Not My Match

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  She huffs. “I should move to Colorado.”

  “I’d miss you terribly,” I say sadly.

  After he’s gone, I reach over and pat her hand, wishing I could convince him to help us, but my gut tells me it might be impossible. “You’re back to being feisty. Guess I should have known you’d bounce back, but I’m mad you didn’t tell me about having A-fib.”

  “Give me a mirror. My hair is everywhere.” She fingers her scalp, trying to arrange the wayward brown curls.

  I pluck one from her bag and give it over.

  She cries, “I look like death! Lipstick, stat. Mr. Wilcox said he might drop by with lunch. Can you believe they released him last night? Apparently he’s very healthy.”

  I tug out her usual pink, and she swipes it on.

  “Patricia? Did you call her?” I ask.

  She grimaces, that worried look back on her face. “I did. My daughter has five-year-old twins and is too busy to fly from New York to see me.”

  I grit my teeth but dip my face so she can’t see. If my mama was in the hospital for a few days, I’d be on the next plane to see her.

  “How long have you dealt with A-fib?” I keep my voice light. Apparently after they brought her in, her heart went into arrhythmia, and they sent an electric shock to restore the regular beat.

  She throws her head back on the pillows. “Years. As long as I take my meds, I’m fine, but sometimes . . .”

  A fire can throw everything haywire.

  “When we get you home, we’re going to start eating healthier. No more red meat, more exercising, and less alcohol—”

  She pouts, cutting me off. “I have maybe twenty years left, and that’s being optimistic, and I refuse to spend them being an old fuddy-duddy. I want fun, Giselle, crazy laughs, roller coasters, and men with big schlongs—”

  “Hey, ladies!”

  I look over at John Wilcox. He’s about five-eleven and lean with thinning hair and a big smile. He looks so much better than last night that I jump up and give him a hug, squishing the takeout bag from a sushi place. He chuckles and pats my back. “Ah, it’s good to see you well. Guess we didn’t get a proper introduction last night. I’m thankful you saw the smoke so soon. This is my son, Robert.” He indicates the younger guy behind him.

  “And you delivered sushi.”

  John grins and holds up the bag from Myrtle’s favorite restaurant. “It’s just what she asked for. I brought it. That’s how I roll.” He looks at his son. “Get it?”

  His son shakes his head, smiling. “Dad, we all got it.”

  My grin feels like it might split it’s so big. I like him, my eyes tell the lady in the bed.

  Yeah? her expression says.

  I lean over and whisper in her ear. “Big hands.”

  “One minute in the room, and they’re whispering,” John muses, setting the food on the small table in the corner.

  “If we don’t make you wonder what we’ll do next, it’s not worth the effort,” Myrtle chirps.

  He smiles at her.

  I feel the zing between them.

  Robert looks a little older than me, in slacks and a summer blazer. Rather handsome in a studious way. We chat for a few moments, catching them up on Myrtle’s situation, sans the marijuana request. John tells me they ran by the apartment and found his cat, and I mentally cross that off my list of things to do. They settle in some straight-backed chairs his son finds in the hall and divide up the food. They offer me some, but I tell them I had a big breakfast.

  John says he’s staying with his son until a new place comes up, and it dawns on me that Myrtle doesn’t have anywhere to go when she’s discharged. Once the apartment building is open, it may take weeks for the restoration. I pick up my phone that’s still charging and type a few notes.

  1. Research A-fib.

  2. Find M a place to stay.

  3. Find myself a place! Can’t stay long at Devon’s.

  4. Call All-State Insurance.

  5. Call Patricia. Come on . . . she’s your mom.

  I glance at the clock and jump up.

  “Sorry, guys, I have to go,” I say, grabbing my things and stuffing them in my bag. After my Walmart visit, I came straight here, and the time flew while we waited for the doctor to show up so I could talk to him. “I’m on rotation to teach a summer class today.” I dash over and kiss Myrtle on the temple and give her one last squeeze. “I’ll call you later and let Pookie hear your voice. Maybe I can get a night visit in, yes?”

  “Only if you have time,” she warns me. “You need to study and write more chapters and email them to me. I can read on my phone. Thank goodness it was in my purse.”

  “I can sit with her tonight,” John calls as I make it to the door. I look back, and he and Myrtle are gazing at each other—level five all the way.

  A long sigh comes from me. Maybe something good came from the fire after all. If my bestie found zing, well, that’s pretty awesome.

  On my way to Vandy, driving in a car I could never afford, my mind tumbles around to this morning.

  Devon saw my tattoo, and now he has an inkling that I knew of him before we ever met. He’s not going to let me live it down, I bet. After getting out of the car, I’m smiling as I fast walk across the quad to the physics building, where I alternate with other cohorts to teach a summer-session class to underclassmen.

  I pause before I go in the door, thinking about my curse. This birthday, this month, is going to be fine, I tell myself. The worst was the fire, and it already happened.

  Fate laughs.

  “So Stranger Things—could it be closer to the truth than we realize?” This comes from Corey, a lanky baseball player who’s retaking Intro to Physics.

  Like me, he’s a little fascinated by the multiverse. We’ve mostly wrapped up our lesson, and we’re running through notes—but we tend to get lost on topics that aren’t part of their curriculum. “Well, no.”

  “Dang,” he mutters.

  “Am I saying it’s completely impossible? Of course not. It’s an unsolved mystery, which we don’t have the capability to test for. The Large Hadron Collider at CERN may be able to point us in the right direction someday.” I cross my legs as I sit on the grass in the shade under a huge oak tree. We left the musty classroom because these kids need a break; plus, it’s not as hot as it was yesterday.

  Addison, who was doodling, stops. I’ve been working hard on her this summer, trying to get her enthused. “Why do physicists study the possibility of a multiverse if it’s so far out of reach?”

  “You can’t dismiss an idea until you study it for years. For example, long ago, people saw the sun rising and setting, seeming to go around the earth. What did they believe?”

  “That the sun orbited the earth?” She scrunches up her nose.

  “Exactly!” I toss her a yellow sucker, her favorite. “We have to be ready to see possibilities.”

  “I think the multiverse is cool,” Corey says. “I dig that theory you brought up last week. Made my head hurt, but hey, I learned something. You’re not like that other dude who teaches us. I sleep through his lectures.”

  “Tell me more about superstring theory from last week.” I wave a sucker.

  He sits on the grass, legs crossed as he cups his chin, thinking. “I don’t know; it’s about quantum mechanics and the theory of relativity, right? Like, a theory to make a single mathematically consistent framework to explain the universe.”

  Pride swells so big I want to pop. I give him a fist bump. “Corey! You rock!” It’s more complicated than that, but this isn’t a theoretical physics class.

  “You explain it better, Ms. Riley. You’re the best teacher here.” He grins, and I chuckle. He’ll do anything to get in my good graces.

  Addison grumbles, throwing up her hands. “I have no clue what he just said. Why is this class so important?” A long sigh comes from her. “Obviously, I shouldn’t be in engineering.”

  Corey elbows her. “Chill. We have to pass this cl
ass, and she’s our best shot.”

  I don’t want to crush her dreams, but engineering requires two to three physics classes, so I lie back in the grass and raise my arms over my head. “Stretch it out, guys. Let me think a second before I answer Addison.”

  Why is physics important to a girl who would rather sleep until the afternoon than come to class? Yes, she admitted to skipping several classes last semester, this one included, to recuperate from hangovers. Now her parents are making her do summer school to make up for it.

  Everyone moves around, adjusting and getting the kinks out. After a few ticks, I sit up and look at Addison, wanting to inspire her and not turn her away from what I love.

  “Do you have a car?” I ask her.

  “A new Prius.”

  “Ah. What kind of engineer do you want to be?”

  “Mechanical.”

  Perfect. I point at her with my pen. “Without physics you wouldn’t have that sweet car. Physics determines style, speed, drag force, engine efficiency—knowledge you’ll need for that degree. All manufacturing depends on physics-based technology. Tested formulas explain how things work: cars, cell phones, this pen, even quarks. Physics is here to explain the universe, how it started, the why of it, and where we’ll be years from now. It’s limitless. All the secrets of the universe are just waiting for us to discover them!” I wave my hands at the blue sky.

  “You lost me at quark. Kidding. I remember. It’s a subatomic particle.” She laughs. “You get really excited about weird stuff, Ms. Riley.”

  “Just grasp the basics and build. I’ll help you. You can always call me if you get stuck in your notes,” I assure her. We need more girls in STEM.

  Corey grins. “Also, still waiting on more superstring explanation.”

  I settle my textbook on my lap, trying to think of a way to break it down without being overly scientific. I like to think I’m a good teacher, but sometimes I do get lost in my head and spout terms they’ve never heard of—nor care about. “The theory is an attempt to describe the universe under one theory of everything by adding extra dimensions of space-time and thinking of particles as miniscule vibrating strings.” I grab the thick stick I picked up on the way to our spot and show them. “We only see three dimensions on this: width, breadth, and height. But what about the particles deep inside, the ones we can’t see with our eyes? Theorists think that tiny curled-up dimensions—”

  “What’s the fourth dimension?” asks Corey, getting me off track. “It’s time, isn’t it? Can we travel through time? I’d really like to go back and tell myself the winning lottery numbers.”

  I grin. He’s incorrigible. “Einstein indeed called it time, but it’s a spatial dimension and can be only described by mathematics.” I smile to soften the blow. “It’s a fascinating concept, but there’s no proof of time travel or a multiverse.” But someday . . .

  A dry tone cuts across from the building. “Ms. Riley, your class is dismissed. I’d like to speak with you, please.”

  Glancing over, I see him standing on the steps, eyes squarely on me. Dread inches up my spine as I pick a piece of grass out of my hair.

  “Ohhhh, he looks pissy,” Corey says under his breath as we gather up our things.

  Several of the students tell me bye as they leave, and I wave, reminding them to study their notes.

  “Go on now,” I tell Corey, who’s hanging behind, still darting looks at Dr. Blanton.

  “You sure? I’ll walk you over to him if you want.”

  Oh, Dr. Blanton would just love that.

  “No, that’s okay.”

  He winces. “I don’t think he likes our class—or you. He’s always poking his head in and glaring.”

  I smile and pat his arm. “Don’t worry about me. Study this week instead of hanging out at the ATO house.”

  “I’ll chug a beer for ya, Ms. Riley.”

  “Be safe at least.”

  He nods, gives Dr. Blanton a wide berth, and leaves.

  I reach Dr. Blanton on the steps of the building, acutely aware of the shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops I bought. I should have changed into jeans at the hospital but didn’t.

  He presses his lips together, looking warm in his tweed jacket. I have the female version of that blazer. “Taking a class outside? Is that conducive to learning?”

  “Not all kids learn in a classroom, especially these. There are actually seven different types of learning: verbal, visual, auditory, physical—”

  He cuts me off with a slice of his hand. “Ms. Riley, spare me the rhetoric. I overhead your lecture.”

  “It wasn’t a lecture; I prefer learning experiences.”

  He exhales, having heard this argument before. “Regardless of where you teach, the lesson plan was relativity this week.”

  I bob my head. “I did that. Just adding to the objective, Dr. Blanton. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be doing? Expanding minds? Creating questions? Getting them interested?”

  He studies me through his wire spectacles, as if I’m a bug. His eyes land on my bare legs, and I inhale. We’re supposed to wear slacks or a skirt. “I prefer traditional methods. Just the facts—in a classroom with an overhead. You can’t be friends with students.”

  I’m not! I just don’t want to see them struggle.

  He’s used to teaching upper-level classes, students with high IQs and a drive to absorb anything put in front of them.

  “Most are terrified of physics. They flunked—”

  “Enough.”

  I bite my tongue but take two steps until we’re on the same level, not comfortable with him being higher than me. “Was there anything else?”

  “Yes. The multiverse is not a legitimate topic of scientific inquiry. Don’t encourage them.”

  It is, dammit, and many physicists would stand next to me and argue the case.

  “The topic came up because the students find it interesting, and it’s a way to introduce string theory. I see nothing wrong with exciting students.”

  He glowers at me. “The mere idea erodes public confidence in science. It’s a philosophic notion.”

  “Are you saying that some of the major theorists of our generation are wasting their time? Theoretical physics questions everything. It’s why I’m here.”

  He takes his glasses off and cleans them with a hankie. Stuffy man. He needs a Myrtle in his life. “Ten percent of our female doctorate candidates don’t make it to the end of the program, Ms. Riley. You’re about to start your second year, and I’m not impressed.”

  My heart drops, my failures creeping in. First Preston, now my career?

  “Your level of work dropped dramatically last semester. Don’t bother to apply for CERN again unless I see marked improvement.”

  The knife of that disappointment cuts deep. “I’m aware. I had a few personal issues earlier in the year—”

  “No excuses, please.” His jaw grinds as his eyes sweep over me. “Women,” he mutters under his breath.

  My anger coils up, and my face heats. Before I can tell the misogynistic jerk to go fuck right off—

  “Wear decent clothes, Ms. Riley. You look like one of your students.” And then he’s stalking back inside the building.

  He isn’t wrong, but my fists curl, and I let out a string of muttered curses once he’s out of earshot. Sure, I can stand up for Devon and Myrtle in a heartbeat, but when it comes to myself . . .

  Chapter 9

  DEVON

  “No frat-boy innuendoes, and I’m sitting at the table with you for the first fifteen minutes until she’s comfortable. We clear?” I tell Brandt Jacobs the next day as I walk over to his silver Porsche.

  “Let me get this straight,” he replies as he shuts his car door and faces me, huffing out a laugh. “You called me about this girl you want me to meet, and you’re going to monitor my behavior? Am I being punked?”

  “You’re here to meet her. That’s it. Drinks only. If she asks you to stay for dinner, you do whatever you want, but she has to i
nvite you. You’ve got half an hour with her.” Those are the guidelines Giselle and I worked out over breakfast this morning. She liked knowing I’d be close, and it was her idea to wait until they met and chatted before she asked him to eat dinner with us afterward.

  Last night, she was in her room when I came home tired and exhausted after training camp. She had a light on, and I thought long and hard about knocking on her door, just to see her face, but I didn’t. The less I see her, the better. Plus, the fire must have finally caught up with her, and she needed to rest. Then, this morning, there she was in the kitchen all perky and working, and I offered up Brandt.

  He laughs and slaps me on the back, pulling me back to the present. “Good to see you, man. Love how you always get to the point. Let’s talk contract soon. That fourteen million a year can be negotiated to eighteen. I feel it. Look at Carter with the Panthers; he just got a bump, and your stats slay his.”

  “Soon. How’s the new house in Brentwood?”

  He talks about his home and the pool he’s putting in as we head toward Milano’s, a classy Italian restaurant Jack has in his portfolio. I tell him about training camp, and we discuss the upcoming preseason game we have in Miami.

  “I was surprised you weren’t seeing someone,” I say.

  “Recent breakup.” He shrugs broad shoulders in a gray suit, a rueful look on his face. “Turns out she liked my bank account more than me.”

  “Sorry, man.”

  “Right.” He grimaces.

  “Giselle doesn’t care about money. She’s got her own future ahead of her.” Someday, she’s going to get out of this funk and find her way.

  “I didn’t know you were such a matchmaker.”

  “Is that what I am?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, and thanks for thinking of me. I’m ready to meet someone nice.”

  “Good,” I say as I study him. He’s a blond all-American type with a keen mind and the tenacity of a bulldog. Early thirties, handsome, and successful—I can see Giselle with him. Still, I feel uneasy, and for the hundredth time, I second-guess the setup—but it’s happening. It needs to happen. She deserves a good guy, and I’ll pull out the best I’ve got.