Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “I bet we can find something. Blood type? First pet? Favorite color?”

            “If you’re trying to hack my online banking security questions, you should know there isn’t much to steal.”

            His mouth quirks, and I think something nonsensical: I’d hate him less if he weren’t so handsome. Even less if he were as charming as a morgue. And even even less if I could read him, just a little. “If you’d rather use the time to rest, feel free.”

            “Thank you. I’m not tired.”

            “Really? It seems tiresome, being you.”

            I frown. “Tiresome?”

            “It can’t be easy”—he taps his finger lightly against the edge of the desk—“this thing you’re always doing.”

            This thing I—what does he mean? He’s not referring to . . . He doesn’t know about the APE. About the different Elsies. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

            He nods affably, like I said exactly what he expected me to, and disappointed him in the process. He doesn’t break eye contact, and as usual, I feel he’s stripped a layer of skin off me. Naked, in the worst possible way. I find myself adjusting the hem of my skirt—which is already at a perfectly acceptable length. It was fine this morning in Dr. L.’s office. It was fine on a yoga ball. Why do I feel weird now? “Relax, then. My grads tell me that chair is quite comfortable.”

            “Is Cole one of your grads?”

            “Cole is, I believe, Volkov’s.” He must notice my surprise, because he adds, “But I wouldn’t worry. The Feynman sex quote really had him.”

            The way he says it (Feynman sex quote), all perfect vowels and hard consonants, makes me hot and cold and wanting to look away. Which I stubbornly refuse to do. “This is a comfortable chair.” I lean back, mimicking his pose. I’m not intimidated. You’re not intimidated. We’re both unintimidated.

            “I slept in it once, after a forty-eight-hour experiment.”

            “I’m not going to fall asleep.”

            “You could.”

            “Yeah. And you could take out a permanent marker and scribble something on my forehead.”

            His head tilts. “What would I scribble?”

            I shrug. “ ‘Do not hire’? ‘Albert Einstein sux’? ‘I hate theorists’?”

            He steeples his hands. “Is this what you think? That I hate theorists?” He finds me amusing. Or boring. Or pitiful. Or a mix. I wish I could tell, but I shall die in ignorance.

            “Your students sure seem to.”

            “And you think I’m the reason?” He sounds genuinely puzzled by that. The audacity.

            “Who else?”

            He shrugs. “You’re discounting a simpler explanation: students interested in experimental physics are both more likely to have preconceived notions about theory and more likely to choose to take a class taught by me. Correlation does not equal causation.”

            “Of course.” I smile politely. I’m calm. Still calm. “I’m sure the fact that someone they look up to—you—notoriously hates theorists has no impact on their view of the discipline.”

            “Do I?” His head tilts. “Notoriously hate theorists? I regularly collaborate with them. Respect their work. Admire several.”

            “Name one.”

            “You.” He pins me with his stupid, hyper-seeing look. “You are very impressive, Elsie.”

            My stomach flips, even though I know he’s lying. I just . . . didn’t expect this specific lie. “I doubt you know anything about my work.”

            “I’ve read every word you’ve written.” He looks serious, but he must be mocking me.

            What do I do? Mock back. “Did you enjoy my middle school diary?”