Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            I’m grinning so hard, I almost run into the water fountain.

                             ELSIE: I need to grade twelve bajillion essays

                JACK: Do what I do. Give them all As.

                ELSIE: Do you really?

                JACK: I sprinkle in four Bs and two Cs and call it a curve.



            This time I do walk into the water fountain. A different one.

                             ELSIE: No wonder they kiss your ass so hard. Does the thing at George’s have a dress code?

                JACK: If it does, I plan to ignore it.

                ELSIE: Henley?

                JACK: What’s a Henley?

                ELSIE: It’s the name of the shirts you wear every single day.

                JACK: They have a name?



            Wow. Men.

                             ELSIE: Text me George’s address. I’ll meet you there when I’m done.





* * *



            • • •

            George’s door opens to a round young woman with a knockout smile who hugs me warmly and welcomes me into the largest, most beautiful apartment I’ve ever seen.

            “They’re in the living room,” she tells me over the chatter coming from down the hallway. There is a slight accent, and I remember George mentioning that her wife is a Greek finance guru. “I’m going upstairs to have an edible and listen to Bach with noise-canceling headphones. Have fun.”

            The first person I find is Andrea. She’s in the kitchen when I walk by, transferring tortilla chips into a big bowl.

            “Oh.” She looks up at me. “You’re . . . here.” Her smile is surprised. Vaguely tense.

            “Hi.” I decide to step inside, hoping to project This doesn’t need to be awkward vibes. “How are you?”

            “Good.” She crumples the empty chip bag. “It’s cool that you’re okay with being at George’s place, considering.”

            “Oh.” I flush. So much for not awkward. “Yeah. I—”

            “Andy,” someone behind me interrupts, “George wants to know if—” It’s Jack, of course. Who stops midsentence just like I did, as if completely losing track of the rest of the world. “Dr. Hannaway. You’re late.” He says it like he’s been waiting for me. Like he spent our time apart thinking about the moment he could tease me again, like I’m the first thing on his mind and the last thing he lets go of, and before I even know it, I’m matching his step forward, I’m pushing up on my toes, I’m pressing my lips to his, I’m smiling against his mouth.

            It’s such a small kiss, but my heart pounds, and so does Jack’s when I lay my palm flat against his chest. I pull back, less than an inch, to look at his eyes. It’s like the weekend changed something about the people we are. Something fundamental in the shape of my brain and his, too. His lashes are fanning down: he’s staring at my mouth and angling his head again, and—

            “What did George want to know, Jack?”

            Shit.

            I fall back onto my heels and turn to Andrea, mortified. I glance at Jack, expecting to find his usual unbothered self, but he’s still staring at me, looking a little shaken, like I’m his magnetic north.

            He clears his throat. “What wine you want.”

            “What are the options?”

            He seems confused. “Ah, red. And . . .” He shrugs, one arm wrapping around my shoulders, like being in my space is second nature. It feels right.

            “Let me guess.” Andrea rolls her eyes. “White?”