Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Can’t remember the last time she liked someone. Not that she’d admit to liking you.”

            I laugh. Then, after a few seconds, I hazard, “She told me she liked your mom.”

            There is a change in Jack, but not for the worse. He doesn’t stiffen, just seems less relaxed, a little more on guard when he says, “I think so.”

            I’m encouraged. “She was a physicist, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Theoretical?”

            He lets out a deep, overacted sigh that lifts me up and down. “Unfortunately.” I pinch his forearm in retaliation. Rudely, he doesn’t notice.

            I’m tempted to bring up the article. Find out how he could do something like that to his mother—to all of us—and demand that he take ownership of its consequences. But I also don’t want to disrupt this . . . fragile, new, radiant thing we have. And after a bit of arm wrestling, the latter pull wins, and what I ask is “Do you have memories of her?”

            I feel him shake his head. “She died too early.”

            “Did she”—I roll around till I’m facedown on top of him—“look like you?”

            “There aren’t many pictures. My family mostly scrubbed the house clean of them.”

            If he’s bitter about it, I cannot tell. “When did you take her last name?”

            He laughs softly. “That was Millicent’s decision, actually. She had me legally change it when I was ten. I think she felt uncharacteristically guilty.” He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “I do know that she was Swedish. Blond. Her eyes had the same weird . . .”

            “Heterochromia?”

            “Yeah. She was taller than my father. And kept some detailed diaries about her work. Millicent gave them to me when I started becoming obsessed with physics.”

            “Did she have any publications?”

            His jaw works. “Just two. She got married halfway through her doctorate and didn’t go back to work after she had me. Her diagnosis came quickly after.” His tone is wary, like he’s choosing his words carefully.

            “Why didn’t she go back?”

            He exhales. “There were . . . issues. With the lead researcher of her group.”

            “Why?”

            “They had some . . . disagreement over their joint research. He was intensely controlling. She refused to abide. You can imagine the rest.” His face is blank. “Her diaries are . . . She wasn’t well when she found out that she wouldn’t be allowed back.”

            “That’s bullshit. How dare he cut her out of her own research group?”

            Jack doesn’t respond. His pause feels a little longer than normal. “Her work was on semiconductors.”

            My eyes widen. It’s not my field, but I know a bit about it, because it’s one of the topics my mentor works on. I wonder if I read Jack’s mom’s papers years ago without even realizing it. An invisible string, tying us together. “Good stuff?”

            “Very solid, yes.”

            “I bet she was great. I mean, she was a theoretical physicist.”

            “True. On the other hand, she did marry my dad.”

            “Good point. Maybe he used to be more . . . engaged with his surroundings?”

            “Maybe. Maybe she needed a green card? Or the Smith money.”

            “She was a grad student. It’s a move I can respect.”

            “For sure.” His smile is fond. And has me asking, “Do you miss her?”

            A long pause. “I don’t think you can miss someone you’ve never met, but . . .” He organizes his thoughts. Orders his feelings. “It’s easy to look at how dysfunctional my family is and laugh it off now that I have my own life. But when I was in my teens, there were times when things got really bad at home. And I’d read her diaries and think that maybe if she’d been around, everything could have been . . .” His throat works. “But she wasn’t.”