I think about the things she said. That she thinks I somehow can’t handle her. That somehow the problem is with her, not me. Which is the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.
I’m still in the lab, hours later, when the door opens and Gwen walks in.
She’s got her phone in her hands scrolling through something. She hangs her bag on the hook by the door distractedly. She doesn’t look up from her phone until she turns back around and is halfway across the room.
When she does look up, she jerks to a stop, lets out a yelp, and drops her phone.
“Damn it! What the—?” She just stares at me for a second like she doesn’t even recognize me.
It takes me a second to realize that she doesn’t. I’d been so lost in thought I’d actually forgotten about the haircut.
Gwen’s gaze moves over my face as she says, “Whoa . . . Max?” Then she pulls the glasses off her head and slides them on to her nose. Somehow she misses getting the arm over her ear and she leaves them perched cockeyed and precariously on her nose. She shakes her head and then quickly corrects herself. “I mean, Dr. Ramsey?”
She takes a step forward. Momentum plus gravity work against her and her glasses tumble to the ground.
“Shit!” She bends to pick them up.
I just wait. Gwen has worked for me for over a year now. I’m familiar with her Rube Goldberg-esque reactions.
After several moments and enough curse words to shock even me, her glasses are back on and she’s sitting on the stool opposite mine.
“I don’t . . . how did . . . I just . . .”
“It’s just a haircut.”
“I know, but . . .”
I know I’m going to have to wait her out. I return to making notes in the margin of the speech.
I don’t look up again until I hear theclickof her cell phone. “Did you just take my picture?”
She blinks, wide-eyed. “No.”
I keep staring.
“Okay, yes. I took your picture. Holly put me in charge of your social media.”
I don’t say anything. Basically, because the mention of Holly’s name sends a bolt of something through my stomach. Maybe excitement. Maybe anguish. It’s too soon to tell.
But Gwen apparently thinks I’m trying to stare her into a confession, because she jabs a finger in my direction defensively. “I need pictures for your Instagram. And she told me to get them, and I quote, ‘Even if Professor McGrowly doesn’t like it.’ She said I shouldn’t let you bully me.”
“I didn’t growl.”
“You always growl.” She blinks and then says slowly, “Did you not know that?”
I do know that, but I don’t like being called on it. So instead of answering the question I ask one. “What are you doing with the picture?”
“I’m posting it to Instagram.” She clicks away on her phone, eyeing me warily like she thinks I might snatch her phone away from her. “Let me just . . .” She trails off as she keeps typing. “And I changed your profile pic on Insta and Twitter.”
“Why?”
“Um, because . . . social media.” She waggles her phone like I’m supposed to piece together meaning out of that. “Did you read the document Holly sent over outlining the steps you’re supposed to be taking to increase your social media presence?”
I have a vague memory of getting emails from Holly with attachments. Lots of them.
I glance over at Gwen to see her cowering a bit.
“What?” I bark.
