She did not like that answer. Good.
“You withdrew your application for the lab,” I said.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Personal circumstances. I thought the email made that clear.”
“It made clear that you know how to write a polite withdrawal.” I let my gaze rest on her face. She really was stunning. I don’t know how I didn’t realize it before. “It did not make clear why you believed I would accept it.”
Her fingers tightened on the pitcher.
There. A small crack.
“I assumed my own application was mine to withdraw.”
“A reasonable assumption.”
“But incorrect?”
“In this case, yes.”
Students passed behind me. I greeted them by name because that was what a well-liked professor did. It costs almost nothing to make people feel seen. Most of them were starving for it. Then I looked back at her.
“I chose to ignore it.”
She stared at me. “Excuse me?”
“I reviewed your proposal again this morning. It’s excellent work. Too excellent to let an emotional decision get in the way of what the lab could gain from it.”
Her face changed, just enough that most people would have missed it. Fear first. Then guilt. Then the calculation. A lovely sequence.
“I withdrew it,” she said. “You can’t just decide to accept me after that.”
“I can.”
The simplicity unsettled her. It was meant to.
“I usually don’t let administrative preferences interfere with research I find interesting,” I continued. “And your proposal interests me, Céline.”
Her breathing shifted when I used the name.
Not enough, though. I wanted to push it further.
“Or should I say, Selena?”
The pitcher shook once in her hands, water tapping softly against the glass.
“Grief does interesting things to people,” I said. “It makes them hide in plain sight.”
Her eyes held mine. She was frightened now, but not only frightened. That was what made her different. Fear sharpened her. Most people shrank. Céline became more beautiful.
“I’m not ready,” she said.
“There are other applicants who actually want the spot.” She continues.
“There are always other applicants.”
