio

Rocío rummages in her jeans pocket and offers him an unwrapped, slightly squished red gumball. “Thank you. This is . . .” He looks at the gum. “A thing that I now have.”

do you think they ever wished they’d just never met? Never been in love?” He nods, as though he’s considered the matter before. “I really don’t know, Bee. But I do know that I never have. Not once.”

He’s so handsome. Stupidly, unjustly handsome. I want to look at his stupidly, unjustly handsome face for . . . for as long as I possibly can. Could be a minute. Hopefully, it’ll be seventy years.