Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            And the things she chooses to say. “Dr. Laurendeau. I will accept the position if it’s what I think is best.” My voice comes out surprisingly firm. “And while I understand your reservations and appreciate your guidance, I will ultimately decide—”

            “You silly, stubborn girl.”

            His tone, at once harsh and condescending, is like an ice bucket pouring over my head. “You have no right to talk to me this way.”

            Dr. L. stands slowly, as he often does during our conversations. For the first time in six years, I stand, too. “As your academic advisor, I can talk to you however I choose.” He leans forward. I have to lock my knees to not step back. “If you are adamant that you wish to work under an experimentalist,” he continues coldly, “perhaps we may review some of the physicists who approached me about you in the past, but—”

            “What did you say?”

            “I am open to reviewing other offers, but Dr. Sepulveda’s is not—”

            “Other . . . offers? You said there were no other offers.”

            “There were some. From experimental physicists. Absolutely unacceptable. However, they would still be better than working with—”

            “But you never told me.”

            “Because they did not bear contemplating.”

            The room spins. Topples. Stops to a crack within me—a neat split. “You . . .” I cannot speak. Cannot find the words. “That—that was—it was for me to decide. You knew how much I was struggling financially. How little research I was able to do this past year. And you didn’t tell me?”

            His mouth twists into a downward line. “I am your mentor. It is my job to guide you toward what’s best for you.”

            “You overstepped,” I say, so forceful, so different from my usual soft buts or reluctant yeses that for a moment he looks taken aback. But he recovers quickly, and his smile is chilling.

            “Elise, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have entered graduate school. I chose you. Whatever career you have, you owe it to me, and you should be very careful not to forget it.”

            I cannot believe my ears. This time I do take a step back, and another one, and all of a sudden it dawns on me that . . .

            “Jack was right about you.”

            “I have no idea who Jack is, nor do I care. Now, please, sit down. Let’s discuss this civilly, and—”

            “You are controlling. And manipulative.” I try to swallow past the knot in my throat. “Jack was right. You really did ruin Grethe Turner’s career.”

            His eyes narrow to bitter slits. “Ah. That’s who Jack is, then.” He shakes his head twice, like I’ve disappointed him profoundly. “You have been associating with Smith-Turner. The man who jeopardized the very existence of your field.”

            “What did you do to Grethe?”

            “His mother”—Laurendeau rolls his eyes impatiently—“doesn’t matter. Grethe Turner doesn’t matter and never did. If anything, her behavior should be a warning to you: there is no room for silly, stubborn girls in physics. And why would you believe anything Smith-Turner has told you?” His nostrils flare. “The article he wrote was a malicious hoax that ruined and derailed several careers and made it exponentially harder for theorists to have their work funded. We became the laughingstock of the academic world.”

            “That’s true,” I bite out. “But it doesn’t erase what you did to Grethe Turner—”

            “Do not mention her to me again.” Laurendeau’s voice is harsher than I ever remember hearing it. “And show some gratitude to the person who has given you a career.”

            I shake my head, feeling close to tears. I won’t cry here, though. “I thought you wanted me to be the best possible physicist.”

            “What I want, Elise, is for you to do as I say—”

            A knock. The door opens before I can turn around.

            “Dr. Laurendeau? I have something for you to sign . . . Oh, Elsie, haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been?”