Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “I fully own that I followed you,” she says, leaning casually against the wall.

            “Were you listening to me pee?”

            “No. Well, yes. But it wasn’t the primary purpose. Just a pleasant bonus.” She grins. “I thought I’d harass you about the job offer.”

            “Oh.” I clear my throat. “I don’t have an answer yet. Sorry.”

            Her eyes narrow. “Is Jack trying to influence you one way or the other? Because I will use the cattle prod on him. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course he’d try to convince you to take the job. I’m reasonably sure that ninety percent of his spank bank is fantasies of driving you to work and buying you a latte on the way.”

            “I’m sure he doesn’t—”

            “What are your thoughts?”

            I swallow. Then I glance around the hallway, as though George’s niece’s macaroni art might hold the key to my academic future.

            It does not.

            “I . . .” I take a deep breath. “I would love to say yes.”

            George blinks. Then smiles. Then repeats, “Yes?”

            “But”—I force myself to continue past her face-splitting grin—“I can’t formally accept until I talk with my advisor. Don’t worry, though,” I add quickly, because her smile is fading fast. “I’m sure I’ll get his approval next week! I’ll explain how much I want to take the job, and he’ll agree that it’s the best choice.”

            George stares for a second, looking considerably less excited. “Okay.” She nods. And when I’m about to leave, she adds, “For the record, I’d love to continue being your friend. Even if you end up not accepting.” Her smile is a little strained. “Now peace out. I gotta pee, and no, you can’t listen, you weirdo.”

            I’m making my way back to the living room, wondering why it feels like George just resigned herself to me not taking the job, when I overhear it.

            “. . . slumming it with the theorists now?”

            It’s Andrea’s voice from the kitchen, and I stop in the hallway. I can see only about half of Jack: broad back, light hair curling on his neck, large hands storing dirty dishes in the dishwasher. I should go in and help clean up, but something tells me to skulk around like I’m corporate-espionaging in a Bond movie.

            “Excuse me?” he says, confused.

            “So, does she know?”

            “Who?”

            “Elsie.” A quarter of Andrea appears in my field of view. Just her smile, small and private, pointed up at Jack. “Does she know that you despise people like her?”

            “Andy, are you drunk?”

            “A bit.” She laughs nervously. “Aren’t you? Elsie must be rubbing off. She must be a great lay, if you fucked over Pereira and Crowley for her. I guess she’s hot, in a bland way—”

            “They fucked over themselves. And you should go back to the others,” Jack says firmly. “You’re more than a bit drunk if you think telling someone that their girlfriend is bland is a good idea.”

            “She’s not your girlfriend.”

            “She is if she wants to be. She can be my damn wife if she wants to be.” Jack’s losing his usual cool. For all his commanding presence, he’s rarely truly irritated, and Andrea knows this, too. There’s a fracture on her face, masked by another weak laugh that hurts my ears.

            “A theorist, Jack? You having a slow year?”

            “Are you serious—”

            “You lost to her at Go,” she says, petulant even as she tries to keep her tone light. I should be offended by what she’s saying, but something’s stopping me. Something heartbreaking. “You never lose at Go. You said you’d never lose at Go.”

            “I never said that.” Whatever I recognized in her tone, Jack did, too. His voice softens.