Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            Oh? “Of course.”

            “Do you know what the formula for a velociraptor is?”

            I scowl. The what, now? Is he quizzing me on something? The formula for the—oh.

            Oh, right.

            I clear my throat. “Is it, by any chance, um, a distanceraptor divided by a timeraptor?”

            He regards me icily for a second. Then he breaks into a slow, pleased, belly-deep laugh. “This one”—he points at me, glancing at Monica—“I like this one. Good sense of humor!”

            Clearly, the Elsie that Volkov wants doles out physics dad jokes. I’ll have to build a repertoire.

            “I think we’re all here. We should head for the table—oh.” Monica stops, staring at someplace high behind my shoulder. Her expression hardens. “There are Jonathan and Andrea. Better late than never.”

            I take a deep breath, bracing myself for this meeting. I can be nice to Jonathan Smith-Turner. I can be polite to this waste of academic space. And I can make him cry by getting this job.

            My eyes hold Monica’s for a fraction of a second, a silent promise, and then I turn around, ready to be perfectly pleasant, ready to shake the asswipe’s hand without saying Yikes or I hate you or Thank you for ruining physics for us, dick.

            And then I stop.

            Because the person who just came in—

            The person standing in the entrance of the restaurant, snowflakes melting in his light hair—

            The person unbuttoning his North Face coat—

            —is none other than Jack Smith.





3


            CHAIN REACTION


            I blink stupidly—one, two, seven times.

            Then I blink again, for good measure.

            Why is Jack here, brushing snow off his parka, shrinking the entrance to half its size with his overgrown shoulders? Is it keto night at Miel? Did he get lost on his way to a calisthenics convention?

            I’m debating whether to ignore him or briefly wave at him when Monica says, “You’re late.” She sounds chiding. And she looks a lot like she’s talking to Jack, who checks his wristwatch (a wristwatch, in this year of our lord) and calmly replies, “I was in the lab. Must have lost track of time.”

            “I had to pry him off the optical tweezers,” the blonde next to him—Andrea?—butts in.

            Monica all but rolls her eyes. I glance back and forth between them, disoriented. Does Jack know Monica? Are they SoulCycle buddies? What’s he late for?

            “Since you’re finally gracing us with your presence, this is Dr. Elsie Hannaway, one of the candidates for the faculty position. Elsie, this is Dr. Andrea Albritton, an associate professor in the department. And Dr. Jonathan Smith-Turner, the head of the MIT Physics Institute.”

            I almost look around. I almost scan the restaurant in search of the elusive Jonathan Smith-Turner. But then I don’t, because Jack is staring down at me, looking exactly how I feel.

            Confused. Puzzled. Concerned for Monica’s mental health.

            “You’ve got it wrong,” he tells her with that good voice he has, shaking his head, amused. “Elsie’s not a . . .”

            He trails off, and his demeanor switches: the amusement dissolves. Something twitches in his ridiculous superhero jaw. The frown between his eyes deepens into a W—for What the everloving fuck? I can only assume.

            Jack Smith’s always stubbornly, peculiarly unreadable, but right now I can safely guess that he’s pissed. He wants to curse me. Slaughter me. Feast on the tender marrow of my bones.

            Though he does none of that. His expression switches again, this time to a polite blank as he offers his hand. I have no choice but to shake it.

            “Dr. Hannaway,” he says, voice rich and disturbingly familiar. His skin is Boston-in-January-with-no-gloves cold. Calloused. Scary. “Thank you for your interest in MIT.”

            “Dr. Turner,” I manage around the catch in my throat.