Watt found his way blindly to a bench outside, his head sinking into his hands. His chest was constricting strangely. It felt difficult to breathe.
I’m so sorry, Watt. I thought this was the right approach—it’s widely accepted in the research that people prefer to see themselves reflected in interviews, that similarity begets liking—
It’s not your fault. Watt could hardly blame Nadia for that disastrous tailspin of an interview.
No, Watt knew that this was his fault, and his alone.
I wanted someone who will put himself out there, Vivian had said. Not someone who will tell me what I want to hear. But that was how Watt had always gotten by—gaming the system and telling people what they wanted to hear, whether it was teachers or girls or even his parents. That was what he used Nadia for. And what was so wrong with it, anyway?
Had Nadia become too much of a crutch? He’d gotten so accustomed to her; she was the lens through which he observed, analyzed, responded to the world. Watt realized that he could hardly remember the last time he’d had a conversation without Nadia softly helping, prompting him on what to say, or looking up references so he didn’t seem foolish. Except, perhaps, with Leda.
Maybe he should stop relying on Nadia and open up a damn book.
Watt sat there for a long time, in the cold winter sunshine, watching the clouds chase one another across the burnished blue sky. He knew he should go back to New York, but he wasn’t ready. Because once he left campus, he would have to come to terms with the fact that he was seeing it for the last time.
Coming to MIT had been his dream for most of his life. Somehow, through his own foolishness, Watt had lost hold of that dream. And it had taken less than thirty minutes’ worth of sand in an hourglass.
Maybe there was such a thing as being too smart for your own good.
AVERY
THE OXFORD DEAN beamed, cheerful and red-cheeked, as he held open the door to his study. “Miss Fuller. Thank you for sharing your thoughts regarding the Romanesque influence on twenty-second-century supertowers. I must say, this was one of the liveliest interviews I’ve had in years.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Dean Ozah,” Avery assured him. She turned outside, pulling her plaid jacket closer over her shoulders. When she saw the figure lounging past the dean’s front gate, she gave a small, private smile.
Intermittent sunlight filtered through the branches and onto Max’s face, highlighting his bold cheekbones, his prominent nose. With that floppy dark coat and windswept hair, he looked like a sentinel from some historical novel. It had been the work of a single morning, she thought wryly, for Max to revert to his disordered Oxford self.
“Avery! How did it go?” he exclaimed, hurrying forward. His eyes burned into her, as if he was trying to read the transcript of the interview on her face.
“Not to brag, but I think I crushed it.”
Max reached for Avery’s hands to twirl her in a clumsy dance move. “Of course you did!” he proclaimed, so loud that Avery had to shush him. “I knew you would!”
Avery let him lift her into the air, spinning her around so the hood of her coat fell back over her shoulders. She collapsed against his chest in laughter. Max reached out to tuck a loosened strand of hair behind her ear, making Avery feel beautiful and windblown. “I’m so proud of you,” he added and reached into the pocket of his jacket, grinning. “Good thing I brought something to celebrate with.”
He pulled out a crumpled paper bag from her favorite bakery. “Pumpkin or buttercream?”
“Buttercream,” Avery decided, reaching for the scone. Its sugar crystals glittered like diamonds in the cold afternoon light. This was so typically thoughtful of Max. “I love you,” she said quickly through a flaky mouthful of scone.
“Were you talking to me or to the buttercream?” Max teased. “You know what, actually, don’t answer that.”
As they walked back toward town, Avery told Max about the interview in more detail. She had been in her element, talkative and eager and just a teensy bit provocative; and the dean had absolutely loved it. They’d discussed everything from the future of academia to medieval illuminated manuscripts to where you could find the best lamb tandoori in Oxford. Avery felt certain that she could go to Oxford if she wanted to.
If she wanted to go? Where had that stray thought come from? Of course she wanted to go.
The setting sun bronzed the air, casting the city in a cheerful glow. Avery tried to shake her inexplicable sense of unease. The interview was finally over and she was here with Max, eating scones, in a city that she loved. Best of all, she was out of New York, away from the inauguration plans, the prospect of constantly seeing Atlas. There were no zettas buzzing around her face, no one stopping her on the street to ask for an interview. So why did she still feel on edge?
“Where should we go?” she asked. Maybe if she kept moving, she would shake off this strange restlessness. “Want to meet up with Luke and Tiana?”
“We can,” Max said nonchalantly. “But there’s somewhere I want to take you first.”
He led her along the bustle of Main Street, down a quieter avenue that Avery had never noticed before. A magical hush seemed to fall over them. The street was lined with an array of small buildings in charming colors. The cobblestones were so bright they seemed to sing beneath her feet.