Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            Including the citations.

            One of which is an article of mine.

            “Dr. Hannaway?”

            I turn to Michi walking down the hallway. “Oh—hi.”

            “Hi!” She smiles widely at me. “Can I help you?”

            “Oh, I was . . .” I point at the door, which looks a lot like I’m pointing at the paper. I quickly lower my hand. “I was looking for Jack.”

            “I think he went straight home after the faculty meeting.”

            Shit.

            No. Not shit. This is good. I can go to his place. I know where he lives. I’ve basically lived there, too, for a couple of weekends. So this is perfect—it gives me more time to think about what I’m going to tell him, since I have no idea. Why am I here? Just swept by the currents, like a salmon during mating season.

            I shoot Michi a quick smile and speed-walk down the hallway. I think she yells after me that she followed me on Twitter, but I don’t stop to investigate. Instead I rehearse my conversation with Jack. Hi. Hey. Oh, hello. I’ve seen the article sounds like a good beginning. But I could also start softer. I was just in the area, and my dog ran away. Will you help me find it? It’s a black-and-white Newfie with a big lolling tongue, and yes, if I have to make up an imaginary pet, I’m going to choose a cute one—

            I’m thinking so hard, I barely register that someone is calling me. And it takes a “Dr. Hannaway, is that you?” for me to recognize the voice.

            I turn around.

            It’s Volkov. And behind him, Ikagawa and Massey. At their side, Monica, Sader, Andrea, half a dozen more people whose names I don’t remember from my interview, and behind, an entire head taller, a million miles wider, only just stepping out of the conference room . . .

            Jack. Of course.

            Michi was wrong. Faculty meeting only just ended.

            “Dr. Hannaway,” Volkov says fondly, like I’m his niece who should visit more often, and even though there are twenty people staring at me and I’d like to disappear into the woods, I actually lift my hand and smile weakly.

            “Are you an ocean?” he asks. “Because you just . . . waved!”

            Oh God. When did this become my life?

            “Elsie?” Monica butts in warily. “Is everything okay?”

            My heart slams with mortification. I bet she’s afraid I’ll make a scene. “Um, I . . .” I got lost. Forgot my colonics paraphernalia in the bathroom a few weeks ago. Have you seen a Newfie?

            No. No. Come on, Elsie. Honesty.

            “I need to talk to Jack,” I say in my newly found firm voice.

            Jack.

            Who has, by now, noticed me.

            And is coming toward me.

            Standing in front of me.

            Towering toweringly with a puzzled, towered frown directed at me.

            Deep breaths. It’s okay. This is fine.

            “I didn’t know you two talked,” Monica says, looking skeptically between us.

            “I learned a few years ago,” Jack tells her calmly, staring only at me. She’s little more than a fly buzzing around us. “And Elsie’s in the process of mastering the art of speaking for herself.”

            I glare. His mouth twitches.

            “Elsie, has Jonathan been bothering you? Because I—”

            “No. Not at all. We . . .” I’m beet red. “We do talk.”

            Her eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in suspicion. “Does this talking you have been doing have anything to do with Jonathan’s article?” she says. To whom, I’m not sure.

            Jack keeps looking at me, silent for a stretched beat. “The article was overdue.”