Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            So I let myself do just that, and it bleeds over to other things, too. I ignore Mom’s panic about my brothers going into debt to out-truck each other. I say no to manning the table for the Physics Society at the Boston Extracurricular Fair. When Cece asks if there’s something wrong (I’ve been distracted, too lost in thoughts of Jack acting like an entitled, irresponsible little shit for fifteen years and then having the gall to see through me and make me laugh like no one before) and offers to watch Delicatessen with me—“To relax a bit!”—I say, “No, thank you,” then slip into my room with a block of cheese to comfort-read Bellice fan fiction.

            It’s a balmy Wednesday afternoon, I just spotted Jack in the crowd (it was a postmodern clothespin sculpture), my heart hurts with fury and something I won’t allow myself to name, and I realize something: the last time I felt this low was after J.J. kicked me out and my entire life crumbled down like a shit cookie. Except that at the time, I walked away convinced that I needed to try harder to be the Elsie others wanted. This time . . .

            What do you want, Elsie?

            Maybe I’m not stumbling through someone else’s life. Maybe I’m just living mine for the first time.



* * *



            • • •

            When I get home, Cece is wearing:

                                                  a teddy



                                     an apron



                                     a single knee sock



                                     nothing else





            She’s cooking and swaying to the sound of something I cannot hear, occasionally breaking into off-key singing in the direction of Hedgie, who keeps on frolicking in a bowl of dry kitten food.

            It’s a lot of chaotic energy. Even for her.

            When I step closer, she takes out one AirPod and grins. “Found ten bucks on the bathroom floor of Boylston Hall and went to the supermarket, baby! We’re having tartiflette, but with no bacon and extra cheese—”

            “I need to tell you something.”

            Her smile stays in place. “Shoot!”

            “It’ll take a few minutes.”

            “Okay.” She takes out the other pod. “Shoot!”

            I open my mouth and . . .

            Nothing happens. Air comes in, doesn’t go back out. I squeeze my eyes shut.

            “No need to shoot if you don’t want to.” There’s a tinge of worry in her voice. A line between her eyes. “You could fire or discharge or—”

            “I want to. It’s just . . .” I’m not motorically able to.

            Which Cece might know, because she crosses her arms, tilts her head in that compassionate way of hers, and tells me, “Maybe if you say it in a funny accent, it’ll be easier? May I suggest Australian? Not to be culturally insensitive, but those closed e’s are just—”

            “I hated In the Mood for Love,” I blurt out. “And I find very little enjoyment in Wong Kar-wai’s filmography.”

            Cece startles. Physically. Spiritually. “But . . . but they are amazing.”

            “I know. Well—I don’t know. They look like I should find them amazing, but to me they’re just sad and kinda slow. Still better than the Russian ones from the seventies, which feel like rubbing brambles against my eyeballs, and I really think producers should stop giving money to Lars von Trier and instead pick a good charity. Even just flush it down the garbage disposal, honestly. And don’t get me started about 2001: A Space Odyssey—”

            She gasps like this is a theater play. “You said you loved it!”

            “I . . . Maybe. I mostly repeated things I found online.”