Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Actually.” I clear my throat. “I came here to accept.”

            She blinks. Many times. “To . . . accept?”

            I take a deep breath, smile, and nod. “Yes.”

            “To accept . . . the job?”

            “Yes.”

            “Yes?”

            “Yes.”

            “To be clear: you’re taking the job.”

            “Yes.”

            She screams. And hugs me tight. And after a startled moment, I hug her back. And about ten seconds into that, something breaks through the foggy haze of the past few days: I feel selfishly, beautifully happy. I just chose something on my own, for my own, without first building a sophisticated theoretical model of other people’s advice, preferences, needs. Without the nagging feeling that the only path I could take was the one pre-trodden for me.

            This decision is all mine.

            “I wanted to tell you in person,” I say when we let go. “And I wanted to thank you for the opportunity.” My smile wobbles a little. I could get emotional, but not yet. First, I have things to say. “And I’d love to set up a meeting, maybe for the next week. I don’t know if I mentioned it to you, but I’ve been working on several algorithms regarding the behaviors of bidimensional liquid crystals for . . . well, years now. Lots of incomplete projects I want to finish up. I’d love to tell you more about it. Get your input.” I bite my lower lip. “Maybe it could be part of our collaborative research, too?”

            “Yes. Absolutely, I’d love to hear all about it.” She grins. And then, almost abruptly, doesn’t. “I really didn’t think you were going to accept.”

            I nod. “I know.” My heart beats a little harder. “But in the end, it was an easy choice. Because I wanted to.”

            I leave with a promise to meet her for drinks next week when her friend Bee’s in town. The ride back home is still delicate, but a little less raw. When I tap through my phone in search of a good song, the old notifications of Jack’s unanswered calls stare back at me, unflinching.

            He hasn’t tried to contact me since the weekend, and I wonder if he’s angry at me. I wonder if he’s sad. I wonder if he’s disappointed.

            Then I remember: I’m angry. And sad. And disappointed. Yes, Jack was right about Laurendeau, but I’m still furious—at both of them. They lied, withheld information, presumed to know what was best for me, and a new, vengeful version of me revels in the way these two men who hate each other are now tangled up together in the expanse of my rage. Anger is not a new emotion per se, not for me, but for the first time in my life, I’m letting myself experience it.

            Desirable Elsies were never allowed to acknowledge negative feelings. But the Elsie I’m discovering I am is in the eye of several, and instead of trying to channel, disassemble, toss, forget, bury, transform, choke, erase, disappear those feelings—instead of doing any of that, she just lets them be.

            Breathes them in. Then out. Then in again.

            The therapist I once talked with but never went back to, because the copay was too steep even with Dad’s health insurance, would probably call this wallowing. Unhealthy. Destructive. But I’m not so sure.

            I treasure my newfound feelings. Hoard them. Every once in a while I study them, turn them around, squint at them like they’re a ripe piece of fruit, plucked from a mysterious tree that shouldn’t even be growing in my yard. When I pop them in my mouth to swallow them whole, they taste at once bitter and delicious.

            For reasons that probably have to do with dopamine and oxytocin and other stupid chemicals in my head, Jack is ubiquitous. A shadow in the Walgreens line while I buy my insulin, the tall man waiting at the bus stop, the deep chuckle on my way to the UMass faculty meeting. Solidly nowhere, vanishingly everywhere. But it’s okay.

            For the first time, when faced with a conflict situation with someone I care about, I don’t feel the urge to smooth things over. And it’s ironic, in an Alanis sort of way, that the main reason is Jack’s very voice in my head, asking, What do you want, Elsie?

            I want to claw at your face, Jack. And then I want to bite into your shoulder while you hold me tight. But I will settle for just being sustainedly, explosively angry.