Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            Three seconds. For something Cece and I have been putting off for three years.

            “Nice place,” he says, dusting off his hands on his jeans.

            I laugh softly. “It’s not.”

            He leans against the table where I’ve worked, eaten, laughed, cried for the past seven years. “Then you really should move in with me.”

            I laugh again. I should thank him for the credenza. It’s just . . .

            “I wasn’t joking. This place is . . .” There’s a bug, belly-up on the floor. “Don’t those live in tropical areas?”

            “Mmm. Our working theory is that this place is a 4D nexus where multiple climate regions exist at once and . . . Were you serious? About moving in?”

            He shrugs. “Would save you money.”

            “Pretty sure half of your rent is more expensive than half of this.”

            “I don’t rent. So you wouldn’t have to pay me. I don’t care about that.”

            Right. He doesn’t care about money. Because he has money. “I can’t leave Cece,” I say lightly. “Want to take her in, too?”

            “I have an extra room.”

            I snort. And then realize the look he’s giving me.

            Like he’s serious serious. And waiting for an answer.

            “I can’t move in with you,” I tell him. “We’re not even . . .” We’re not even what? I look away. I feel like total shit, and I cannot understand if he’s joking, though he must be, but he looks weirdly earnest, and . . .

            A few steps over the cheap vinyl and he’s standing right in front of me. I’m trapped between him and the kitchen sink, and strong fingers come up to my chin, angle it back.

            “I think we are.”

            My heart trembles. That blue slice cuts into me like a knife, and what comes out of me is “Andrea wouldn’t agree.” I didn’t mean to bring her up. In fact, I actively meant to avoid the topic forever. But I guess this honesty thing is a little addictive.

            Jack closes his eyes and swears softly under his breath. “You heard her.”

            “I . . .” I free my chin, and he understands that I need space. He takes a step back, but I still cannot breathe. “I didn’t mean to. I . . .” I exhale. “Yes, I did.”

            Jack sighs. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to her when she’s calmed down.”

            I nod, and it should be the end of it—a resolution, nicely wrapped. Instead I hear myself ask, “What about Crowley and Pereira? And Cole. And the rest of your students. Will you talk to them, too?”

            His lips press together, expression shifting to something opaque. Like he’s bracing for something. “What is this, Elsie?”

            All of a sudden, the million balls that have been lazily rolling around in the back of my head for the past two weeks are bouncing against my skull. And they hurt. “Do you know what the problem is? That these people—they admire you. They really, really like you. Your students, your colleagues, your friends. They all want to please you. And for most of them, pleasing you means showing that they dislike what you dislike. And just like that, everything goes back to that Annals article.”

            He exhales. “Elsie—”

            “To be fair, I did the same.” I begin pacing around the kitchen. “I like you so much, I’ve been avoiding thinking about it for as long as I could. And to give you credit, you’re good at letting me forget. You never feel like the person who wrote it, which makes it easy to pretend that you didn’t exist before I met you, that your past actions don’t matter. But what Andrea said today . . . I owe it to my mentor to remember. I can’t forget that Laurendeau was the editor of the Annals at the time. That he was censured. And . . .” I feel the same mix of anger and embarrassment I always do when I think about what happened. “The thing is, Jack . . . you go through life with your man-with-money confidence, never second-guessing your actions. But there were lots of unintentional victims to what you did—”

            “Laurendeau wasn’t that,” he says flatly.