Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

                MARIE: Is there any other kind?

                SHMAC: Not that I know of.



            My heart hurts for Shmac as I put on my sneakers. I can’t even imagine how awful it must be, to be in love with a married person. Heartbreaking situations like this vindicate the corporate mission of Bee, Inc.: keep up the Bee-fence. Never, ever fall for someone. If my heart gets broken again, neuroscience will be the one. It’s sure to do a much cleaner job than stupid Tim, anyway. Doctor Curie would support me in this decision, I’m positive.

            I spring up from the couch and venture out into the soup-like Houston air for my run.



* * *



            • • •

            IF I RUN at the Space Center, someone I know might see me crawl my way about, and I wouldn’t wish that sight upon an innocent bystander. Google comes to my aid: there’s a little cemetery about five minutes away. Reading baby names like Alford or Brockholst on gravestones might be a nice distraction from the gut-wrenching torment of exercising. I slip in my AirPods, start an Alanis Morissette album, and head that way. It’s 6:43, which means that I can be home and showered in time to watch Love Island.

            Don’t judge. It’s an underrated show.

            Disappointingly, sitting on the couch thinking about working out has not improved my aerobic fitness. I realize it on minute three of my run, when I collapse in front of the tombstone of Noah F. Moore (surprisingly fitting), 1834–1902. I lie in the grass drenched in sweat, listening to my heart pound in my ears. Or maybe it’s just Alanis screaming.

            I’m not meant for this. And by “this” I mean using my body for anything more strenuous than reaching for my treat cupboard. Which, incidentally, is all my cupboards. Yes, okay: Dr. Curie bonded with her husband over their shared love of cycling and nature walks, but we can’t all be like her: gentlewoman, scholar, and athlete.

            When I notice that the sun is setting, I scrape myself off the ground, bid farewell to Noah, and start hobbling home. I’m almost back at the entrance when I notice something: there is no entrance. The tall gates I ran through on my way here are now closed. I try to shake them open, but no dice. I look around. The walls are too high for me to climb—because I’m five feet tall and everything is too high for me to climb.

            I take a deep breath. This is okay. It’s fine. I’m not stuck in here. If I follow the walls I’ll find a shorter segment I can easily climb over.

            Or not. I definitely haven’t found one fifteen minutes later, when Houston’s firmly in dusk territory and I have to turn on my flashlight app to see a few feet away from me. I sum up the situation in my head: I’m alone (sorry, Noah, you don’t count), stuck in a cemetery after sundown, and my phone is at 20 percent. Oops.

            I feel a wave of panic swell and immediately leash it. No. Down. Bad panic. No treats for you. I need to engage in some goal-oriented problem-solving before I can wallow in despair. What can I do?

            I could yell and hope someone hears me, but what could they do? Build a makeshift rope with their belts? Hmm. Seems like a traumatic brain injury waiting to happen. Pass.

            I could call 911, then. Though 911 is probably busy saving people who actually deserve to be saved. People who didn’t moronically get themselves locked inside a cemetery at night. Calling someone I know would be better. I could ask someone to bring me a ladder. Yes, that sounds good.

            I have the phone numbers of two people who currently live in Houston. The second doesn’t count, because I’ll sleep cradled by the slimy arms of Noah’s skeleton before calling it. But that’s okay, because the first is Rocío, who could ask the super for a ladder and drive here in our rental. Let’s be real: cemeteries at night are her natural habitat. She’ll love this immensely.

            If only she bothered to answer her phone. I call her once, twice. Seven times. Then I remember that Gen Zs would rather roll around in nettles than talk on the phone, and I text her. No answer. My stupid battery is at 18 percent, mosquitos are sucking blood out of my shins, and Rocío is probably having Skype sex to a band called Thorr’s Hammer.

            Who else can I call? How long would it take Reike to fly here? Is it too late to ask her for the number of nose-tongue guy? What are the chances that Shmac secretly lives in Houston? Should I email Guy? But he has a kid. He might not check his email at night.

            My phone is at 12 percent, and my eyes fall on the 832 number in my incoming call log. I haven’t even bothered saving it. Because I thought I’d never use it.