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And that was my beauty day, and I couldn’t even get that right.
I love how smart you are.
I think about those words until my blood boils and I’m biting the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. I think about them until my chest rises and falls with anger and my pulse races and my lips pucker and I’m breathing hard through my nose.
I think about them, and then I get to work. I’d like to say what I’m about to do next is a spur of the moment thing, but that would be a lie. I’ve been thinking about doing it for days, maybe even ever since Alex died. Was I thinking about this when I locked the notebooks in my drawer instead of giving them to his parents? Yes. I’ve turned the idea over in my mind ever since, trying it on for size, weighing up the risks. But I haven’t done anything about it.
I close my office door but don’t lock it because that would be weird and invite questions. I find myself muttering positive affirmations, which makes me sound like a mad woman, even to my own ears.It’s going to be fine. You deserve it. It’s better this way. Think of the university.
I open the document on my computer and read it again.The Pentti-Stone Conjecture—A Simple Proof.
It’s short, under twenty pages, and beautiful. Elegant in its simplicity and as perfect as a circle. Then I cup my hand over the mouse and select Alex’s name. I take a breath, my finger hovering over the delete button. I can still change my mind. There’s still time.
I’m concerned that having you as co-author will lend your contribution more weight than is warranted.
Then I think of Luis and I think about Isabelle, I think of Luis and Isabelle together, kissing, making love, and a ripple of anger travels through me, so savage it made my jaw lock.
I love how smart you are.
One small click, and just like that, Alex’s name is gone, leaving only mine.
I may not be the most beautiful woman in the world and I may have a shitty haircut, but if my husband loves smart so much, he’s about to get an orgasm of volcanic proportions that’s guaranteed to blow his brains out.
I load up the webpage of theJournal of Applied Number Theorysubmission form.
How many authors does your article have?
One. This paper has one author only. There. Not so hard, is it? I’m doing it. It’s happening.Stop thinking, Anna.I fill in the rest of the form, typing quickly so I won’t have time to think.Name, Email Address, Institution.
Just wait until my colleagues hear that one of their own has solved the Pentti-Stone conjecture. I just hope I’m there to see Geoff’s face when he finds out. Our future will be assured. This will put us on the map. We will attract the brightest students in the country. All because of me.
I wonder if he’ll ask Mila to take minutes.
I have the cursor on the submit button, gripping the mouse so hard my knuckles turn white. This is it, now or never.
“Anna, there you are. Did your friend find you?”
My heart jumps into my throat. “June! Jesus, you scared me.”
She laughs. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure you were in here. Your friend was looking for you.”
I breathe in, my heart still thumping. “Okay, what friend?”
She lifts her shoulders. “He didn’t say. I told him where your office was—maybe he thought you weren’t here. You don’t usually have your door closed.”
“A student?”
“No. He said he was a friend of yours. A young man with dark curly hair and nice green eyes. Doesn’t matter. I guess he didn’t find you.”
Dark curly hair. Nice green eyes. “Was his name Ryan?”
“Sorry, Anna, I didn’t ask.”
She waits, like this is a concern for her too. Why would Ryan come here? And why on earth would he call himself myfriend?
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m kind of busy here, June, so…”
