Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “What? No. Twilight is the first one. Otherwise it’d be the Breaking Dawn Saga.”

            “Right. Need a blanket?”

            The lights are low, but Jack tracks my movements as I shake my head and fold my legs underneath me. The hot chocolate he made sits on the coffee table, right next to his Heineken, and I think I saw him raise the thermostat when we first came in, after he noticed me shivering in the chilly hallway. I’m overdressed, over-made-up, overcurled for a night on the couch. I don’t care, though.

            “Okay.” He grabs the remote and sits next to me, near but nonthreatening. Not close enough to touch, but the cushion shifts, and the air around me is warmer. Denser.

            “I cannot believe you own a Twilight box set.”

            “I needed to see what the fuss is about.”

            “You bought the Blu-rays. Who buys Blu-rays?”

            “People who can’t find the VHS.”

            I study him. His odd, beautiful eyes. “How old are you, precisely?”

            “Seventy-three.”

            I laugh. “No, for real.”

            “Seventeen.”

            “You’re thirty-three, aren’t you? Thirty-two. Thirty-four?”

            “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

            “Give me a hint. What do you remember most from your childhood? Slime? The DSL dial tone? Butterfly hair clips? People dying of the bubonic plague?”

            “You can shit on my Twilight Forever box set all you want—I’ve seen the way you’re eyeing it.”

            “With polite but detached interest?”

            “With shameless, covetous lust for the ‘Edward Goes to Italy’ featurette.”

            I laugh again. It’s nice, being here where it’s warm. “So what do you know about the movies?”

            He drums his fingers on his knee. “They have a bloodcurdling CGI kid named Elizabelle—”

            “Renesmee.”

            “—and something about sparkly dermatology? Spider monkeys?”

            “There’s also vampire baseball.”

            “Encouraging.”

            “Okay, real talk.” I turn a little toward him. “Are you going to hate this?”

            “Probably. But no more than 2001: A Space Odyssey.”

            “What do you like?”

            “Physics-defying car chases, mostly. People climbing buildings. Space monsters.” He shrugs. “George calls them my ‘white male rage’ movies.”

            “Okay, well, we can watch one of those. Avengers’ Infinity Endgame or something with The Rock. I mean, what about what you want?”

            “What about that?”

            “We never focus on that.”

            “That’s because I have no issues asking for what I want.”

            “That felt like a backdoor brag,” I mumble resentfully.

            “It was fully front door.”

            I play with the hem of my dress. “I understand that this is about helping me reclaim my individuality, but if we’re going to be friends, we should do stuff you like, too. Otherwise—”

            “Elsie.” Hands on my chin, he lifts it till my eyes are on his. “You’re doing it. We’re doing it.” I keep looking until I cannot bear it anymore, then free myself.

            “Okay, well.” I swallow. Twice. “You still didn’t need to buy the box set.”

            “I told you, I—”

            “No, I mean . . .” My cheeks are warm. “It’s streaming on Netflix. And on Prime.”