Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            Does he look guilty? Maybe. Maybe it’s just resting frown face. “Does Greg know about the diabetes?”

            How socially acceptable would it be for me to burst into Greg’s corporate bonding retreat and drag him back to Boston by the ear? “He doesn’t need to know.”

            Jack’s lips thin. “Is this part of your game?”

            “My what?”

            “This weird thing. Where you delete and remake yourself?”

            “You are obsessed.” And disturbingly right. “Are you into conspiracy theories? Lizard people? Fictional Finland?” I take another sip. “God, this is bitter.” The label on the bottle is in a foreign language. “What is it?”

            “Volkov’s favorite drink.”

            “What?”

            “He has his brother send a few cases over from Russia that he rations and cherishes like liquid gold. That’s the last bottle.”

            I’d do a spit take if I could bear to drink another sip. “What?”

            “Don’t worry. I’ll mention that you really needed it, Elsie. He won’t mind much.”

            “No. No, no, no. Don’t tell him. Do not tell Volkov. I’m gonna find an import store. Buy a replacement. Where did you get this from? I can . . .”

            I trail off. Jack’s dimple is back. He’s smiling.

            Evilly.

            “It’s not really Volkov’s, is it?”

            He shakes his head.

            “I hate you,” I say without heat.

            “I know.” He grabs the bottle, takes a sip. Scrunches his nose in an almost cute way. Does he know my lips were right there? “Disgusting. I stole it from the student lounge. Only non-diet soda I could find.”

            “You just stole from a grad student?” I laugh.

            “Yeah. An unexpected low.”

            I laugh harder—must be that sugar high. “How do you sleep at night?”

            “I have a really firm mattress. Great for spinal health.”

            Laughing again here. And so is Jack. I take the bottle back and sip again. I guess we’re both vaccinated. What’s the harm? “God, this tastes like paint thinner.”

            “Or a plankton isopropyl alcohol smoothie.” Oh my God. I’m laughing even more. Do I have permanent brain damage? “Are you going to be okay?” His voice is suddenly softer. More intimate. He’s really standing closer than we need to be. At least he’ll catch me if I fall again.

            “Yeah. I just need a second to recover.” Last sip. Is this compost juice growing on me? Maybe it’s just this place. The midafternoon sunlight warming the hardwood floor. The shelves waiting to be filled with my books. “And another second to marvel at the splendor of my future office.”

            Jack shakes his head and smiles, almost wistful. “Sorry, Elsie. It won’t be your office.”

            The thought is bloodcurdling. “You’re not sorry. And you don’t know the future. I’m outpunning you, Jack. The teaching demonstration—it went really well. And I didn’t even steal Volkov’s mother’s milk. I have a chance.”

            He studies me for a long moment, silent. Then asks again, “Will you be all right?”

            “Yeah, I just need a second to—”

            “No, I mean . . . will you be okay? If you lose Greg—because I will tell him about you. And if you don’t get this job. Will you still be . . . fine?”

            I can’t immediately decipher his tone. Then I do and burst out laughing.

            He’s worried. He seems genuinely worried about my well-being and state of mind. Which is surprisingly nice and maybe a tad amusing, until I realize why: he’s convinced that I’ll fail. And that makes me feel . . . something. A mix of anger and fear and something else, reminiscent of the carefree joy that comes from dancing on the graves of enemies who dared to underestimate me.