Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            At least someone cares.

            “I’m so, so sorry about yesterday,” Monica says, arriving in a flurry of clicking heels. Her eyes knife into Jack’s monstrous shoulders, and I do love how committed she is to despising him. Truly warms my high-risk cardiovascular system. “I left you with Jack for so long. I had no idea Sasha was late—men. So unreliable.”

            “Not a problem.” It’s not even a lie. Last night I managed to put in two solid hours of email answering before dinner, and I didn’t even doze off when Cece told me all about the recent breakthrough in her analysis of “The Odessa Steps” (i.e., act 4 of the 1925 silent movie Battleship Potyomkin). We’ve watched it together before—multiple times, since I made the rookie mistake of pretending to love it the first. But last night I was considerably less tired than usual, and my theory is that Jack’s the reason.

            Here’s the deal: things between him and me are unsalvageably bad. I’ll never conjure an Elsie able to please him, especially since he’s figured out my APE strategies. And as much as I hate knowing that there’s someone out there whom I cannot win over, it also lets me off the hook. With Jack, I don’t need to be someone else, because I can’t be someone else. It’s unsettling, and disturbingly baring, and also . . . relaxing.

            Basically, I had fun with Jack Smith-Turner. A phrase never before uttered by a human tongue.

            Have I been doing it all wrong? Maybe instead of getting people to think that I’m worth their time, I should stop giving a shit about them? Hmm. Food for thought.

            “On the positive, everyone who’s had one-on-ones with you adored you, Elsie.” Monica grins. “And the students—glowing feedback. I think we got this in the bag. You just need to nail this research talk.”

            No pressure. “On it.” I smile.

            Her hand settles warmly on my shoulder. “You’ll be such a wonderful asset to the department.”

            Ten minutes later, after Monica has introduced me to a packed auditorium (I suspect mandatory attendance), I can still feel the weight of her fingers. She mentioned the Forbes 30 Under 30, the SN 10: Scientists to Watch, and the Young Investigator Prize, and everyone clapped. People look between me and my slides. No one seems to be nodding off yet. I’m talking about the models I created, some unpublished material I haven’t had a chance to write up yet, and . . .

            God. I fucking love it.

            The thing is, I’m good at it. Really, genuinely good. Anything else I’ve ever been praised for—You’re so pretty, Elsie, so interesting to talk to, so funny, so extroverted, so introverted, so kind, so understanding, so pleasant, so thoughtful, so levelheaded, so insightful, so crazy, so carefree, so disciplined, so intense, so laid-back—is made up. A product of fog machines and carefully angled mirrors that reflect what others want me to be. But physics . . . I didn’t fake my way into physics. And I love talking about it to other people—not something I’ve been able to do over the past year, since I teach approximately seventy bajillion classes and my students are still at the “apple falls on head” stage of physics. I sometimes try to involve Cece in my work, but every time I mention liquid crystals, she giggles and whispers, “My Preciousss.” Which is okay. It’s not exactly a party topic, but physicists? They’re into it. Experimentalists love the applications, and theorists love to wonder what they were up to during the big bang, whether they’re the real origin of life on Earth, if they can be added to a smoothie.

            It’s a win-win.

            “. . . this was phase two of the model—let me know if it’s not crystal clear.” I deliver the first of my three scheduled puns to a roomful of chuckles. If the world is a just place, this prostitution of my sense of humor will buy me Volkov’s vote. “Now, moving on to the third.”

            Jack’s in the fourth row, paying me an uncomfortable amount of attention, writing something in a notebook. At best, he’s doodling cool S’s—at worst, drafting an online petition to dissuade MIT from hiring a diabetic slug who pilfers imported sodas and catfishes impressionable young men. He has something planned. I know it. He knows it. We both know it, and that’s why our gazes meet and hold so often. But I’ve practiced this talk so much, I could give it while getting my crotch waxed. Whatever you’re plotting, I’m ready for it, I think at him the next time our eyes catch. He smirks back his familiar, uneven smile.

            I carry on and wait for the shoe to drop. And wait. And wait. And . . .

            It doesn’t. Jack doesn’t raise his hand to ask an unintelligible four-part question. His students don’t jump out of their chairs to stage an anti-theory flash mob. Once we get to the Q&A, I peek at the ceiling, fully expecting a bucket of pig’s blood. Nothing.