Now she’s not sure what to think. Nasira seems to have jumped right into the deep end with Harlan, possibly making Jackie superfluous as a mentor. Harlan is a much bigger fish than she is; his advice automatically trumps hers. In any case, Jackie isn’t feeling quite as sisterly today.
Jackie takes a seat. “Hi, everyone. If your Monday is like mine, you’re going to want one of these.” She opens the bakery box and pushes it to the center of the table. “Cookies from Sweet Somethings.” There’s a buzz of appreciation, and everyone except Nasira takes one. Jackie scans the room, waiting for her students to settle again. “Okay, let’s dive right in. Tate, you ready to tell us where we are with recruitment for the toddler study?”
Tate, pierced and tattooed and dressed in a vintage granny dress and combat boots, heads to the whiteboard, where she has already posted a summary. “Numbers are up from two weeks ago, but the new ad isn’t boosting it as much as we need.”
The team discusses recruitment strategies for several minutes; then Jackie moves on to confirming the research schedule. Nothing is more important than conducting the studies, and experience has taught her that students are more likely to show up to run the experiments if they commit to it at a meeting. What she would give to have a lab manager, like Harlan has, but she doesn’t have the funding. Somehow autism isn’t as sexy as lying. Most of her money comes from advocacy groups, and they are, quite rightfully, keen to ensure that every dollar is spent wisely. Research money from government agencies (like the FBI, in Harlan’s case), tech companies, and the pharmaceutical industry flows more freely. Jackie doesn’t resent a tight budget but does wish it came bundled with extra hours in the day.
After fifty minutes, the agenda is complete. “That’s all I’ve got. You know where to find me with any questions.” Jackie opens the Voice Memo app on her phone and records her action items as the meeting breaks up around her.
Gretchen comes around the far side of the table and confers with Nasira, who is typing on her phone.
Gretchen says, “You’re working on the four-year study, right? I’m using the social part of the AOSI for my thesis and can’t figure out how the cohorts are organized.” When Gretchen was ready to choose her thesis topic, Jackie suggested she concentrate on one aspect of the AOSI scale.
“Sure. One sec.” Nasira pulls up the file and angles away from Jackie, shifting her laptop so Gretchen can see the screen.
Nasira’s phone is on the table; the screen displays a text exchange with someone named Rachel.
Jackie glances at Nasira, who is absorbed in her conversation with Gretchen. Jackie’s heart beats faster, knowing she only has seconds before the screen goes dark. She drags the bakery box toward her until it rests between Nasira’s laptop and her phone. Jackie rearranges the remaining cookies with one hand and, with the other, touches the back arrow to show the list of recent texts. “Harlan” pops out at her, and she opens the thread, horrified by her audacity, her unscrupulousness. She should close the thread and salvage her integrity (what’s left of it), but now that the messages are right in front of her, she can’t resist. If her conscience had shouted in outrage a few seconds earlier, she might have listened. Too late now.
Jackie reads while continuing to stack the cookies, blood rushing to her face.
Harlan: Maybe it’s too soon, but the Blue Goose has a special on Tuesday night.
Nasira: Never too soon for geese.
Harlan: That’s my thinking. Meet there at 7?
Nasira: Perfect.
Harlan:
Tuesday. Tuesday and Friday. Date nights. Their date nights.
Jackie stifles a cry, hits the back arrow, and reopens Rachel’s thread.
Nasira swivels. Gretchen is leaving.
Jackie closes the bakery box, and wills Nasira’s phone to turn off. Will she notice?
Gretchen speaks from the doorway. “See you later.”
“Bye,” Jackie and Nasira say simultaneously.
The phone’s screen is black.
Nasira shuts her laptop, whisks the phone away. They are alone. Jackie feels Nasira’s eyes on her, but she cannot, will not, meet her gaze. Jackie’s face is flushed, she can feel it. Guilt rises inside her, leaving her nauseous.
Does Nasira know about Harlan’s past with Jackie? For a moment Jackie thinks she might just tell Nasira that she was Harlan’s girlfriend for five years, five of her best years, five years carved out of the heart of her life, like a cancer, an alien mass that was her and yet was not her, sliced out and discarded. There is something she needs to tell Nasira about Harlan, Jackie is sure of it, but she doesn’t know precisely what to say, what the message should be. Perhaps “Don’t do what I did.” A cautionary tale? But it was Jackie who left; it is always Jackie who leaves. Maybe the cautionary tale is not to become Jackie. Talk about mentoring.
She hears her thoughts as spoken words and recognizes them as a thought salad. No, what she wants to tell Nasira is that she cannot bear to see her succeed with Harlan, but it would be madness to say such a thing. They’ve just started seeing each other, and Jackie hardly knows Nasira. She shouldn’t concern herself with Harlan, either, especially his sex life. She’s married to a wonderful man, and yet she’s blowing up boundaries right and left and seriously contemplating giving unsolicited (and undercooked) relationship advice to her postdoc. What the hell is wrong with her?
Nasira gets up and studies Jackie. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” She says it too loudly, flustered. “Mondays . . .”
Nasira nods as she inserts her computer into her gray wool messenger bag. She ducks her head and slips on the shoulder strap.
Maybe Nasira will say something about Harlan, clear the air. Jackie waits, fiddling with her phone.
Nasira takes the long way around the table, her steps soundless, and leaves without another word.
Jackie sips her cold coffee. Her hand is trembling. What an unethical idiot she is, reading someone else’s texts. She doesn’t think Nasira saw her, but it was wrong regardless—and risky. And to what end? Now she knows they have plans for tomorrow, that the relationship is moving ahead full-bore. Did she expect Harlan to remain celibate to make it easier for her?
She closes the bakery box and thinks of Miles. Maybe she’ll pick up something for him, his favorite, a lemon tart. Her conscience is urging her to correct her internal moral accounting, do something nice for the someone truly committed to her instead of becoming enmeshed in a relationship that has nothing to do with her. Well, almost nothing to do with her. After all, she and Harlan are friends, aren’t they? And Nasira is her postdoc . . .
Jackie chastises herself for falling into the rabbit hole again.
Let it go. Be happy with what you have. Make amends.
Yes, a lemon tart for Miles. And tonight she won’t do what she’s done at every opportunity since the Dinner. She won’t swing by Harlan’s house or his favorite hangouts, hoping to spot him with Nasira. She won’t go by Nasira’s house, either, even though it’s practically on the way home. It’s humiliating, but satisfyingly so, the degradation of succumbing to jealousy, the weakness in being unable to control her curiosity—morbid as it is—and the desperate thrill of being a naughty snoop. She’s vowed to stop a dozen times, but has thus far given in despite her mounting guilt over betraying Miles in doing so.