Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Elsie.” Jack’s lips graze my cheekbone. “Calm down. They’ll leave as soon as they’re done, and you can go back to the table. Laugh at Volkov’s puns till he votes for you. Tell a few more lies.”

            “I’m not lying.” I pull back, and our eyes are at the same level. The slice of blue in the deep brown is icy, weird, beautiful. “I can’t explain, but this is . . . not the way you think it is. It’s . . . different.”

            “From what?”

            “From the way you think it is.”

            He nods. Our noses nearly brush together. “That was remarkably articulate.”

            I roll my eyes.

            “Monica will love to hear about your secret librarian identity—”

            “No!” I barely keep my voice down. “Please, just call Greg before you talk to Monica. He’ll explain.”

            “Convenient, given that I can’t get in touch with him while he’s on his retreat, and he won’t be back until your interview is over.”

            Shit. I’d forgotten about Woodacre. “There must be a way to reach him. Can you tell him it’s an emergency? That, um, he left his porch light on? You need his alarm code to go turn it off. Save the environment.”

            “No.”

            “Please. At least—”

            “No.”

            “You’re being absolutely unreasonable. All I ask is that you—”

            “—do you think about the girl? Hannaway, right?” one of the urinal voices asks. We both instantly tune in.

            A mistake, clearly.

            “CV’s real good. Her two-dimensional liquid crystals theories . . . good stuff.”

            “I remember reading her paper last year. I was very impressed. Had no idea she was that junior.”

            “Right? Makes you wonder how much of it is her mentor’s.” A vague hum of agreement that has my hands tightening around the balls of Jack’s shoulders. None, I want to scream. It was my model. “She’s young and beautiful. Which means that she’ll get pregnant in a couple of years, and we’ll have to teach her courses.”

            It’s like a punch in the sternum, to the point that I almost slip butt-first into the toilet. Jack stops me with a hand between my shoulder blades, arm contracting around my waist. He’s frowning like he’s as disgusted as I am. Though he’s not. He can’t be, because Pereira, or maybe Crowley, adds:

            “Doesn’t matter. I’m voting for Jack’s candidate. He’s got influence, and he hates theorists.”

            “He does? Oh, yeah. Can’t believe I forgot that article he wrote.”

            “It was brutal, man. And hilarious. Wouldn’t want to be on his bad side.”

            A hand dryer goes off, muffling the rest. Jack’s still holding me, eyes on mine, foreheads near touching. My nails dig into his chest—made of some granite-Kevlar blend, engineered by a task force of experimentalists to exude heat. He’s a sentient weighted blanket, and I—

            I hate him.

            I’ve never hated anybody: not J.J. Not the Film Appreciation 101 professor who nearly failed me for saying that Twilight is an unrecognized masterpiece. Not even my brother Lucas, who had me convinced that I was adopted for over six months. I’m mild mannered, adaptable, unobtrusive. I get along with people: I give them what they want, and all I ask in return is that they not actively dislike me.

            But Jack Smith. Jonathan Fucking Smith Fucking Turner. He’s been hostile and unpleasant and suspicious since the day we met. He has shat upon my field and destroyed my mentor, and now stands between me and my dreams. For that, he lost the privilege that I afford every human being: to deal with the Elsie he wants.

            The Elsie he’s going to get is the one I care to give him. And she’s pissed.

            “I want this job, Jack,” I hiss over the hand dryer. I actually need this job, but—semantics.