Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “What is?”

            “Jack. Jack is complicated.” I massage my temples. “Or maybe not. Maybe he’s not, but—I am complicated. Too complicated.”

            “Okay. Totally. I’m not going to spare your feelings and fib about how complicated you aren’t. You did lie to me about liking David Lynch for seven solid years—unless you do like—”

            “No.”

            “Right. Well, this man just wrote an op-ed that’s gonna get the STEMlords to throw parsnips at him till the day he dies, and I’m pretty sure he did it for you, so that’s something you might want to consider. I mean, he does look pretty sturdy. He can take a few parsnips. He could probably take a whole cauliflower field. Plus, the power of love will numb the pain—”

            “Jesus.” I cover my eyes. “Shit.”

            “Elsie?” She kneels in front of me. “What’s the problem?”

            “Everything.”

            “Right. But if you had to be specific . . . ?”

            “He’s right. He was right. I was mad because he lied, and he said that I was scared, and . . . I am scared. That I’m too messed up for him.”

            “For Jack?”

            I nod into my hands. “I lie all the time about who I am. While Jack is just—”

            “Oh, Elsie.”

            “He sees everything—”

            “Elsie.”

            “—and he’ll get sick of my bullshit—”

            “Elsie?”

            “—and he’s way too tall for me—ouch!” My arms drop. There is a red bruise on the back of my hand. Another cheddar cube on the floor. “What the—”

            “Stop whining all over my kitchen,” she commands. “Fear aside, do you want to be with Jack? Do you like being with Jack?”

            So much.

            So, so much.

            So, so, so much.

            “I like it. But maybe I still shouldn’t.”

            “There are things like that. That feel nice but are bad for you. Like MDMA, or Q-tips for ear cleanings. I don’t think Jack qualifies, though.”

            “Why?”

            Cece’s eyes are earnest. Her fingers reach out for mine.

            “You know me, Elsie: I hate giving credit to a dude who probably went to kindergarten at a French château. But you’ve been seeing him for, what, weeks? And I don’t know what it is precisely that you two have been doing for each other. But he just let go of a very shitty thing he’s been carrying around for half his life. And you . . . I feel like I know you better than I ever did before. And I’m thinking that maybe, I owe it a little bit to him.”

            I look at Cece, letting her words swirl around me in messy, complicated, unpredictable patterns. Then they settle inside my brain, and I can taste their truth.

            Four weeks ago I was a different person.

            No: four weeks ago I was an infinite number of different people. I’ve put myself in a hundred tiny boxes, played a thousand roles, sculpted myself in a million smooth lines. But for the first time in memory I’m fighting against that, and . . .

            What do you want, Elsie?

            I squeeze my hand tight around Cece’s. Then I stand, pick up my coat, and run out the door.



* * *



            • • •

            There’s something new on the door of Jack’s office.

            Under the “Jonathan Smith-Turner, Ph.D.” plaque and the “Physics Institute, Director” subplaque, someone taped a printout of the Annals article Cece showed me earlier today.

            All two pages.