Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “What will you do if I get this job, Jack?” I lean forward. My face is a couple of inches from his. “Pull out your hair? Ask for the manager? Leave the department and become a Zumba instructor?”

            He doesn’t pull back. Instead he watches me even more intently, like I’m a critter in the palm of his hand, and I contemplate the possible scenarios, the same ones that must be filling his head, too.

            Jack Smith-Turner and Elsie Hannaway. Esteemed colleagues. Office neighbors. Academic foes.

            Oh, I could make his life so hard. Spread the rumor that he wraps his entire mouth around the water fountain. Put a nest of killer cicadas in the lowest drawer of his desk. Push him outside bare-eyed during an eclipse. The sky’s the limit, and I want to see him suffer. I want to see him lose. I want to see him sweat it. I want to see him cry, because he lost and I won.

            But perhaps I won’t.

            Because: “If you get the job . . .” He leans close. That slice of eye burns bright blue, and his mouth curves. “I’ll make do.”

            “While crying yourself to sleep because I’m not George?”

            “Not everyone wants you to be someone else, Elsie.” He’s wrong about that, but I can smell his skin. It’s good in a way that’s primeval. Almost evolutionary. I hate it. “And I definitely wouldn’t want you to be George.”

            “And why is that?”

            He presses his lips together. He’s even closer now. Surprisingly earnest. “It would be a waste.”

            “A waste of what?”

            “Of you.”

            My heart skips. Stumbles. Restarts with a gallop. What does he even—

            “Jack! Dr. Hannaway—here you are. My meeting just ended.” Volkov appears in the doorframe. “I’m so sorry for running late.”

            Jack has taken a step back. “No problem,” he says, looking at me. “I just hope you wore something reflective.”

            A moment of silence. Then Volkov registers the pun and starts wheezing. “Oh, Jack, you—you—” He chortles. Jack’s already walking out of the room, but he stops in the door for a long glance and a low “Goodbye, Elsie.” After a beat, he adds, “It was a pleasure.”





8


            FRICTION


            What do you mean, you think we should leave them be?”

            Mom’s voice is so shrill, I glance around to make sure no one overheard her through the phone. Dr. Voight waves at me before slipping inside the auditorium—the one where I’ll give my research talk in fifteen minutes—and my stomach flips, omelet-style.

            “It’s just . . . Lucas is very stubborn. Short of locking him in my dishwasher, I’m not sure how to stop him from acting up.” I hasten to add before Mom asks me to do just that, “And I think he’ll be okay if we give him space to sulk.”

            “What about Thanksgiving?”

            Uh? “What about Thanksgiving?”

            “What if he’s not done sulking by Thanksgiving? Where do I seat him? What if he doesn’t show? Your aunt will say that I don’t have my family under control. That she should host next year! She’s been trying to steal this from me for decades!”

            “Mom, it’s . . . January.”

            “And?”

            I spot Jack and Andrea coming my way, laughing, Michi and a gaggle of grads in tow. He’s one whole head taller than the crowd—like at every single Smith gathering—and wears a gray long-sleeved henley that manages to look simultaneously like the first thing he found in the laundry hamper and a high-end piece tailored to showcase that protein is his favorite macronutrient.

            Haute couture by Chuck Norris.

            I wish he didn’t nod at me with that stupid smirk. I wish he wasn’t amused by my glare.

            “If by November things aren’t better, I’ll . . . look into rope restraints and cheap storage space, I promise. Gotta go, Mom. I’ll call you back tonight, okay?” I hang up to find a good luck email from Dr. L., who hasn’t quite mastered text messaging yet, and smile.