Page 7 of Starrily (Perks of Being #2)

Chapter 7

C allie worked alone for the next week—with Jessica having other business, it was back to the good old days.

Drink tea.

Check email.

Read research papers.

Check how the code is running.

Eat lunch.

It was quiet, and peaceful, and solitary.

She used to think she didn’t mind that.

It was Friday, and she was staring too closely at a graph of galaxy metallicity when there was a knock at the door. In the second before it opened, Callie thought— Simon came back after all —and then Dr. Watzmann peeked in.

“Callie, look!” He put a magazine down, opened somewhere in the middle. “The article is out!”

Callie’s face stared back from the paper, looking only mildly unimpressed. Jessica had picked a simple picture from the observatory, no excessive posing, no Simon in sight.

“That’s nice,” she said, her voice flat.

“Says only good things about you and QueLabs. Well done!”

Was it well done on her part, though?

“Just in time for the talk, too.” Watzmann bounced back and forth on his heels. “Something to show the students, huh?”

Right. Her talk. Callie’s stomach churned. Who thought it was a good idea to have scientists do live presentations? If she wanted to talk in front of a crowd, she’d have become a motivational speaker, not an astrophysicist.

Simon would say she’d be a horrible motivational speaker.

“Your two shadows are not here today?” Watzmann’s voice brought her out of her thoughts.

“No,” Callie said, but the words of explanation got stuck in her throat.

“Oh, well. I’ll leave you to reading.” He tapped the page and, like that, was gone.

Callie stared at the far wall. When did her too-small office start looking too big? She hadn’t changed anything, rearranged no furniture.

She huffed in annoyance and got back to work.

Simon would probably be toying with the blinds on her window right now, making a smart-ass remark about how she liked to keep her office dark, just like her soul.

“Oh, Simon, you’re so funny.” Callie tried to imitate Jessica’s peppy voice, then swiveled in her seat and switched to a lower tone. “Finally, someone recognizes my talent.”

The door opened. Callie yelped.

“Do you have a pencil?” Watzmann said. It didn’t look like he’d heard her pathetic reenactment, and grabbed a pencil when she pointed it out.

“You’re going crazy,” she said to herself once he left.

But was she going crazy from having to endure Simon’s presence for the past few weeks, or from lack of it now?

No. She didn’t want Simon Montague snooping around her office, commenting on its disarray (it was perfectly organized chaos; if she knew where to find something, that was an efficient system).

But, thinking objectively, she might be in a bit of a pickle if Simon didn’t come back. What if Jessica also lost interest? Callie gazed at the article, and a not-so-small part of her got proud. She was in a science magazine. Sure, it wasn’t to celebrate some outstanding achievement of hers, but that could still come one day.

Or maybe it won’t because you yelled at the CEO of Aries Tech, and now no one will want to work with you.

Callie banged her head on the desk. She had to fix this. Not only because of her career, and definitely not because she missed having Simon murmuring some pop song off-key in the background while she was trying to focus.

Because it was the right thing to do.

She grabbed her phone, then remembered she didn’t even have his number. She could try social media or find a contact for his company. But the first seemed too intrusive, and the thought of calling a stranger for business reasons filled her with anxiety. Speaking in person would be easier.

Her lunch break was coming up.

She eyed her bag, then with the decision swiftly made, grabbed it and ran out of the office.

Aries Tech was a complex of sprawling buildings, with a driveway that curved past a massive, polished chrome sign boasting the company’s name. Callie lurked around like one of Simon’s creepy stalkers, gathering courage, until she took a deep breath and forced herself to enter. What was the worst that could happen—they’d throw her out?

Actually, she could think of many worse things.

Butchering her introduction to the receptionist.

Being told to go to an office, and getting lost, and someone witnessing that.

Puking on someone, maybe.

Surprisingly, none of it happened. Once she told the receptionist her name, the lady recognized it and directed her to Simon’s office. Callie didn’t get lost, but once she reached it, the secretary’s desk was empty. Callie hesitated for a few moments, then knocked on the door and opened it. He had it coming.

Only Simon wasn’t there.

Steps echoed down the hallway. Don’t let them catch you snooping, her brain warned her and concluded that meant going inside the office—so she did and shut the door behind her.

Simon’s office was at least three times bigger than hers. Make it four—that blue sofa alone was larger than her working desk. It was light and airy and looked very much like a CEO’s office.

Several pictures hung on the wall opposite his spotless glass working desk, all carefully chosen to give a professional, but approachable impression. A younger Simon in his graduation clothes, posing next to an older man with similar facial features. Simon in front of a small building with an older logo of the company above the entrance. Simon shaking hands with a serious-looking businessman.

Callie leaned in until her nose almost touched the photos. There was something off about Simon, but it was hard to grasp what. He didn’t look different physically; younger, sure, especially in the graduation photo, but it was still his face. But there was a touch more seriousness and a different energy to him, if such a thing could be deduced from a picture.

Energy? Really? What was next, busting out some crystal and seeing if there was bad juju in the room?

The door flew open, and Callie jumped back, nearly losing her balance.

“Calliope.” Simon stood at the entrance, one hand still on the doorknob. “I didn’t—uh—I heard you were here.”

He was wearing a simple shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and dress pants; the first time she’d seen him wear something more business-like. She stared at his finely muscled forearms for two seconds—about two seconds too long—then shook herself to her senses. “Sorry I’m interrupting.”

“Oh, no.” He closed the door behind him. “Just a board meeting. Everett can handle it.” He crossed over to his desk and stacked some papers, but kept covertly glancing in her direction.

Well, you’re here. Say something.

“Nice office,” she squeezed out.

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to say it doesn’t reflect the personality of its owner?”

“It is pretty clean—uh, not that you’re not clean—I mean—”

Simon laughed. “It’s an office. If you want more personality, there are always private tours I can arrange.”

Callie just had the time to blush before he continued, “I’m joking. Don’t mention it to Jessica, though. I’m sure she’s dying to see the inside of my house. Speaking of which, where is our hyperactive journalist?”

“She’s not with me this week.”

“All alone then. You must be enjoying it.”

“Actually …” she wrung her hands. “I wanted to apologize for my outburst at the observatory.”

“Your boss made you do that?”

“What?”

“Apologize. I’m not going to cut funding if that’s what you’re worried about. We made a contract, and I’ll stand by it.” He sat and leaned back in his chair to a point where Callie was afraid he might lose balance.

She considered his assumption. She could say it was true to save her pride, to make sure he knew she was only doing this because she had to.

“Nobody asked me to,” she said instead. “I’m only looking to preserve our collaboration because it’s best for everyone.”

“You didn’t give the impression it was the best for you.”

“Can’t you just accept the apology?”

“Fine.” He stood up and executed an elegant bow. “There. Apology accepted. You’re free.”

“You’ll come back to work then?”

“Only if I can pick what music we’re listening to.”

“Uh—”

“Joking again,” he said, and she could swear he added, under his breath, “This is going to be harder than I thought.” But then he cleared his throat, and continued, “Tuesday, then?”

“I won’t be there on Tuesday. I’m giving a talk. At a university.” In front of a packed hall of students. Judgemental students. Bored students. Let’s-make-a-viral-video-of-this-awkward-scientist kind of students, probably. “So, Friday.” Assuming she survived until then.

“A talk, huh?”

“It’s nothing special.”

He slowly approached. “That’s not the body language of someone who thinks the talk isn’t important.” He cocked his head. “Or of someone relaxed.”

“It’s fine. I’ve got this.”

“Like you had posing for photos?”

She tried to straighten up into a more dignified position. “I don’t have to be the greatest speaker ever. They’ll be there for the science.”

“Oh, my dear Phoenix.” He shook his head. “That’s not how it works at all. Come.” He grabbed her by the hand and, before she could object, pulled her out of the office. He led her down some hallways until he opened a door, checked the room beyond, then invited her inside.

“Not exactly an auditorium, but it’ll do.”

It looked like a conference room, with several empty rows of chairs and a raised stage on the opposite side. Callie’s feet froze to the ground. No no no .

“Go up there and give me your talk.”

“No way.”

“Phoenix.” Simon leaned in an inch. “I saw your picture in the article. If your talk feels anything like that picture does, you’re in trouble.”

“It’s a perfectly fine picture!”

“Yes, but there’s a difference between looking ‘fine’ and looking ‘fun.’”

“It’s not a stand-up comedy routine, it’s a scientific talk.” Wait, did he just call her fine-looking?

“You’re giving it at a university?”

She nodded.

“Graduates?”

“Undergraduates.”

“Those people aren’t scientists yet. Sure, they’re all smart and hard-working, but they’re also twenty-year-olds who like to draw funny body parts on their friends’ faces while they’re passed out on the couch.” He clapped his hands and gave her an encouraging smile. “Come on. Up there you go.”

Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to practice. This room was at least closer to the one she’d be presenting in, and her giving a talk to an actual person beat practicing in front of Theia.

She slowly made her way to the stage and faced the room. It didn’t help that it was empty; as soon as she took it in, a lightheadedness took over, and her pulse accelerated.

Simon leaned on the wall in the back.

She cleared her throat. “Galaxy formation and evolution, and its connection to black holes.”

“Stop.” Simon made a cutting motion with his hand and pushed off the wall. “You’re squeezing your hands into fists.”

She glanced down and relaxed her hands. They were getting sweaty already.

“And that’s not an opener.”

“It’s the title of the research paper I’m presenting.”

“Doesn’t mean you come in and start rattling off what you’d written. How have you done this before?”

“I … I didn’t. It’s the first time I’m presenting after getting my PhD.”

“That explains a lot,” Simon murmured, more to himself than her. “All right. It doesn’t have to be a comedy routine, but you still have to establish a connection with your audience. They’ll like you more and, consequentially, be more interested in what you say if they see you’re just like them. You’re not some haughty genius, out of touch with reality.” He put his foot on the chair and leaned on his knee. “You drink out of mugs with cute pictures of planets, send funny astronomy jokes to your friends, and watch popular sci-fi movies.”

So he didn’t think she was boring and humorless?

“At least, that’s what you have to make them think,” he continued, and the brief spark of elation was gone.

“Okay. Then what do I do?”

Simon walked over and hopped onto the stage. He clapped his hands and turned to the empty room. “All right, folks. We have a whole galaxy of stuff to discuss today, but don’t worry. There’s gonna be only two graphs in this presentation, and one of them is about the likelihood of you listening all the way through.” He glanced at her. “Give them a few seconds to chuckle …”

She could feel her mouth stretching toward a smile, and quickly clenched her teeth. “That’s not very accurate.”

“You do it the accurate way. But bring some of that energy into it. As for your hands …” Suddenly he was behind her, touching her hands, leading them until they were clasped in front, just under her chest. “A neutral position, if you don’t have anything to hold or point at.” His breath tickled her ear, and the sleeve of his shirt brushed against her own.

As if struck by electricity, she jerked away. “Uh, thanks.”

“Or, if you find it more comforting, try the little moon pendant.”

She frowned as she pulled it out of her pocket. “This one?”

He nodded. “You like fidgeting with it. You can do the same during the talk—it’ll work like a stress ball.”

He’d noticed? Logic told her she should feel ashamed, but his tone was comforting and reassuring, and it made her wonder—what else about her had he noticed?

“Take two?” He gestured with his hand, offering her the stage.

She tried more approaches, and Simon continued to give her pointers—swallow the uhm s, walk across the stage, have a bottle of water with you, and drink if you need a momentary break.

“Let’s say it’s been fifteen minutes, and there’s one particular jock in the back that’s getting restless,” he said.

“I doubt there will be jocks.”

“Imagine it. You have a student whose attention is slipping. Make sure you catch their glance.” Simon did so with her. “And you do this.” His look was a perfect mix of stern teacher and co-conspirator; something she’d see a school teacher do to get his students back in line, but not scare them off.

“How did you do that?”

He frowned, then shrugged. “Comes naturally, I guess.”

She slumped her shoulders. “Can I hire you to do the talk instead?” He was good at it—from how he moved on stage to how he changed his intonations when necessary and peppered in a few jokes to lighten the mood. As if he was born to transfer knowledge in this way.

Whereas she was only born to write it down.

“Besides me being entirely too dumb to understand your research,” Simon said, “I also don’t want to take your spotlight.” He scrunched his nose in pretend thinking. “Or your downfall, whichever it might be.”

“If I fail now, I only have you to blame.”

He smiled. “Then don’t fail, Phoenix.”

***

At the far end of the crowded auditorium, Simon hid in the shadows. Fine, the whole place was darkened—except for the stage where Calliope was giving her presentation—so he wasn’t hiding, technically. Calliope hadn’t invited him to the talk, but she didn’t forbid him from coming, either.

The large, arena-shaped room made Calliope appear small, a lone, distant blip on the horizon. It couldn’t have been easy for her, but so far, she was holding up well. She’d entered the stage confidently and walked to the podium stand, where a laptop and a bottle of water waited for her.

“Nice night we’re having, isn’t it?” she began, then pretended to check the time. “Oh, sorry. Astronomers, you know—occupational hazard.”

The students laughed, as did Simon. Well done, Phoenix.

From there on, it went smoothly as Calliope introduced her research, and various images and graphs flickered on the screen. “You’ll see we studied primarily elliptical galaxies, as those contain older stars …”

We know three types of galaxies: elliptical, spiral, and irregular. Our own galaxy, the Milky Way, is a spiral galaxy.

There it was again—his voice from the past. Simon closed his eyes, not sure if he wanted to hang on to the memory or chase it away.

“We pulled that data and arranged it in a table …”

In his mind, he was in a room similar to this—only smaller, and the students much younger. “You’ll see two tables if you open your workbooks to page seventy-five.”

Simon shook himself out of his reverie and re-focused on Calliope. No—focus on something else. Anything else. Count the students. See how many are writing things down.

“We call this one a hierarchical model …”

Instead, his legs took charge, and he slowly moved towards Calliope, sticking to the side of the auditorium. Like a moth to a flame, closer and closer, until he was standing near the exit by the stage, still in shadow, but Calliope—the phoenix, the flame—was closer now, close enough that he could see her face shine in joy as she explained her work. She didn’t smile, but she must’ve pushed her nervousness aside and seemed to be enjoying herself.

“And now, to the crux of the issue.” Her voice echoed through the auditorium, confident and strong. “The default assumption—although we, as scientists, should be careful of defaulting to anything—is that the initial clouds of dust clumped up into stars, and those stars formed galaxies, eventually creating a black hole in the center as the stars went supernova. But what if …” She clicked on her laptop to display a new set of images. “The stars weren’t the first ones to form? What if the clouds of dust condensed directly into black holes?”

She walked left and right, waved her hands, and pointed to areas of images covering her explanation; all with so much passion that Simon wondered how he could’ve ever thought her dull and boring.

Calliope’s zeal spread to him, imbued him with old memories and new desires. He knew this. Speaking to students, sharing his love of science, imparting it to others—to Raleigh, it had been as easy and essential as breathing.

He’d loved it.

Why did he let it slip away?

“And that is what we hope to answer in the future,” Calliope concluded. “If we’re lucky, I might be back in a few years with data—assuming you’ll stick around.” More laughing, and then an applause; Calliope lingered in the center of the stage for a few moments more, then, as the students began to filter out, went back to the podium.

Simon approached her as the last students left; she was putting her laptop back in the bag. “Nicely done.”

She yelped and turned. “Simon! I had no idea—wait, were you here all this time?”

“I’m pretty sure you would’ve noticed if I were on the stage for the entire presentation.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I was here for the talk, yes.”

“Oh, no.” A blush crept into her cheeks, turning them into a deep ruby shade.

“It was …” he lightly shook his head. “Amazing. You were amazing.”

She stepped closer to him. “Really?”

“Born to do it.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say—”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Phoenix.”

The corners of her mouth tilted up just slightly … “Thank you,” she said. “For helping me. I spent the whole weekend practicing in front of the mirror. I wrote down ten different opening lines, numbered them from most stand-up comedy to most serious, then renumbered them at least five times because I kept changing my mind—”

“It was a good one. Your opening line.”

“It was?”

“Perfect,” he said, and he wasn’t sure if he was still talking about the opening line or something—someone—else. All he knew was that he was happy, in a far different way than he usually was.

And then Calliope let out a short, relieved laugh—and smiled. A true, wide smile that reached far into her cheeks.

She had dimples when she smiled.

And he’d made her smile.

“We should get going before they toss us out,” she said.

He could only nod, and followed her, his mind preoccupied with a single thing: how pretty she was when she smiled, and a single question—how could he make her do it more often?