Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            The Elsie that Caroline Smith wants is someone able to fit in with people who use summer as a verb, not flashy enough to attract a better catch than Greg, and with the nurturing instincts to take care of the son she might love but cannot be bothered to know. Children’s librarian seemed like a great fake profession. It’s been fun scouring online forums in search of charming anecdotes.

            “Today I found three Goldfish crackers in our best copy of Matilda,” I say with a smile. Or at least, Reddit user iluvbigbooks did.

            “That is hilarious,” Caroline says without laughing, smiling, or otherwise displaying amusement. Then she leans closer, whispering as though her son, who’s a foot away, cannot hear us. “We are so glad that you’re here, Elsie.” We, I believe, includes Greg’s dad, who stands silently next to her, popping three cubes of colby jack into his mouth with the vacant smile of someone who’s been dissociating since 1999. “We were so worried about Gregory. But now he’s with you, and he’s never been happier.” Has he, though? “Gregory, make sure to spend lots of quality time with your grandmother tonight. Izzy is taking pics with her Polaroid to give her at the end of the night—make sure you’re in all of them.”

            “I’ll make sure he is, Mrs. Smith,” I promise, weaving my arm through Greg’s. I break that promise fifteen seconds later, at the end of the glitzy hallway. He downs what’s left of his wine, steals two large gulps of mine, and then stage-whispers “See you in ten minutes” before locking himself inside the bathroom.

            I laugh and let him be. I feel protective of him—enough to break Faux standard protocol and agree to repeat fake dates, enough to want to defend him from muggers and pirates and his extended family. Maybe it’s that his first sentence to me was a panicky “My mother won’t stop asking why I don’t date,” followed by a hesitant, frazzled explanation of why that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon—an explanation that hit too close to home. Maybe it’s that he always looks like how I feel: tired and overwhelmed. In another timeline we’d be best friends, bonding over the unavoidable stress ulcers that will soon ravage the linings of our stomachs.

            I find the empty kitchen, duck inside, and watch the red swirl down the drain as I pour what’s left of my glass into the sink. A waste. I should have just refused it, but that would lead to questions, and I don’t want to explain that alcohol is a dangerous, glycemic terrorist and that my struggling pancreas does not negotiate with—

            “Not to your taste?”

            I jump. And yelp. And almost drop the glass, which probably costs more than my graduate education.

            I thought I was alone. Wasn’t I alone? I was alone. But Greg’s older brother is in the room, leaning against the marble counter, arms crossed over his chest. Those unique multicolored eyes of his are staring at me with the usual inscrutable expression. I’m standing between him and the only entrance—either I overlooked him, or he bent the space-time continuum.

            Or I mixed him up with the refrigerator. They are similarly sized, after all.

            “Are you okay?” he asks.

            “I—yes. Yes, sorry. I just . . .” I force a smile. “Hi, Jack.”

            “Hi, Elsie.” He says my name like it’s familiar to him. The first word he ever learned. Second nature, and not just a bunch of vowels and consonants he’s barely had reason to use before.

            He doesn’t smile, of course. Well, he does smile, but never at me. Whenever we’re in the same room, he’s an imposing, sky-soaring, stern presence whose main pastime appears to be judging me unworthy of Greg.

            “Don’t like the wine?”

            “That’s not it.” I blink, flustered. There’s a tattoo on his forearm, just peeking out of the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. Because of course he’s wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, even though the Evite specifically asked for semiformal.

            But he’s Jack Smith. He can do whatever he wants. He probably has a permit carved in those ridiculous biceps of his. Stamped on the blue quarter of his right eye, the one that sticks out like a sore thumb in the chestnut of his irises.

            “The wine was great,” I say, collecting myself. “But there was a fly in it.”

            “Was there?”

            He doesn’t believe me. I don’t know how I know, but I know. And he knows that I know. I can see it, no—I can feel it. There’s a tingle at the base of my spine, liquid and sparkly and warm. Careful, Elsie, it says. He’ll have you arrested for crimes against grapes. You’ll spend the rest of your life in federal prison. He’ll visit once a week to stare through the plexiglass and make you uncomfortable.