Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Are you saying you didn’t know?”

            “Nope. And I didn’t tell him I was planning to offer you a job. The funds come from my grants—this is completely separate from my work with him.” She sighs heavily. “Listen, I’ll be real: I didn’t know who you were till last week. Aside from the girl Jack talks about when he gets drunk. But I looked up your stuff. Your work is good, and I could really use someone like you on my team. And before you ask—yes, so could Jack. But I’m better.” She leans forward and points at a line in the contract. “It’s a three-year position. I can pay you one point five times the NIH salary. Liquid crystals are a side project for me, so you’d be leading. First author on all publications. I know you don’t have applied experience, but we need someone who knows the theory like the back of their hand. No teaching, no Algerian font—just research. Though if you want to keep pretending that you enjoy it, I’m sure we could find you a class.”

            What is up with all these people calling me on my bullshit lately? Am I suddenly giving off main character vibes? “And Jack, in all of this . . . ?”

            “Is a nonentity. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for you guys. Well, for him. He was starting to look miserable. All that broody, horny, guilty pining.”

            I clear my throat. “Would there be health insurance?”

            “You don’t have health insurance now?” I shake my head and she rolls her eyes. “Adjuncthood is the fucking eleventh plague of Egypt. Yes, of course, health insurance. You won’t have to do this weird fake-dating thing.”

            Dignity: disintegrated. “Jack told you about that?”

            “Oh.” She winces. “Um . . . No. I could . . . read it in your face?”

            Now I’m the one face-palming.

            “Listen, he had to. Because I knew you as a librarian. But believe me, there’s no judgment here—I put myself through my master’s by working as a PA for one of Elon Musk’s cronies. And to go back to the job—the most important thing is, three MIT theorists are going to retire within the next five years. You’d be first in line to replace them.”

            “There is no guarantee that—”

            “There is no guarantee that we won’t be suctioned off the surface of the earth by a demonically possessed vacuum cleaner.” She hesitates for a second, as if deciding whether to add something. “Elsie, I know it can’t be easy, accepting a job from someone who stole the one you wanted. But you got your Ph.D. less than a year ago. You’re young to be competing for faculty positions. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re adjuncting—research is your strong suit, and you should be focusing on building your CV, not checking students’ zits.”

            It makes sense, and I want what she’s offering—enough money to not worry about money, an office to neatly line up my Funko Pops, three years of peace of mind. But.

            “Could I talk it through with my mentor?”

            “Sure. Who are they?”

            “Dr. Laurendeau at Northeastern.”

            It’s a black cloud moment: one second George is all confident determination; the next she physically recoils, elbow knocking against the back of her chair. “Christophe Laurendeau? Does Jack know?”

            “Yes. Why?”

            “I . . . Nothing.” She shakes her head. The light in her eyes has dimmed. “But you don’t need to ask for his permission. This is your future. Your career. Your decision.”

            My career, yes. But I only have one because Dr. L. dragged me out of the pile. “When do you need an answer by?”

            “I can wait for two, three weeks tops. After that, I’ll have to start looking around to fill the position. Okay?”

            I nod. Just take the job, a greedy, tired voice inside me insists. It craves those parmesan crisps that are five bucks a pop and is sick of reminding students to stop circling the Scantron bubble instead of filling it in. Steal an ink cartridge from the Boston University printer and get yourself fired. Then you’ll have no choice but to go work for George. Dr. L. will deal with the decision.

            “So,” she asks, “aside from offering you a job, what other outrageous and utterly inappropriate things has Jack proposed to you? Marriage ceremony during faculty meeting? Retroactive hyphenation to Hannaway-Smith-Turner for all your academic publications? Naked cuddles in the MIT library?”