Page 51 of Hold Me (Cyclone 2)

“And we can wait a year, if necessary, for me to send out a full panel of applications everywhere.” My heart is beating hard now. “I absolutely need more formal training.”

“Okay.” He’s bored. He’s not paying attention.

“But you asked me if I wanted to write a paper on cybersecurity risks with you last September. And I was…kind of hoping the offer was still open.”

He blinks. He turns to me, no longer distracted by his computer screen. He frowns. “I did?”

“I write a blog under the pseudonym MCL.”

He is the fifth person I’ve told. I’m not sure why I’ve kept it back. Part of it was wanting to keep my anonymity. Part of it was being afraid, back when I started, that my brother would make fun of my science. Maybe all of it is being afraid to take credit.

My heart beats wildly.

“It’s my initials,” I say. “Maria Camilla Lopez.”

He stares at me. “Holy crap,” he says slowly. “Holy crap! You are not like I imagined.” He stands up and shakes my hand again, this time more vigorously. “I’m really excited to meet you.”

I give him a half smile. “Hi?”

We stare at each other for a moment; him in bemusement, me, with my heart pounding. “So,” I say. “Grad school?”

“Holy crap,” he says again. “Yes. But—you’re—”

“An undergrad.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.” He looks upward.

I know what he was going to say. He said it when we crossed paths at the Cyclone party months ago. He thought I was a man.

“Well,” he says. “I’m an idiot. Clearly. But since I have you here, look, I have a question about how you ran this network simulation.”

Instead of talking about grad school, we talk about cybersecurity, and the model of the internet I built, and whether it’s applicable to targeted malware delivery. He only remembers why I came half an hour later.

We hash out details and a plan. He makes me sign up to take the GRE from the computer in his office. When I leave, he’s on the phone with admissions.

Before I head up to see my grandmother, I check my messages.

Tina has sent me good luck wishes; Jay texted a brief message saying that he hopes I’m feeling better, and that he’ll be here in town for another thirty-six hours if I want to see him.

My friends sent me notes from the classes I missed this morning.

There’s a text from Gabe, too. He took an early flight back, and has apparently just arrived in town. Hey, I told Jay about Nana. I know he’s kind of a shitty boyfriend, so I hope he didn’t ignore it.

I consider this perfidy. He’s fine, I write tersely. It was fine. It was more than fine.

Gabe must still be jet-lagged, because he writes back almost immediately.

Okay, but don’t be so defensive. He told me months before he started dating you that he was really into someone else. I’m trying not to be all aggro big brother about this, but I just don’t want you to get hurt.

I exhale and pinch the bridge of my nose. Look, little brother. First things first: You’re seriously telling me this the day after Nana lands in the hospital? Your timing sucks.

He doesn’t respond.

Second, has it ever occurred to you that he was talking about me?

His response is not long in coming: Wut?

I look out the window. The clouds are still gathered over Berkeley, but they’ve dissipated somewhat. They’re less gray now.

It’s a long story. But I’ve known Jay online for years. I grin as I type. And actually we get along really well. We just had to figure it out.

I ignore his requests for more information. I’ll tell him later.

I send one last text after that, this time to Jay. Hey. I played hooky on classes all day. Heading over to visit Nana now. Will you have time around seven tonight?

Yes, Jay writes back almost instantly.

Okay. Want me to meet you at home or at your office?

For you? They should just be words, pixels on a screen. They shouldn’t convey warmth, acceptance, or belonging. Yet somehow they do. For you, I’m at home.

27

MARIA

I knock on Jay’s door.

I should be nervous; I was nothing but nerves last night and for less reason. Somehow, though, after today, I feel steady.

He opens the door. For a moment, we look at each other. He doesn’t step forward. He doesn’t reach out. He just looks at me, as if wondering what will happen next.

I step into him, hugging him as hard as I can. His arms wrap around me, strong, squeezing me until I can feel the air squeak from my lungs.

“You okay?” His voice is low.

“I’m doing…better. A lot better.”

“Your grandmother?”

“Complaining up a storm. They’re going to discharge her tomorrow, assuming everything is still on track.”

“That’s fantastic.” He looks at me.

I pull away from him long enough to brandish the paper bag I have with me. “I brought you presents.”

“Oooh.” He looks at me. There’s a hint of wariness still in his eyes. Just a tiny tightness around his mouth, the whisper of a wrinkle on his forehead.

I reach in and pull out the first package. “This is for your flight.”

He takes the rectangle from me. He turns it around, frowning at it. He bends it.

“It’s a book,” he guesses.

“Oh my god. You’re one of those. You have to guess everything.”

He flashes me a smile. “I am totally one of those. I’m going to be even worse. It’s From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.”

I make an outraged noise as he carefully unwraps his present—not ripping the paper, carefully parting every piece of tape, before removing the paperback I purchased for him.

It is, of course, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.

“Oh, loo

k,” he says. “From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. How surprising.”

I shake my head. “I may freak out when I’m nervous, but you’re even worse. When you get nervous, you have to be right about things.”

“Fine.” He leans in and kisses me lightly on the cheek. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to reading it.” Then he kisses me again, this time not so lightly. On the lips. It’s the first time we’ve kissed since…

No, we didn’t actually kiss at the hospital. Since I kissed him good-bye, thinking I wouldn’t see him for a little more than a week when he left for Australia. It’s a sweet kiss. A tender kiss. His lips ask the question that he himself has not.

Are we okay?

I pull away. “I have one more present for you.”

“Oooh.”

I give the paper bag a light shake. “Since you’re going to be like that? Guess.”

He glares at the bag as if he could see through it Superman-style. Then he looks at me. “I can’t touch?”

“Nope.”

He looks upward. “Shit. That makes it difficult. I don’t know, it’s a fancy pen?”

I look at him. He looks back at me, one eyebrow raised in question.

“Oh, look.” I reach into the paper bag and remove his present. “It’s a fancy pen.”

It is not a fancy pen. It’s a plant of trailing green-and-white striated leaves. We both look at it for a long, long moment.

“Maria,” he says in a low voice, “I kill plants.”

“I know.” Now my voice does shake, just a little. “You told me. That’s why I need to keep coming over. To make sure you don’t.”

Our eyes meet again. Slowly, ever so slowly, his face begins to light. I can see the realization of what I just said come over him like a sunrise. The corners of his mouth tilt upward. His eyes widen, and then blaze. His whole expression lifts, and I realize just how worried he really has been.

“I love you,” I say. “I love you because you make me want to be my best self. I love you because even when you hated me, you still listened and still learned. I love you because we fit together so well that you scare me. I love you.”

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