Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            In my defense, I pick up assuming it’s Jack, calling to say that he’s late, or that I’m late, or that someone hammered him in the frontal lobe and the resulting brain injury helped him realize that he doesn’t want to see me ever again. A tragic miscalculation on my part, because:

            “Elsie, finally. You need to come home right now.”

            “Mom?”

            “Lance is now with Dana. And Lucas punched him after the soccer game. Everyone saw.”

            God. “But I talked to them last week. Lance said he wasn’t interested—”

            “He lied, Elsie. I’m disappointed in you for not picking up on it.”

            “I—” I exhale, stepping out of the building. “He seemed sincere.”

            “That’s why you need to come home and help me sort this out. I have been so tense and jittery. My poor nerves.”

            “Mom, I can’t. I don’t have a car, for one. And I have classes.”

            “Just find a substitute teacher.”

            “That’s not—I’m not—Mom.” I spot Jack’s car. It’s freezing cold. Every instinct yells at me to first finish my conversation, but I cannot resist getting in. The seat is already heated, Jack’s hair still shower damp, curling in soft wisps on his neck. He looks freshly shaved and smells divine—like soap they sell in fancy boutiques and the hollow of his throat when I slept nestled in his arms.

            One minute, I mouth. He nods. Mom’s going on about how Lance is misunderstood, Lucas is sensitive, Dad is busy with work, and the mean ladies at church are sure to be rejoicing in the downfall of the once-esteemed Hannaway household. Meanwhile, Jack studies me through my open coat. My dress hits only about midthigh when I’m sitting. His eyes follow the line of the hem, stop on my knees. Linger for a longer-than-polite moment. Then his Adam’s apple bobs, and he turns away. His shoulders rise, then fall, and then he’s driving out of the parking lot, looking anywhere but at me.

            Oh.

            “Mom, I have to go. I’ll call them both tomorrow and talk them out of . . . illegal stuff, at the very least—”

            “You can’t solve this at a distance.”

            I sigh. “I’ll do my best. Honestly, I’m not sure I can solve this at all. I’m not sure anyone can.”

            Mom gasps, outraged. “How can you be so selfish, Elsie?”

            I exhale slowly. “I don’t think I’m being selfish. I’ll help as soon as I’m able, but they’re both beyond listening to anything I—”

            “Unbelievable,” she says, and then . . . nothing.

            Absolutely nothing.

            “Jack?” I say.

            “Yes?”

            “If I’m talking with someone and out of the blue I hear the busy signal . . . what does it mean?”

            He gives me a look. “Sounds like you already know.”

            “Oh my God.” I’m dumbstruck. “My mom just hung up on me.”

            He nods. “Should I be shocked? Is that something that doesn’t happen in functional families?”

            “I . . . don’t know. Does your father hang up on you?”

            “Does my father have my number?”

            I laugh, and we exchange a half-clueless, half-amused glance. Peas in a pod, really. “It’s a first.” My stomach feels heavy. “She usually likes me. Or pretends to, anyway.”

            Jack looks at me with his resting I see you face. I’m not used to Mom being this mad at me. It feels terrible, like my entire soul is passing a kidney stone, and suddenly the idea of going out to dinner holds zero appeal. It’ll be good, I tell myself. You like his friends. Laughter is the best medicine. Or opiates.

            “Want to tell me what happened?” he asks gently, twisting the car through Boston’s narrow one-ways.