Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Pincushi—”

            “Don’t you dare say it. We’re her moms!”

            “I consider myself more of an evil stepmother.”

            She slaps my arm. “Who even are you?”

            I try to swallow, but my throat is stuffed full. So I settle for holding out my hand and meet Cece’s eyes squarely for what feels like the first time.

            “I’m Elsie. And I really like cheese, particle physics, and movies with sparkly vampires.”

            She takes it with a watery smile. “I’m Celeste.” Her fingers are sticky, a little gross. I love her so much. “I’m sure that we’ll be the best of friends.”





26


            LIQUID CRYSTALS


            I rinse the dirty cheddar rescued from the floor, thinking, We should probably sweep more often; I hope we don’t get tetanus—just as Cece stands triumphantly with the last three blocks in hand and says, “This floor is surprisingly clean!”

            I smile into the swirling drain.

            “So.” She leans against the sink, arms crossed. “How much of you coming out as a lying liar has to do with Jack?”

            I sober up and kill the faucet. “It’s not . . .” I shake my head. “It’s a mess.”

            “What is?”

            My heart wrings. “Everything.”

            “But you had your sex-cation the other weekend.”

            I heat up. “We didn’t really . . .” I notice her raised eyebrow and abort my Deny the Obvious mission. “Have you seen Kirk recently?”

            “This is such an unskilled deflection attempt, I’m just gonna pretend it never happened. So, what exactly isn’t going on between you and the Jackster?”

            “Whatever it seemed like . . . Wherever we were going, we . . .” I grab the dishcloth. We should probably clean that, too. “I think that might be nowhere.”

            “How come?”

            I don’t really feel like meeting her eyes. “He lied to me about something. And before you say anything—I know it’s rich of me to call out people for lying. But.”

            “Hmm.” She drums her fingers against the steel of the sink. “Does this have to do with the article?”

            “Yeah.” I sigh, folding the ratty cloth. “I’m done with sweeping stuff under the rug. If something makes me mad, I’m going to let myself be mad. And that article has been the ammo people use to make fun of my work for fifteen years, so—”

            “No, I meant—the article he wrote today?”

            I lift my eyes. “The what?”

            “You haven’t seen it?”

            “Seen what?”

            “The entirety of academic Twitter is talking about it. Even the humanities—and you know how busy we are begging our boards of directors not to shutter our departments. Did you really not see it? Jack published an article. Today. In Annals of Theoretical Physics.”

            I’m positive that a mallard must have flown in and eaten Cece’s brain.

            “Wait—I was wrong,” she admits, and I relax. “It’s not an article. More like one of those op-eds?”

            Maybe she’s high? Has she been inhaling Tauron fumes? “There are no op-eds about science.”

            “There are op-eds about everything. Trout fishing, plasma coolant, velvet suits, the unbearable lightness of being—”

            “Okay. Yes. But Jack didn’t write an op-ed, and if he had, he wouldn’t have published it in the Annals.”

            Her brow furrows stubbornly. She picks up her phone. Taps the screen a few times, muttering something about the incredulity of Thomas, then thrusts it in my face.