Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            How hard will Cece murder me if I puke all over her dress?

            “MIT party?” The hostess smiles. “Let me show you to your table.”

            I turn around clumsily, as if wading through water. My brain won’t stop flipping its fins. So Jack’s a physicist—bad. An experimentalist—bad. The experimentalist—bad. He wants to hire some George dude—bad. He knows me as a librarian his brother’s dating—bad. He never liked me—bad. He thinks I made up my Ph.D.—badder—and am conning MIT into hiring me—baddest.

            “Don’t let him get to you,” Monica whispers in my ear.

            “W-what?”

            “The way Jonathan was looking at you, like you’re trying to smuggle a full bottle of shampoo through TSA—definitely one of his power plays. Ignore him.”

            Shit—what if he narcs me out to Monica? To Volkov? Oh God, am I going to have to explain to my future colleagues about my side gig? About Faux? I bet filet mignon goes great with anecdotes of that debt collector who threatened to shatter my kneecaps. “Okay.” I smile weakly. I’m in deep shit—ten feet under, I estimate.

            No, fifteen. Rapidly digging when Monica notices that I’m sitting far from Volkov and says, “There’s a terrible draft here. Can someone switch with me? Elsie, would you mind?”

            Musical chairs ensue. She maneuvers until I’m between her and Volkov. Excellent. Less excellent? Jack, right across from me. He’s folding himself in his chair, twice as broad as the experimentalist riffling through the menu next to him. He stares like he’s about to deseed me like a pomegranate.

            I try to think about a single way this interview could have started less auspiciously, and come up empty-handed. Maybe if Godzilla stepped into Miel and started grazing on the orchid centerpiece.

            I glance toward the entrance. Is Godzilla about to—

            “Where are you currently, Elsie?”

            I whip my head to Jack. His gaze is on me and only me, like we’re alone in the restaurant. In Boston. In the Virgo galaxy supercluster. “I . . . don’t understand the question.”

            “Your workplace. If you currently work.”

            My cheeks heat. “I teach at UMass Boston, Emerson, and Boston University.”

            “Ah.” He stuffs entire worlds in that single sound—none of which I care to visit. “Remind me, is UMass ranked as a Research One institution?”

            My nostrils flare. I remember what my mom always says (You look like a piglet when you do that) and make a conscious effort to relax. “Research Two.”

            Jack nods like he didn’t already know and takes a carefree sip of his water. I wonder what would happen if I kicked him under the table.

            “You really must move to a Research One institution, Dr. Hannaway.” Volkov gives me a look of fatherly concern. “There’s simply no comparison. More resources. More funds.”

            You don’t say. “Yes, Dr. Volkov.”

            “And are you on tenure track, Elsie?” Jack asks.

            “An adjunct.” I am totally going to kick him. In the nuts. It’s the only acceptable use of my foot.

            “I am so jealous of adjuncts,” Volkov murmurs distractedly, staring at the entrée page. “They have mobility. Flexibility. Keeps you young at heart.”

            I paste a smile on my face. “So much flexibility.” Offering to forward him the biweekly op-eds the Atlantic runs on how we are the underclass of academia seems rude, so I silently wish him an unpassable kidney stone.

            “And where did you get your Ph.D.?” Jack asks.

            “Northeastern.”

            “Northeastern, huh?” He nods, pensive. “Great school. A friend used to be there.”

            “Oh. In the Physics Department?”

            “No. Library Science.”

            A rush of heat sweeps over me. Does he mean—