You Are My Only Variable

Ivy Carter was wringing out the mop into the bucket at exactly 6:17 in the morning. The corridor on the third floor of the library was long and quiet. She liked this time of day. No people, no noise, just the morning light slanting through the windows. She had her earbuds in, but nothing was playing. They were just a prop to keep people from talking to her. Her phone buzzed. She pulled off one glove and took it out. A text from her mom. "Had the checkup today. Results next Wednesday. Just routine, don't worry. Love you." Ivy typed back. "Okay. I'll call you tonight. Love you too." She pocketed the phone and pulled the glove back on. Routine. She repeated the word in her head. It meant no surprises, no bad news. She needed that word. She was almost at the end of the corridor when she heard someone call her name. "Carter?" It was Professor Whitely, in her usual dark green cardigan with the pilled pockets, grey hair twisted into a messy bun. "Professor? What are you doing here so early—" Ivy moved the mop behind her back. "My office is on the fourth floor. I heard someone down here. Are you here every day this early?" "Library on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. Lecture halls on Tuesdays and Thursdays." Ivy said it plainly, no complaint. Professor Whitely nodded. She didn't say "you're such a hard worker," which bumped her up a few more points in Ivy's book. "I have something to ask you. Still looking for part-time work?" "Depends on what." Ivy was already juggling three jobs. But if the pay was right, she never said no. "A friend's grandson." Professor Whitely chose her words carefully. "He needs someone to help him understand how people work. Homeschooled his whole life. Got into the university last year but doesn't know how to interact. He needs someone ordinary to talk to him." She paused. "You were the first person I thought of." "Because I don't seem like the type to suck up?" "Because in your midterm paper, when you disagreed with my argument, you were very direct. That boy needs someone honest." Ivy wasn't sure if that was a compliment. "How much does it pay?" Professor Whitely handed her a folded piece of paper. Ivy unfolded it and stared at the number. "Is there an extra zero on this?" "No." "Per hour?" "Per hour." Ivy folded the paper back up. "...Who exactly is this person?" --- The address was the tallest apartment building near campus, all glass and afternoon sunlight. It looked expensive and unwelcoming. Ivy glanced down at her beat-up sneakers, then pushed the door open. The lobby was marble, smelling faintly like a hotel. The man at the front desk looked at her with polite assessment. "Hi, I'm here to see Mr. Whitaker. Asher Whitaker. Thirty-first floor." He made a quick call, then handed her a visitor pass. "Elevator C. Swipe the card." She was alone in the elevator, mirrored walls spotless. She caught her reflection—faded jeans, dark blue sweater, ponytail, no makeup. The strap of her bag was frayed. She looked like someone who had wandered into the wrong building. The hallway was carpeted in dark grey, her footsteps silent. She walked to the only door at the end of the hall, took a breath, and pressed the doorbell. The door opened immediately. The boy was younger than she'd expected. Dark hair a little too long. Clean features, but his eyes didn't really land on her—they drifted to the doorframe behind her almost at once. Dark grey hoodie, sweatpants, barefoot. He was taller than her, but he'd taken a slight step back, like he was creating a buffer zone. "You're the person Professor Evelyn recommended." His tone was flat, like a text-to-speech program. "Yes. Ivy Carter." "Come in." The apartment was huge, but what caught her off guard was how empty it was. A grey sofa, a glass coffee table, an enormous monitor on the wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a stunning view. But no books, no photos, nothing that suggested a person lived here. The air didn't even smell like food. It smelled like a hotel lobby. Clean. Empty. Impersonal. "Sit." Ivy sat. He didn't. He stayed standing next to the monitor, the spot farthest from the sofa. Hands in his hoodie pockets. It didn't look like coldness. It looked like he didn't know where else to put his hands. "I need to explain the job." "Go ahead." "I'm building a social simulation model." He spoke quickly, tone never changing. "The data side is fine. But my model has assumptions about ordinary people—people without trust funds, who need to work—that I can't verify through data. I need someone to provide first-person perspective." Ivy processed this. "So you need a poor person as a sample." His eyes moved back to her. Not angry. More like he hadn't realised how that sounded. "I didn't mean to offend you." He paused. "...But essentially, yes." Ivy felt like laughing. He had no idea how bad that sounded. "That doesn't sound great," she said, the corner of her mouth twitching up. He scanned her face like he was looking for something he'd missed. "I didn't mean to offend you." "I know. You didn't." He went quiet. His lips pressed together slightly, like he was running a background program. "Three times a week, two hours per session, hourly rate. Minimum three months. Any questions?" "Just one. Why me?" "Professor Whitely's recommendation had three points. First, you directly criticised her argument in your midterm paper. Second, you declined her social dinner invitation, citing—" "No appropriate clothes," Ivy finished. "Correct. Third, you've never turned in an assignment late." "You sound like you've investigated me." "I'm only relaying her recommendation." "Then you could just ask me yourself." He tilted his head—a tiny angle, but it made Ivy feel like her words had caused a small ripple somewhere. "Why did you have no appropriate clothes? Dressing appropriately doesn't require expensive clothing." She hadn't expected him to go there. "Because I didn't want to show up where everyone was wearing evening gowns and have someone ask, 'Oh, so you're the scholarship student?'" "What's the problem with that?" "The problem is I don't want to be pitied. I just want to finish college, get a job, and get my mom an apartment with an elevator." He looked at her. His eyes were pale grey, washed out in the window light, like paint thinned with too much water. This silence stretched longer than the others. "So you chose not to go." "Correct." "But you came here for the money." "This is a job. Not a social event." He paused. "You deviate from my expected sample. But that may make the data more valuable." His mouth moved—a tiny, barely-there curve. Not a smile, but close. Like someone trying an expression he'd only seen in pictures. "The contract is in the left drawer." Ivy opened it. A contract in duplicate. An expensive pen. She read through—confidentiality, hours, compensation. She double-checked the decimal point. On the last page, she stopped. Clause 14, in bold. *Party B shall not establish a personal relationship with Party A. All interactions shall be strictly limited to the scope of work and shall not extend into social, emotional, or other personal domains.* She read it twice, then looked up. "Was this your addition?" "My grandfather." "What is he afraid of?" "He's afraid of someone taking advantage of me." He said it in that same flat tone, like a fact that had nothing to do with him. Ivy looked at him. He was standing as far from the sofa as possible, his back nearly against the wall. In his own apartment, he had chosen the most distant corner. He said he had no interest in personal connections. But looking at him pressed against that wall, Ivy wasn't sure if that was true—or if he had learned, a long time ago, not to let himself need anything. "Do you agree with this clause?" "I have no interest in matters outside the contract. So the clause has no effect on me." Ivy picked up the pen and signed. The nib scratched quietly against the paper. She pushed the contract back. "I signed." "Thank you." She stood and walked toward the door. Halfway there she glanced back. He was still in that same spot, hands in his pockets, like a statue in the corner. "Next time I come, could this place have some food in it? Anything." He didn't answer right away. His lips pressed together. "I'll consider it." Ivy nodded and walked out. The hallway was quiet. She pressed the elevator button and stared at her reflection in the metal doors. The corner of her mouth was still curved up. She pulled it down. It crept back. She thought about what he'd said. *I have no interest in matters outside the contract.* Flat as a statement, a fact, a theorem already proven. But as the elevator doors slid open, something struck her. She'd spent the whole meeting listening to that monotone voice. No inflection. No emotion. But when he'd said *My grandfather. He's afraid of someone taking advantage of me*—she could have sworn she'd heard something. Something thin. Something fine. Like a c***k. She stepped into the elevator. As it descended, an image formed in her mind. A twenty-year-old boy in the most expensive penthouse near campus, who had never been inside a convenience store. Who didn't know how to greet people. Who wore a hoodie the exact shade of grey as his sofa. Who genuinely didn't know when he'd said something wrong. The pieces formed a picture, but the centre was blurry. The elevator dinged. She stepped into the afternoon sun, returned the visitor pass, and walked toward her dorm. About thirty seconds in, she laughed. Not from happiness. A question had surfaced, and she didn't know the answer. That clause in bold. *Shall not establish a personal relationship.* Was it meant to protect him? Or was it meant to protect her? She was starting to wonder.