Love on the Brain

by Ali Hazelwood

For instance, did you know that The Texas Chainsaw Massacre was inspired by a true story? Before Rocío, I didn’t. And I slept significantly better.

“Go pet the leper armadillos and die.”

SHMAC: No. She’s someone I’ve known for a long time, and now she’s back. SHMAC: And she is married. MARIE: To you? SHMAC: Depressingly, no.

I can’t believe how short my commute is going to be. “Bet you’ll still manage to be late all the time,” Rocío tells me, and I glare at her while unlocking my door.

It’s not my fault if I’ve spent a sizable chunk of my formative years in Italy, where time is but a polite suggestion.

She’s so mean. I love her.

I step inside the marble hall, wondering if my new office will have a window. I’m not used to natural light; the sudden intake of vitamin D might kill me.

Science, I tell myself in my inner Jeff Goldblum voice, finds a way.

This is my life, after all: a flaming ball of scorching, untimely awkwardness.

Awkwardness level: nuclear. I’m making better and better choices today.

His thigh pushing between mine. Being pressed into the wall. The woodsy smell at the base of his— Wait. What?

“Hey.” I smile up at him, leaning my hip against the sink. God, he’s so tall. And broad. He’s a thousand-year oak. Someone with a body like this has no business owning a nerdy mug. “How are you?” His head jerks down to look at me, and for a split moment his eyes look panicked. Trapped. It quickly melts into his usual non-expression, but not before his hand slips. Some coffee sloshes over the rim, and he almost gives himself third degree burns.

I miss not having to google whether I’m having a psychotic episode.

“Bee.” Rocío shakes her head gloomily. “Which way is the ocean?” I point to my left. She immediately begins shuffling her feet in that direction. “Ro, you first have to get out of the building and . . . what are you doing?” “I shall walk into the sea. Farewell.”

“How? Will you cast a counterspell? Will you promise her your firstborn and the blood of one hundred virgin ravens?” “What? No. I’ll tutor you.”

I don’t point out that my entire body of work consists of high-level statistics applied to the study of the brain, and instead pull her in for a hug. “It’ll be okay, I promise.” “What’s happening? Why are you squeezing me with your body?”

Levi is standing in front me, still icily furious but more in control. Like he counted to ten to calm down a bit, but would gladly go back to one and flip a desk or three.

He’s so imposing from this angle, even more than usual. What did they feed him growing up, fertilizer?

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

“There is no other neuroscientist I’d want to do this project with. Not a single one.”

They start talking and I walk away with another wave, daydreaming about coffee and a bra. I don’t know why I turn around one last time, right before stepping into the elevator. I really don’t know why, but Levi is looking at me again. Even though Kaylee is still talking.

Sometimes friendship is made of quiet little moments and doesn’t involve lethal lightning bolts.

Then again, other times friendship is made of betrayal, and heartache, and spending two years trying to forget that you blocked the number of someone whose take-out orders you used to have memorized.

He repeats the only word he knows. “Impossible.” “—find a solution that—” “No.” I’m about to praise the sudden variety in his vocabulary when Levi interjects. “Let her finish, Mark.”

“But in the paper—” “Fred,” Levi says. He’s sitting back in his chair, dwarfing it, holding a half-eaten apple in his right hand. “I think we can take the word of a Ph.D.-trained neuroscientist with dozens of publications on this,” he adds, calm but authoritative. Then he takes another bite of his apple, and that’s the end of the conversation.

“And what self-respecting person wears that much glitter? Unironically?” “I like glitter—” “No, you don’t,” she growls. I can only nod. Okay. Don’t like glitter anymore.

Rocío resumes walking, morose. “Does he really hate the way you look?” “Yep. Always did.” “It’s strange, then.” “What’s strange?” “He stares at you. Plenty.” “Oh, no.” I laugh. “He puts a lot of effort into not staring at me. It’s his CrossFit.” “It’s the opposite. At least when you’re not looking.”

But I did grow up in a hostile, uncommunicative environment. I was an uncommunicative person before I realized that I couldn’t spend the rest of my life like that. I got therapy, which helped me figure out how to deal with feelings that are . . . overwhelming. Except every time I talk to her my brain blanks and I become the person I used to be.

IF I RUN at the Space Center, someone I know might see me crawl my way about, and I wouldn’t wish that sight upon an innocent bystander.

Google comes to my aid: there’s a little cemetery about five minutes away. Reading baby names like Alford or Brockholst on gravestones might be a nice distraction from the gut-wrenching torment of exercising.

I call her once, twice. Seven times. Then I remember that Gen Zs would rather roll around in nettles than talk on the phone, and I text her.

“Hello?” “Um, sorry. This is Bee. Königswasser. We, um, work together? At NASA?” A pause. “I know who you are, Bee.”

I close my eyes. “I am having a bit of a problem and I was wondering if you could—” He doesn’t hesitate. “Where are you?”

“Go stand by the gates. Turn off the flashlight if you have it on. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” A beat. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry, okay?”

He hangs up before I can tell him to bring a ladder. And, come to think of it, before I can ask him to come rescue me.

THE SECOND LEVI appears I want to kiss him for rescuing me from the mosquitos, and the ghosts, and the ghosts of the mosquitos. I also want to kill him for witnessing the extent of the humiliation of Bee Königswasser, human disaster. What can I say? I contain multitudes.

“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?”

“As it turns out, the higher your aerobic fitness, the healthier your hippocampus.

“I find myself resentfully acknowledging that according to science, exercise is a good thing.” He chuckles. Crow’s-feet crinkle the corners of his eyes, and it makes me want to continue. Not that I care about making him laugh. Why would I? “I’m doing this Couch-to-5K program, but . . . ew.” “Ew?” “Ew.” His smile widens a millimeter.

I’m pretty sure a psychoanalyst would say that it has to do with the nomadic lifestyle of my formative years. I’m a stability slut, what can I say?

He’s definitely flustered, and I laugh. The blush makes him almost endearing.

“I can wash and dry your clothes if you want. Give you something of mine in the meantime. Though I don’t have anything that will fit. You’re very . . .” He clears his throat. “Small.”

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

“Food will be . . .” he starts, and then stops when he turns around and sees me in the room. I grab two fistfuls of my shirt and pretend to curtsy. “Thank you for this gown, my good sir.” “You’re . . .” He sounds hoarse. “You’re welcome. Food will be ready in five minutes.”

My eyes narrow. On impulse, I push on my toes and open the cabinet closest to me. I find quinoa, agar powder, and maple syrup. In the next one there are nuts, seeds, a package of dates. I scowl harder and move to the fridge, which looks like a richer, better version of mine. Almond milk, tofu, fruits and vegetables, coconut-based yogurts, miso paste. Oh my God. Oh. My. God. “He’s a vegan,” I mutter to myself. “He is.”

“Thank you, Ro. Very thoughtful of you. Why’s your hair wet? Please don’t say ‘blood.’

Half an hour later, the reason my intelligent, math-savvy, articulate RA has been scoring so poorly on the GRE becomes unmistakably clear: this test is too dumb for her. In related news: we’re about to murder each other.

“The correct answer is B,” I repeat, seriously considering ripping a page off the book and stuffing it into her mouth.

“Burn it down, I say.” “Burn . . . what down?” “All of it,” Kaylee says fiercely with her high-pitched voice. Then she sucks a delicate sip from her straw. I really want to be her.

“Rocío is taking it, and I was helping her out. With”—I clear my throat—“mixed results. I believe we were about to shank each other over irrational numbers?”