Miles shrugs. “Sure. We can Uber home, pick up your car tomorrow. How about the Rye Bar?”
They make their way to M Street and turn right on Thirty-First toward the river. The bar is as plush and dark as a speakeasy, and they settle into armchairs in a corner. Jackie orders another martini. One is usually her limit, especially with wine thrown in, but it was hardly a usual evening. Miles asks for Lagavulin, and the waiter engages him in a discussion of single malts. Jackie squirms in her chair. The waiter leaves.
Miles checks his phone and tucks it away. He leans back, crosses his legs, and smiles at Jackie. “You definitely have something on your mind.”
“I hardly know where to start. I keep bouncing between disconcerted and horrified.”
“About what?”
How could he possibly ask? He knows Nasira is her postdoc. “Nasira!”
“Nasira?”
“Yes! And Harlan. I mean, why did he invite her and not tell me, knowing she works in my lab?”
“Sounds like they spent the afternoon together.”
“Okay. So now we have two questions. Why did they spend the afternoon together? And why, having done that, was Nasira at our dinner? Harlan could’ve begged off.”
Miles nods. “He could have, sure. But why not invite her? You know her. You work with her.”
“I hardly know her at all. She just got here. Am I wrong to think I should’ve been the one to decide whether I wanted to socialize with her?”
“That’s a fair point. But is it really a huge deal? Harlan’s broken the ice now.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Why what?”
“Why her?”
Miles spreads his hands. “Why not her? Look, Jackie. If Nasira was, I don’t know, dreary or full of herself, I could see your point. But I thought she was easy company.”
“‘Easy’ is an interesting choice of words.”
“Jackie . . .”
The drinks arrive. Miles raises his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Jackie inhales the resinous scent of the gin. Miles’s attention is wandering around the bar as he tastes his scotch. She watches him, icy gin sliding down her throat, and wonders if he will comment on Nasira’s looks. He’s not the sort of man who routinely comments on appearances, thank God, but Nasira would send up a blip on any man’s radar.
Jackie takes another sip and sets down her glass. “You’re right, Miles. She’s pleasant, if a bit reticent, and smart, of course.”
Miles smiles. “You hired her, after all.”
“I did.”
“Her French is excellent. Did you know her mother was French?”
Miles is Dutch by birth but was schooled first in France, then in England, before returning to Utrecht for university. When Nasira ordered pot de crème and he heard the native sounds, he initiated a brief but rapid-fire exchange that left Jackie’s I-can-get-by proficiency behind in the first sentence. It’s ridiculous, but having a French mother seems to give Nasira intangible advantages, like having royal blood.
“Her mother never came up,” Jackie replies.
“Well, I don’t understand why you’re objecting to someone who is so unobjectionable.”
“I’m not objecting to her, Miles. I did enjoy talking with her at dinner. She was sprung on me, on us. Harlan could’ve warned us.”
“We’ve covered that.” He sighs and recrosses his legs. “Harlan seemed great. The sabbatical agreed with him, despite his aversion to travel, don’t you think?”
Jackie nods. Harlan did seem more buoyant, refreshed. That’s what sabbaticals are designed to achieve, but change was anathema to Harlan, or it had been, along with punctuality and visiting museums. Until tonight, Jackie has only seen Harlan in passing since his return; his research space, with its large, expensive equipment, is tucked into the labyrinthine basement of Wolf Hall, the Psychology Department building. Harlan studies the neural control of lying and truth telling, poking around in the electrochemical tangle of the brain in search of the mechanisms of moral judgment. Intriguing work, but esoteric compared to her own, especially her interest in uncovering behavioral markers for autism. For parents of autistic kids, knowledge is the foundation for coping—and hope.
Jackie pictures Harlan’s hand on Nasira’s back. She drains her glass and feels more focused and less tactful. “Miles. What do you think? Are they sleeping together?”
Miles laughs. “How would I know?”
“Harlan might have said.”
Miles shakes his head, more in disbelief than denial. “Why are you so keen to know?”
“L’enfant is half his age.”
He shrugs. “It happens.”
Jackie studies him, trying to remember if he’s said something recently about chatting with Harlan. She’s been so frantic at work, and there wouldn’t have been any reason for her to file the information away. She has the ghost of a memory of Miles saying he spoke with Harlan perhaps a week ago. Did they talk about Nasira? Jackie can’t ask. A friendship between your ex and your husband means you’ve put the past behind you. But the past is never completely behind you; it is alive in your memories, in your reptilian brain, where a whiff of cologne can make you an idiot and where phrases like “we’ve moved on” mean next to nothing.
She leans forward. She knows damn well she should let it go but can’t stop herself. One martini was not enough, and two, it seems, was too many. “Do you know something?”
“About?”
“Harlan and L’enfant.”
He stares at her, his features squaring slightly, the playful curve of his mouth hardening. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Why? I’m just fascinated with what happened tonight.”
“You’re not just fascinated.” He takes a slow sip of his scotch. “You’re jealous.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Is it?” He holds her gaze.
She resists the urge to squirm. When in doubt, double down. “Yes.” She sits back in her chair and spreads her hands. “How can I be jealous? I don’t even know if they’re seeing each other.”
“Then leave it alone.”
His tone is firm, and Jackie pauses. Miles rarely challenges her, and never without cause. He’s right that she doesn’t know anything about Harlan and Nasira. If Jackie hadn’t dated Harlan for five years, Nasira’s presence at dinner would only have been a social blunder, easily overlooked. Miles is also right that she is jealous; she hasn’t had cause for jealousy before tonight because she’s never met any of Harlan’s girlfriends. Maybe if she’d encountered a succession of Nasiras over the past five years she’d be inured.
As for Nasira, she probably walked into the evening blind, having no idea of Harlan’s history with Jackie. It was, after all, just dinner.
Jackie reaches for Miles’s hand. “I’m sorry to be such a nutjob. Want to go sailing in the morning?” It was how they met. At the time, Jackie rowed at dawn every morning. She’d begun the practice after college to quell her grief over her father’s death. Losing him a second time, and losing him absolutely, had crippled her, and only the exhaustion from pulling the shell along the deep calm of the Potomac had brought her a measure of relief. Over the years, rowing morphed from an antidote to pain to a source of pleasure. At the boathouse one morning, Miles struck up a conversation and convinced Jackie to trade solitary rowing for dinghy sailing, at least for the day. On their third outing, Jackie learned that Miles had recently lost his father. She asked about him, about them. That day and during later sails they shared their stories, stories long enough for a slow, wide river, and their nascent friendship deepened.