Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            I pluck the remote from his hand before he can ask me how I know. And then I ignore the amused way his eyes linger on me, and laugh over my hot chocolate at his soft comments: “Very green,” or “They go to high school?” or “What’s up with the ketchup bottle?”

            About halfway through, I pry myself from the hormonal ride of paranormal teenage angst to look at Jack. He’s studying the movie intently, watchfully, like it’s a documentary on unparticle physics. “I promise I’m not going to quiz you afterwards,” I tell him. “You can scroll on your phone. Fall asleep. Roll your eyes.”

            “Is that what people do when you watch Twilight with them?”

            “I don’t.”

            “You don’t . . . ?”

            “Watch it with anyone.” I never spend time with people doing something I unabashedly enjoy. “I usually stream a cam version on my laptop and give off a dense, guilty aura. Once Cece came in in the middle of Eclipse. I turned off the monitor and swore I was masturbating to stepbrother hentai.”

            His mouth curves. “Not Bill Nye?”

            “Didn’t think of it.” He looks back at the screen, but something’s blossoming in my stomach, something heavy and uncomfortable, and when I say, “Hey,” he turns to me again. “Thank you.”

            “For suggesting Bill Nye porn?”

            “No. For . . .” I cannot put it in words. Until I can. “For wanting to know me enough to watch my favorite movie with me.”

            I lean forward, fully planning to kiss him on the cheek. But something happens once I’m inside his space, and . . .

            Plans change. I linger.

            Jack is warm. He smells nice and feels familiar, real like very little in my life does. So I stay. Just because it’s that good. And I stay even when he turns toward me, and his mouth is so close to mine, I’m almost sure this is going to turn into something else. Into a kiss.

            He exhales.

            I inhale.

            His hand rises. Grips the back of my head to hold me still. My eyes flutter closed. A tight flush spreads all over my stomach, skin on fire, heart pumping.

            Finally, a kiss that I want. And oh, do I want this kiss. I want to—

            “No,” he says. His lips nearly move against mine. “No.”

            He lets go abruptly. I open my eyes and he’s on the edge of the couch, feet away from me, facing away. “Jack?” His back is rigid.

            He rubs his eyes, mumbling something that sounds a lot like “Too soon,” and I’m suddenly cold and full of dread.

            “I didn’t mean to . . .” I reach out and lay my hand on his shoulder blade. He instantly moves away, and I realize it’s the wrong way to ask for forgiveness for invading his personal space.

            “Elsie, I need you to not touch me for a minute.” He goes to stand by the window, rubbing his fingers over his mouth. On the TV, Bella is crying. I feel like crying, too. Mortified to the core. My embarrassment could power a midsized European country.

            “I’m sorry,” I say to his taut shoulders. “Maybe I . . .” Honesty. When is honesty too much? “I think I may be attracted to you.”

            “Fuck,” he breathes out. He turns around, running a hand through his hair. I’ve never seen him openly show distress before. “Fuck,” he repeats softly, and I’m lost. What did I do? I didn’t mean to—

            He takes a deep breath. Suddenly he’s even more imposing. “I’m not going to fuck you,” he promises me quietly, almost talking to himself.

            “I . . .” Have no idea what to say to that. “I am . . .” Confused? Rejected, maybe? But I didn’t ask him for that. He’s assuming a lot based on a couple of seconds of proximity, and I’m tempted to point it out, which is why I shock myself when what I say is vaguely resentful. “Right. You mentioned before that you’re not interested.”

            He lets out a laugh. “I never said that.”

            “At the restaurant, you said that you didn’t want to have sex with me.”