Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Smith-Turner.” The correction is a punch in the sternum. This can’t be. Jack Smith and Jonathan Smith-Turner cannot be—

            “But call me Jack.”

            —the same person.

            “Dr. Hannaway goes by Elsie, Jonathan,” Monica says archly.

            Jack ignores her tone. “Elsie,” he says, like he’s trying it out for the first time. Like he didn’t use my name just last night, over the sole game of Go I haven’t won in years.

            Shit.

            I wait for one of us to acknowledge that we already know each other—in vain. My mouth remains closed. His, too. Brown eyes stay on mine, and I feel as pinned as an exotic dragonfly.

            This is wrong. Jack Smith is a PE teacher. Greg told me so when we met at that coffee shop to plan our backstory. Right?

            “And I have a brother. Older. Three years,” Greg says, setting down his mug. “I won’t tell him that I hired you, but he’s great, unlike . . . well, my other relatives.”

            I nod, typing Brother in my Notes app. Close, I add. “May I have his name and something about him?”

            “Something about Jack?”

            “That I can bring up when we meet? Something like ‘Greg talks about you all the time. You’re a hippotherapist, right? And you love soap carving! How lovely that you met your spouse while climbing Machu Picchu.’ ”

            Greg shakes his head. “Jack’s not married.”

            “Any partners?”

            “No. He doesn’t really date.”

            My eyebrow lifts at Greg, who immediately shakes his head.

            “Not like me. He . . . has friends, women that he . . . But he’s very clear about not being interested in relationships.”

            I nod. Type Stud? Yikes. “Your mother doesn’t hound him about settling down like she does you?”

            “It’s complicated.” Greg’s expression is almost guilty. “But no. Mom doesn’t really care what he does. Let’s see, something about Jack.” He drums his fingers. “He comes across as a bit rough around the edges, like he doesn’t care about anything but his job, but—he’s nice. Kind. For instance, he was the only person who showed up for my Jesus Christ Superstar recital back in high school.” He sighs. “I played Peter.”

            “The only person in your family?”

            “The only person in the audience. Did lots of clapping.” Greg shrugs. “And he’s freakishly smart. Likes board games. Recently moved back to Boston from California.”

            “What’s his job?”

            “He teaches. Phys—”

            A loud sound from a nearby table makes us start. A toddler, slamming her fist on the table, yelling at her mom, “Not banana—cookie!”

            “Sweetie, you’ve been sick.”

            “I’m not sick. I—” Suddenly, there’s a puddle of vomit on the front of her shirt.

            Greg and I exchange a look before he continues, “Also, um . . . he plays sports with his friends. Stuff like that.”

            I nod and write down, PE teacher. Monopoly? Gym bro? Not the target. Nonissue.

            Until now.

            Suddenly, Jonathan Jack Jesus Christ Superstar Smith-Turner, who plays board games and teaches something that starts with phys- and is most definitely not physical education, is a big fucking issue.

            Impossible. Insane. I must be on Punk’d. General relativity was right: I’ve time-traveled back to the early 2000s. A camera crew and Uncle Paul are hiding behind that pretentious potted fern in the corner. The interview was a setup. My entire life is a joke.

            “Hey, Jack,” Volkov asks from behind me, all sharp, eastern European sounds, “with great power comes . . . ?”

            “Great current squared times resistance,” Jack murmurs, eyes planted on me. I shiver hot and cold while everyone else laughs. As usual, Jack is inaccessible; I have no idea what’s happening in his brain. As usual, I feel like he’s skinning me like a clementine, seeing all my squishy, secret, hidden bits.