Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            EPILOGUE

            Eight months later

            I hatch the plan on a Sunday morning.

            The sun is bright, the curtains nonexistent, and Jack’s eyelids must be as blackout as ever, because I get in at least twenty minutes of intense plotting before he wakes up to pull me closer. Then his stubble brushes against my belly, and I tuck my plans aside, carefully stored in an uncluttered corner of my brain, and let myself giggle in his arms. “You seem pensive,” he points out later, in the kitchen, but I distract him with a kiss; his mouth is syrupy sweet, and the smell of waffles thickens the early-morning fall air.

            The diversion works.

            It’s a plan that will require practice and organization, a touch of logistical troubleshooting. The best option would be to recruit someone else to help me, but I don’t know. I’d rather do this on my own. Except that Jack and I spend Sunday night the same way we do every Sunday—falling asleep on the sectional while catching up on articles. Monday’s spent at Millicent’s with the rest of the family, which involves the usual routine: Greg and I chatting about the YA books we’ve been buddy-reading, Jack playing against his grandma at the Go board, and the rest of the family, Caroline included, respectfully avoiding mentioning that I went from dating one brother to the other. I’m not sure what went down there, or what prompted the Smith Cinematic Universe to suddenly grow boundaries. I suspect that some overdue stern conversations were had, threats were made, and people were encouraged to either shut the hell up or never show up at Millicent’s again.

            It worked.

            Tuesday night is also a no-go, because I have therapy, which I now can miraculously afford. I’ve never been this healthy—mentally and physically. The wonders of having insurance.

            “. . . and most of the time I really, truly believe that he sees me for what I am, but sometimes there is this petrifying fear,” I explain to Jada, “that maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s making a mistake? Maybe he’ll change his mind? Maybe there’s a deal breaker, and he’s days, seconds away from discovering it?”

            “And what do we do when we feel like that?”

            “We buy five pounds of Whole Foods pecorino?”

            Jada blinks at me, unamused.

            I sigh. “We articulate our insecurities to our partner and listen to their answer.”

            But it’s not easy, articulating. Getting easier, yes, but a few hours later, when I’m lying on the couch on top of Jack, all that comes out is “You’re not going to suddenly realize that you don’t really like me, right?”

            He dips his chin to look at me. “If my feelings for you haven’t changed after reading that Bella and Alice alphaverse fan fiction, I’m pretty sure we’re golden.”

            “It’s called omegaverse—and you said it was good!”

            “I said it was hot,” he corrects me. The blue slice darkens. “Actually, you should read it to me again. Now.”

            I roll my eyes. “No, it’s just that . . . I promise I’m usually . . . But sometimes I feel like . . . I’m not sure that . . .” I fall silent. There are no right words to be found in me.

            “Rough session with Jada?” Jack asks. And I nod till he holds me tighter. We watch one of his white male rage movies in silence, and between a car chase and a weird CGI monster and his hands anchoring me to him, I think that maybe there is no something, no deal breaker, no shoe that’s about to drop.

            Maybe it’s just us.

            So, Wednesday. Wednesday is supposed to be the day I execute my plan, but I wake up to the coolest email of my life.


From: [email protected]

                Subject: Article ID: 89274692


Dear Drs. Hannaway and Sepulveda,


Congratulations. I am pleased to inform you that following your revisions, your paper entitled “Supermolecular organization in lyotropic liquid crystals: a new theoretical framework” has been accepted for publication in Nature Physics. Below you will find additional information . . .



            That night George’s wife makes souvlaki to celebrate. It’s delicious, but George and I are too busy reading and rereading the email and letting out annoying high-pitched screams to truly savor it. We are obnoxious but just cannot help ourselves.