Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            I never consider picking up. Not once. Not even when I cannot sleep. Not even after being sullen tempered, distracted, inefficient for the entire week because I cannot stop replaying my fight with him, slicing it into pieces, retracing what I said, what he said, what our positions are, what algorithms could be used to solve the mess we’re in and the things I feel. Not even when Cece comments on the newly whole credenza, making me miss him in an angry, visceral way.

            I need answers. On Monday morning my alarm goes off at five thirty, but I’m already awake, just as I’ve been for the rest of the night. I dress quickly, without looking at myself in the mirror, and leave as quietly as I can, stopping only to give a suspicious Hedgie a handful of food pellets. It’s early enough that the bus to Northeastern is semi-deserted—the driver, me, and a girl in scrubs. Her foot taps to music I cannot hear, and focusing on it makes the thought of what I’m about to do almost bearable.

            Dr. L. isn’t in his office yet. He arrives about twenty minutes later and finds me leaning beside his nameplate—a first in six years. I study his hands as he unlocks the door, wondering how to bring up Grethe Turner.

            I heard from someone that—

            I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding—

            I know these are serious accusations, but—

            Please, you wouldn’t—

            “What is it that you wanted to tell me, Elise?” The green chair feels prickly under my thighs. Dr. L.’s tone is, as usual, encouraging. Supportive. “You mentioned something about a job opportunity in your email. Where would that be?”

            I had . . . not quite forgotten about George’s offer, but the topic seems trivial, inconsequential compared to my need to know what really happened between Laurendeau and Jack’s mother. Still, it’s why I originally scheduled this meeting. Since I have no idea how to bring up the topic I want to, I clear my throat and start with what’s easy.

            “At MIT.”

            “Ah. I see.” His thin lips stretch into a satisfied smile. “The department realized they made a mistake. I’m pleased to hear that—”

            “No. I . . . That’s not it. Georgina Sepulveda wants me to become her postdoctoral fellow. The position pays well, comes with health insurance, and George has a line of liquid crystal research.”

            His eyes widen, then instantly narrow. “Georgina Sepulveda stole your job, and you’re thinking of working for her.”

            “She didn’t steal my job.” Irritation bubbles inside me, but I quash it down. “She deserved it. And I can learn a lot from her. Honestly, it feels like a perfect match, and I’m leaning toward accepting.” Dr. L. says nothing and just stares at me. The satisfied smile is gone now, and I nearly shiver. “What do you think?”

            He’s quiet for a few more moments. Then he leans back in his chair, lips thin, and asks, “What is it that you are here for, Elise? My blessing to accept this position?”

            I take a deep breath. Another. Honesty, I tell myself like a mantra. Honesty. I can be true to myself. People who care will stay, even when I’m not the Elsie they want. “Yes. I understand your reticence, and I respect your wisdom, but—”

            “If you really understand, you will stop considering it at once.”

            My brain stumbles and goes blank for a minute. “I . . . What?”

            “Setting aside the humiliation of working for someone who beat you to a job, I have researched Georgina Sepulveda. Not only is she an experimentalist, but she also frequently collaborates with Jonathan Smith-Turner.”

            I’m not sure what feels the most like a punch: Dr. L.’s cutting tone, or the shock of hearing him say Jack’s name. “This has nothing to do with him. George is an established scientist in her own right, and—”

            “Enough, Elise.” He lifts his hand, as though I’m a well-trained pet who’ll fall silent at a simple gesture. Suddenly he looks tired, as though exhausted by an unruly child’s tantrum. “You will not accept this position.”

            I frown. For a long moment, I have no idea what to do. Because on one side, there’s the simple semantic knowledge of what Laurendeau’s Elsie should do: Agree. Apologize. Chalk her stubbornness up to meningitis, leave after some teary genuflections, and continue her life as it has been for the past six years. On the other, there’s the Elsie I want to be.