Who had she just seen? He might’ve been a distant relative or a figment of her imagination. She drifted inside and sat by the window at a long table. She typed “Jake K” on her Roxster for some kind of clue. The fill-ins:
Jake Kristopher
Jake Kristopher net worth
Jake Kristopher house
She tapped his name. His Wikipedia page was the first search result of over three million. As she looked at his photo, she hugged herself with one arm. His short hair was mostly salt, barely pepper. Still, something about knowing people when they were young made them always look that way to you. “Jake Kristopher (born December 1, 1992) is an American billionaire investor and philanthropist. Kristopher is CEO of Olympus Capital, one of the largest hedge funds, now managing more than $105 billion. His net worth is estimated at $10 billion…”
But she knew that already. Even though they hadn’t spoken in over thirty years, it had been easy to keep up with him. Olympus made the news often for its stellar results. Jake was photographed at charity fundraisers. He appeared on NBC and other channels to give stock picks and his opinion on the macroeconomy. Sophie had seen him on the TV always running on mute in the physics faculty lounge. Success had made him a public figure.
She thought he might’ve reached out in the days, weeks, or months after she proved block theory. He must’ve heard about it. And after what they’d shared together—all the vulnerable moments before they’d done anything or were anyone—he must’ve considered saying something. Then, nothing at all. To her, his lack of contact sent a clear message: he didn’t think they should be together. Even though Sophie had proven they still were.
She’d thought about reaching out herself. The trouble was that none of the appropriate things felt honest and nothing honest felt appropriate. They’d never had a light touch with each other. They hadn’t been friends first. Even when they’d met, as they alternated questions on their way to lunch, they were already falling in love. Besides, Jake seemed to be thriving. In every interview, he looked sharp as ever, as fit as he was in college. His teeth were straight now. He appeared to be living the future he’d always envisioned.
Sophie scrolled down to Jake’s Personal section.
Wooden chair legs screeched.
She lifted her head.
Jake’s college double sat down at the end of her table. A sour shock came up her throat and stole her breath. The Indian woman sat next to him. He draped his arm around the back of her chair. He kissed her cheek. A tiny feather floated to land on the floppy collar of his white linen shirt. The woman pinched it with long, elegant fingers and flicked it free. Sophie glanced between the photo of Jake on her watch and the young man in front of her. As the feather from his shirt blew toward her, the couple traced its path to Sophie.
“So, people can feel time stop?”
Sophie kept staring at the lookalike.
He waved, rose, and approached her from across the table. His wide smile was kind. He slid his big hands into khaki pockets. Sunlight danced in his bright eyes.
“Hi,” he said.
Sophie felt unhinged.
What was happening?
Who was he?
Her gut was silent and cavernously empty.
She had to speak.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Have we met?” he asked.
“No.”
“I’m Liam.”
He extended his hand in slow motion.
“So, people can feel time stop?”
Liam’s hand waited.
“Are you okay?” Liam asked.
“Sorry. It’s just.”
She shook his hand limply.
He looked worried.
“The resemblance,” she stuttered.
“Ah,” he said. “So you knew him.”
Sophie didn’t understand.
“My biological father,” Liam explained.
Sophie wrinkled her brow.
“You’re Jake’s…”
“Son,” Liam finished.
He winced.
“I don’t say that often.” He smiled uncomfortably.
Sophie cleared her throat.
“I didn’t know he had…”
Any children.
“What’s your name?” he asked, friendly.
“Sophie. I teach physics here.”
“Oh, I’m taking physics,” Liam said. “To graduate. Physics and Society, the easiest class. I’m going to get the tutors’ help after lunch. I’m an art major.”
He laughed.
“Though I’m not sure the tutors will help,” he added doubtfully.
“Why not?”
“I’m at the level below being helpable,” he said. He stacked his hands one under the other. “I always end up asking them questions about themselves and getting distracted. Then we’re getting coffee. I’m showing them pictures of my work. It’s a disaster.”
Jake never would’ve gotten distracted like that. The physical resemblance between them was there, but all the intangibles were different. Liam had none of Jake’s darkness—and yet, every inch of his face. Sophie didn’t want him to leave.
“I’d be happy to take a look,” Sophie asserted.
“Oh no,” Liam said. “I wouldn’t impose.”
“I insist.”
Sophie was firm.
“Please,” she added more kindly.
Liam acquiesced.
He removed a tablet from his backpack and introduced Sophie to Daya, his girlfriend. Daya was also an art major. She had small features: slim nose and thin lips on an almond-shaped face. Her glossy black hair shone.
“You look familiar,” Daya announced.
Sophie smiled, left the mystery be. She’d heard versions of that for decades. After all, her proof had generated global buzz. Her identity used to be a popular Halloween costume. A blond wig, notebook covered in handwritten equations and sketched clockfaces, and Yale sweatshirt constituted The Sophie Jones. The outfit was sold in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag. Then, of course, came time. Sophie aged out of her signature look. She ceased to make history or the news. Her theory was still in textbooks, but her headshot wasn’t. Out of context, her name rang bells, but more and more rarely with young people.
Liam summoned his homework onscreen.
He sheepishly introduced his problem set.
As the room quieted over the next half hour, the crowd dissolved. Daya bid Sophie goodbye and left for her next class. Meanwhile, Sophie did her best to help Liam. She gave full answers to some of his questions, but there were moments when the likeness was so arresting, she could only nod or shake her head.
“Acceleration is in meters per second squared?” Liam asked.
Sophie nodded.
“That’s nuts.”
As Liam recurved the top arch of a 2—as delicately as if it were a picture, much more than a signifier—she remembered how meticulously Jake had patted his hair into place on the morning he met her mom. She remembered Jake’s neat stacks of paper, their edges aligned to sandstone smoothness. These weren’t flashbacks—just memories. Hazy, precious. One by one, they confronted her with how completely she’d given her heart away and how she’d never gotten it back. She’d never been in love before or since. Time with Jake had burned her nerves beyond feeling that deeply again. She couldn’t imagine ever fitting so perfectly with anyone else. The years they’d spent together felt like the most important thing she’d ever done.
“Shit,” Liam said. “I got a negative speed.”
Sophie blinked.
She checked Liam’s math.
“Is that possible?” he asked.
“No. Speed is a scalar.”
He looked stupefied.
“That means it’s always positive.”
“Huh.”
This time, Sophie gave him clear instructions.
Liam started again.
She helped him step by step until he circled the correct number at the bottom of his tablet and closed the l
oop with a flourish. Sophie guided him through the rest of his problem set, explaining every concept with brilliant simplicity. She conveyed much of her advice in question form, leading him to make the inferences himself.
“We did it.” Liam beamed. “Thank you.”
He slid an arm through one loop of his backpack.
“The tutors don’t even compare.”
“Let’s meet again,” she said.
His smile shone on her.
They said goodbye.
Liam pushed the door open and disappeared into natural light. Sophie walked to the ladies’ room, into a stall, and locked herself inside. Her hot forehead lay on the cool metal door. A son? How? For once, she was afraid of the answers.
* * *
Sophie walked home from Silliman with her spine wilting. She stopped in front of her place on Hillhouse, two doors down from where Peter and Maggie still lived. She’d refused the nineteenth-century mansion when Yale had offered it to her ten years ago—too much space just for her. Besides, she’d always lived more in her own mind than she did outside of it. The luxury would’ve been lost on her. But the trustees insisted that the accommodations were suitable in light of her contributions. So, she accepted the two-story, three-bedroom extravagance. She’d left the vintage furniture inside untouched. What was the difference between chairs? Sofas? Those complexities had always eluded her.
Inside, steps from the front door, she sat on a faded yellow sofa and slid her flats off to reveal toenails painted white. A navy-blue crescent moon crowned each big toe. She’d drawn them herself with a toothpick. She checked her Roxster, the same black bangle that Liam, Daya, and almost everyone else on campus wore. Ten percent of the world owned one; the device was as omnipresent as the iPhone used to be. Roxster had been Jake’s largest investment at Olympus for decades and accounted for most of his double-digit returns every year. Did his investing in a watch company—in the business of time—have anything to do with her? She’d imagined an emotional pressure on his hand making the trade. Maybe he’d seen it as a way to stay close to each other without being together. But that idea always felt too narcissistic to nurture.
She revisited Jake’s Personal section on Wikipedia with one hand grabbing her neck: “Kristopher is famously private. He has never carried on a relationship in the public eye. He has never been engaged or married. He has one son, Liam Carlson. His mother, Lily Carlson, is a legal aide in New York City. She and Kristopher reportedly remain on good terms.”
Cold sweat chilled her.
How had she missed this? Of course, she’d read this page—dozens of times—but not in a while. She thought she’d been keeping up with him passively. He was so often on the news. She’d always checked for a wedding ring when he was on air—none. She’d googled him occasionally, but never much. The reminders that he was out there still hurt. Of course she’d read this page before, but… had this section been updated by then? Had she blocked it out, protecting herself? Or seen only what she wanted to see?
She typed “Lily Carlson” into the search bar, then clicked on the images filter.
Fifty different portraits appeared.
“Lily Carlson, legal aide.”
One woman dominated the top row. Her professional headshot was the first hit. Sophie enlarged it. Lily had the warmest smile. Her brunette pixie cut emphasized gorgeous full cheeks. Her brown eyes beamed under thick eyebrows. Sophie imagined Lily as the kind of woman who laughed a lot, had a wide circle of friends, and said yes to every invitation.
How had she and Jake met?
How long were they together?
Did Jake like that she was upbeat? Maybe Lily was a foil to everything he struggled with himself—the isolation, the unusual devotion to one purpose—which Sophie had only magnified.
Had there been other women?
Other than Lily?
Sophie had only agreed to a handful of dates since college. After she proved block theory, some of her vibrancy returned. Maggie was so ecstatic to witness the change that, in her exuberance, she offered to set Sophie up with a neighbor’s son. Sophie hadn’t wanted to pop the balloon of Maggie’s mood. So she’d taken Metro-North into New York City to have dinner with Hanson Lawrence, a late-thirties financier from Virginia. At the end of his first monologue, instead of asking Sophie anything, he started to detail his monthly hunting trips to Texas, where he shot big game out of a helicopter. He showed Sophie pictures of his homes in New York City, Houston, Aspen, and London. During that slideshow, Sophie stared only at his Roxster band. None of Hanson’s posturing was love. It was all walls, all ego. Dinner with Hanson had preceded a few other first dates, all thanks to Maggie. Sophie never agreed to a second one.
Eventually, Maggie stopped suggesting men for Sophie. People respected her solitude as a choice. Besides, physicists were allowed more eccentricities than regular stock. Isolation was not uncommon among deep thinkers.
The sun started to set.
Windows dimmed.
In her kitchen, Sophie put on a kettle for tea. She turned its dial to summon a tight ring of blue fire. She hadn’t outfitted her home with smart connectivity the way the Malchiks had. She had the same manual faucets, wood cabinets, and dumb walls as when she moved in. Whenever the Malchiks visited, they marveled at her simplicity. Her parents were the only other people she’d hosted. Isabel and Roger took the train in twice a year to attend her famous, semester-ending lectures on block theory. She visited them in return on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the Fourth of July, at least, when she and Isabel used to hike.
It was on one of those woodsy treks years ago that they’d seen the geese near their home. Isabel had spotted them first: two elegant Canadians gliding across a glassy pond. The ground was carpeted with decaying leaves, mushroom-studded old logs, young pines, and fragrant dirt. Not a noise rippled the air. As Sophie watched them, she wondered how animals formed such strong bonds without complex language. Later that year, on the same route, she returned with Isabel to find that only one goose remained. Isabel explained that a neighbor’s dog had killed the male. Geese, Isabel went on, were extremely monogamous. Not only did they mate for life, but when one was killed, the other lingered in that exact spot until forcibly removed.
The kettle screamed.
She tipped hot water into a mug.
Sophie had since then, on occasion, imagined herself as a goose still on the pond where she’d last seen Jake. Now, though, with his son.
* * *
Sophie waited for Liam in Peter’s old office. She’d inherited the room and furniture when he retired. She had added a framed photo of her parents, next to one of her with the four Malchiks taken at her second New Haven Half Marathon.
Peter’s wall clock ticked on.
Since Sophie met Liam last week, she’d lunched in Silliman every day. She sat in the far corner with one jelly sandwich and one iced tea. The walls intersected directly behind her—the room’s spine inches behind her own—giving her the best view to watch for him. Would he dilute his blue Gatorade with ice water, the way Jake had? But she didn’t want to see him just to re-see Jake. She wasn’t drawn to Liam just as a nexus of information about Jake and his mother. Inexplicably, Sophie felt compelled to protect him. If this was where he ate lunch, then that’s where she needed to be. But he hadn’t been back yet.
Knock knock.
Liam smiled in her doorway.
“Hi!” She rose to shake his hand.
He wore a light pink linen shirt. Its wrinkles gave the fabric depth and left the nuances of his chest a mystery. Sophie gestured for him to join her at the round table and felt Professor Malchik’s stiff arm in her own. He’d offered her a seat just like this the first time they’d met. Liam sat with his tablet in front of him. Sophie barely looked at it. Up close, now, she saw the Lily in him. Her cheekbones had been stunning, distinct as a heart on each side of her smile. Those widened Liam’s face more than Jake’s. Lily’s small, effeminate mouth softened his jaw. Sophie saw other par
ts of Lily, too, not in perfect replicas but in traces.
She forced herself to speak.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Good!” He gave a thumbs-up.
White paint speckled his hand.
“Did you paint this morning?”
He looked at his hand and laughed.
“How can you tell?” he asked. He scratched his head. Freckles dusted the rim of his ear. A lone brown one dotted behind his lobe. She wouldn’t have expected much sun to shine there.
“What’re you working on?”
“My graduation show. It’s still a couple months away, but it’s supposed to be my best work since I’ve been here. It’s always harder when you care.”
“True.”
Pause.
Liam tapped his tablet until his problem set appeared.
“So—” he began.
“Do you like it here?” she asked.
She interlaced veiny hands on the table. Her narrow shoulders faced him.
“I do,” he admitted.
She waited.
“The people, most of all,” he went on. “I met Daya here. And it’s a beautiful school. I get to do what I love.” He smiled to punctuate the happy thought.
“What do you want to do after graduating?”
“Paint. I’d like to do that every day, as much as I can.”
She waited.
“Which means I’ll have to sell more of my work. Or my work for more.” He laughed. “Thankfully, there’ll be a few dealers at the show. I’ve been told they help get you into galleries and whatnot.” He yielded again to the curiosity evident in her silence. “But it’s less that I want to get anywhere. It’s more that I care about what I’m doing day to day.”
“Interesting.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you been getting the help you need in the art department?”
She squinted, serious.
“They’re fantastic.” Had anyone else asked him that before? Aside from Daya, maybe? He sat up straighter. “Mostly because they trust me. My advisor and I agree art should reflect what’s inside you. Great art is a blend of your experiences, the time.
The Love Proof Page 15
