Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            She frowns at the backsplash tiles. “Your review did sound very similar to Roger Ebert’s,” she mumbles to herself.

            “I hate all auteur-style movies.” My mouth feels like a desert.

            Then it gets even drier when Cece asks me with a scowl, “What do you like, then?”

            I try to swallow. Fail. “Twilight’s my favorite.”

            Cece’s eyes bug out. She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it. Closes it. Opens it one last time. “Which one?” she asks, sounding constipated.

            “I don’t know.” I wince. “All of them. The fourth?”

            Is that a whimper? Maybe. Yeah. And I don’t know what I expected her reaction would be, but it was not this one. Not her glaring at me and then something hitting me hard on the forehead. And then again. And then—

            “Is this—” I lift my hands and take a protective step back. “Are you throwing cheddar cubes at—”

            “Damn right I am!” She takes a two-second break to turn off the stove and starts again. With improved aim and vigor. I back down till the counter stops me. “I knew you weren’t watching hentai porn that time! I knew I saw that shovel-face guy on the screen, I knew it, I knew it, I—”

            “Not the cheese, Cece!”

            The stoning stops. And when I peek between my fingers, Cece is there, a bag of Great Value cubed cheddar clutched in her fist, staring at me.

            Her eyes are brimming wet. “Why?” she asks, and my heart breaks, and I want to take it all back. It was a joke. I love Wong Kar-wai, and Kubrick is the best. I’m still the Elsie she wants, and tonight we can have a Jodorowsky marathon. It’s such a small lie, in the grand scheme of our friendship.

            Except that I’ve built my entire life on small lies. And over time, they’ve all grown to be huge. And the Elsie that Cece wants is, first and foremost, not a liar.

            “Because I . . .” I shake my head. I cannot even say it. Oh God.

            Oh. God.

            “Because,” I try in a poor man’s Australian accent, “I thought that if you knew we weren’t into the same movies, then you . . .” I can’t make myself finish.

            A single tear slides down her cheek. “Please tell me you weren’t afraid I wouldn’t love you anymore.”

            I can only look at her, apologetic.

            “Oh, honey.”

            My eyes are burning, too. “I’m so sorry.”

            “Elsie. Elsie.” She takes one slow step toward me. Then another. Then two more and we’re clutching each other in a way we haven’t for a long time, ever maybe, and I’m thinking that she smells like cheese and flowers and something ineffably homey and comforting. “I will love you forever,” she says into my hair. “Even if you’re an animal with no taste.”

            “I know. I’m just . . .”

            She pulls back to look at me. “Incredibly messed up?”

            “Yeah.” My laugh is wet. “That.”

            “It’s okay. It’s not like I’m any better,” she says darkly. Her slight shoulders rise and fall. “Anything else you’ve been faking?”

            “Not really.” I scratch my nose. “Flushable wipes are not really flushable.”

            “Oh.” She cocks her head. “Is that . . . something you were faking?”

            “Not really, but you should stop using them.”

            “Okay.” She nods. “My poor butt.”

            “Oh, and Hedgie and I hate each other.”

            Her eyes narrow. “Now you’re making shit up.”

            “I call her the p-word when you’re gone.”

            “The p-word?”