“Then like I said, you’re going to have to tell me everything that happened.”
“I don’t see how this is going to help.”
“Well, is she your fungus or not?” She rolls her eyes. “And by fungus, I mean your soulmate.”
When she phrases it like that, it’s a punch in the gut.
Is Holly my soulmate? I don’t know.
I’d never considered whether or not soulmates were real. Or that if they were, I might have one.
But is she the one person who makes me feel complete? Who makes me feel like my ecosystem can run smoothly forever, just so long as she’s nearby?
“Yes,” I say, my voice sounding unexpectedly gruff. I clear my throat and say again, “Yes, she is.”
“Okay, then, you just need to figure out how to woo her.”
For the first time in days, the pressure in my chest lessens. Maybe, just maybe, I could make this work.
And now it’s my turn to give Lily McPherson a shrewd look. “You know for a dilettante socialite, you have a strong understanding of biology.”
She grins. “I do, don’t I?”
“You should consider graduate school. I have a hell of a time finding competent students.”
Chapter 28
Holly
For the first time in my many years at the university, I cancel my office hours on Monday afternoon. For the past thirty-six hours—basically ever since I watched Lily McPherson fawn all over Max—I’ve been fighting an epic and unexplained panic attack. I make it through class, but only because in class, it’s socially acceptable for me to pace in circles and talk too loud. But I know myself well enough to know I don’t have the patience to sit in my office and listen to students with anything approaching the compassion and attention I normally give them.
So I slap a note on my office door and head home, where, hopefully, I can calm the heck down by doing . . . I don’t know what. Taking the dogs for a walk? Spending a few hours grooming Lou? Carding her excess fur and spinning it into yarn to knit a sweater?
All I know is that I can’t sit still. I picture Max leading Lily McPherson out on the balcony at that stupid frickin’ party. And then not coming back inside for over an hour.
I know it was over an hour, because I left at the hour mark and they were still out there alone. Talking.
Who does that?
Okay, sure.
Lots of people talk for over an hour alone. But I checked the weather app on my phone. It was ninety-three degrees out.
No one—no one!—stands around in ninety-three-degree heat talking for that long unless the person you’re talking to is the most interesting, fascinating person you’ve ever met. I wouldn’t talk to Lenny Kravitz in ninety-three-degree heat for that long. And I’m pretty certain he wouldn’t talk to me that long either.
What were they talking about?
Is Lily McPherson that fascinating?
If it was Clive or Dean Rogers or anyone of a dozen other people, I would say, “Well, it’s Lily McPherson. She’s powerful and rich. And, at this very moment, she holds his future in her impeccably manicured hands. Anyone with any sense at all is going to stay out there as long as she wants to talk.”
But Max? He doesn’t have any sense. He has logic and brains to spare. But it wouldn’t occur to him to stay out there talking to her in that heat out of polite deference to her power. The only reason he would talk to anyone that long, no matter the weather, is if he found that person fascinating. If he thought he really needed to hear what they had to say.
That is the realization that sends me home sick.
Yep, that’s the word I use when I put up the sign. Because I actually feel sick to my stomach at the thought of Max wanting to talk to another woman.
If I’m going to feel sick and panicky, I want to do it at home, surrounded by people I love. And by “people,” I mean animals.
