Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “I bet you lost on purpose. If that’s how bad you want her—”

            “She won it fair and square.” They’re talking about something else altogether. Something that has nothing to do with Go or anything that happened tonight. She cares about him deeply, I realize. More than that. “Even if I had lost to her on purpose—it has nothing to do with you.”

            “I think it does.”

            “Andy.” He sighs. “I’ve been honest about how I feel. You said you understood—”

            “Jesus, Jack. She’s a theorist.”

            “She’s a better scientist than you or I will ever be. You’re hurt, and I’m trying to cut you some slack, but you’re way over the line—”

            “Why are you her champion now? You’re you and—she makes up stuff. Is it because you’re sleeping with her?”

            “It’s because I know her work.”

            “But you’ve been saying shit about people like her for fifteen years. You’re the entire reason her field was discredited—you ruined careers, Jack. And now you’re telling me she is the person you’re willing to feel something for?”

            “That’s it,” Jack orders. “I’m done.”

            “You—”

            “I’m serious. We can talk about this when you’re sober. But you need to give me some space before I say something I regret.”

            “If—”

            “Andy.”

            A second later, Andrea appears in the hallway, eyes shining with tears. She looks at me for a painful, uncomfortable moment, then moves past without a word. I press my shoulders against the wall, trying to stop the centrifuge in my brain.

            Does she know that you despise people like her?

            He doesn’t despise me. Does he? No. Honesty, right? No, Jack doesn’t despise me.

            But it’s not surprising that Andrea would believe that. It’s exactly where I believed he stood, approximately two meltdowns in his apartment ago. He’s Jonathan Smith-Turner. What he did to theoretical physics one and a half decades ago is in the Library of Congress and has a Wikipedia entry.

            “What are you doing?” George says, appearing in the hallway.

            “Oh, nothing. Just . . . looking at this art.” I point to a flower painting to my right.

            “Do you want it? My wife made it with her ex at one of those paint-and-sip things. I’ve been trying to get rid of it.”

            I laugh shakily. “Um, maybe next time.”

            She enters the living room and I go to Jack, who’s staring out the window, back stiff and muscles coiled.

            “Grumpy because you lost?” I ask, even though I know he’s not. I just want to watch the tension leave his body. Because maybe it’ll leave mine, too.

            “Elsie.”

            I heard you, I should say. Do you really despise—

            You said “girlfriend”—

            What did she mean, when—

            But there’s no time. He leans forward, hands around my neck, and kisses me deep for a long time. People walk by, make jokes, give us looks, but he doesn’t stop. I don’t want him to, either.

            “Everything okay?” I ask when he pulls back.

            He looks away. Grabs his bottle from the counter and drains what’s left. “Want to leave?”

            “Yeah. Sure.”

            The ride to my place is quiet. I feel cold everywhere except on my knee—where Jack’s hand rests, his grip just a bit tighter than casual. I’m not sure why I invite him upstairs. Maybe I know what needs to happen. Maybe I’m just trying to hold on to him, to prolong that point of contact.

            Cece’s not home, probably out on Faux business, and I’m vaguely relieved. Our place is messy, because the last time we cleaned was when Mrs. Tuttle came over to convince us that the green stuff on the wall was totally paint, totally not mold. I try to see the apartment through Jack’s eyes, but to his credit he doesn’t act too Smith about the conditions I live in. Instead, he does something so Jack, my chest almost explodes with it: he picks up the top of the credenza like it weighs nothing. His biceps strain against the flannel as he puts it where it belongs, perfectly centered on the bottom part.