Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Oh my God. Nosferatu: Eine Symphonie des Grauens?”

            “. . . Yeah.”

            “Lucky you.” She sighs. “Did you make out before or after Count Orlok awakens?”

            “We didn’t—” She points at my neck, and I turn to catch my reflection in the microwave. Dammit. “During.”

            She nods knowingly. “It’s a horny movie, isn’t it?”

            I remind my brothers that if they go to jail for killing each other, their future lives will contain very little Dana and very copious amounts of toilet wine. In response I get called a bitch (Lucas), ordered to get a fucking life (Lance), and told, unceremoniously, “Humph” (Mom).

            “They did agree to not run over the other if they meet at the farmers’ market, so there’s that.”

            “Glad to see you’re doing your part for the family, Elsie,” she says.

            I think I’m forgiven. Because I did what I was told. There should be relief in that, but while Mom goes on about that Comic Sans inspirational quote my aunt posted on Facebook that may or may not be shade, I picture practicing honesty. Mom, stop. This is messed up.

            I don’t do it, though.

            I often meet with Dr. L. on Saturdays, and I’ve been dying to discuss George’s offer with him, but he’s out of town. Instead I have lunch with Cece (a quinoa bowl—I snap a picture and send it to Greg, who replies with seven face-palming emojis in a row) and then spend the afternoon at the science fair, manning the UMass Physics Club stand alone because none of the students who were supposed to help showed up. I freeze my ass off, wonder if I should be worried about the group of kids who keep begging me to teach them how to build a catapult, then imagine doing this next year, all over again.

            Then I imagine making my life about what I want.

            When I get a text from Jack, my brain stops working.

                             JACK: Greg invited us to dinner. Want to go? We can stay in if you prefer.



            He talks like his Saturday nights belong to me, even though this thing with us only just started, and my heart skips too many beats.

                             ELSIE: I’m at UMass doing unspeakable things till late. But I could join when I’m done.

                JACK: Perfect.



            I think of the word honesty a lot before adding:

                             ELSIE: I’d like to spend the night afterwards.



            The reply takes a long time to come, and I find myself picturing answers. It’s too fast. Let’s get back on track. Take it slow.

            But something has shifted. Maybe on the windowsill. Maybe when he nipped my chin after buttoning up my coat. Maybe in the parking lot, the moment he grabbed my hand and pulled me back into the car, telling me that I couldn’t leave without telling him the ending of the movie. Do they go to college? Does Edward ever see a dermatologist? Who wins the golden onion?

            His reply takes a long time to come, but I’m not surprised when it does.

                             JACK: Good.





* * *



            • • •

            By the time Greg opens the door, I’ve worked myself up to a state of panic.

            “I thought coming empty-handed would be rude,” I blurt out, “so I grabbed this. Because it was cheap, but not the cheapest.” I hand him the bottle of red wine like it’s a hot potato. “I didn’t notice the name until I got on the bus, and . . .”

            Greg looks down at the label, which proclaims “Ménage à Trois” in a sexy, flirtatious font. He snorts out a laugh.

            “I swear, this is not a proposition.”

            “Noted.” He hugs me, at once new and comfortingly familiar. “I’ll put this orgy invite in the fridge and go finish the food. Make yourself comfortable.”