Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            Just Dr. Massey, raising his hand from the left side, saying, “What a deeply fascinating model, Dr. Hannaway. Some of the experimentalists here would really benefit from your collaboration.” He points at a middle-aged man sitting in front of him. “Toby, you’re working on nematics.”

            “No, not me. It was Dr. Deol.”

            “No, Deol’s particles. Maybe Sasha?”

            The room devolves into a chicken coop, everyone talking over everyone until Volkov interrupts: “Wasn’t it Dr. Smith-Turner?”

            He turns around with effort, looking for someone, and I pray he misspoke. I pray there’s another Smith-Turner in the crowd. I pray for a quick and merciful ending. But: “Jack, you’ve been stuck on your nematics experiments, right? You could use this model, correct?”

            I dare to glance at Jack, expecting to see him frown. To scoff. To lash back. But he says, “Indeed, I have. And indeed, I could.” He smiles a little, pleased in a way that’s not bitter enough for my taste.

            I just knocked this talk out of the park. Jack should be sobbing. Why does he look almost . . . admiring?

            His eyes hold mine again. I glance away first and take the next question.



* * *



            • • •

                         “You are a most impressive young scientist,” Volkov tells me, pausing to pop a bacon-wrapped mushroom in his mouth. “A rising star, with a bright career ahead of you.”

            “I’ll make sure to buy sunglasses.” I watch him cackle his way to the canapés table, hoping he won’t be back.

            The interview went well, but I’m ready for it to be over. This shindig at Monica’s place is the homestretch: ostensibly, an informal reception meant to convey the amiable culture of the department and the convivial rapport among its faculty members. But I’ve been to tons of these back at Northeastern, and all they manage to show is that we academics are awkward, resentful nerds unable to interact with our colleagues without liters of ethanolic lubricant.

            Which have by now been distributed. The room ranges from buzzy to outright drunk. The conversation from PS5 games to gossip about the grad students. (Cole is universally loathed, had a soul patch phase, once tried to organize an orgy in the spectroscopy lab. I should introduce him to Uncle Paul.)

            Monica’s house is fancy and sprawling, and I shouldn’t be shocked: she is a big shot—of course she has KFC buckets of money. Many of those who manage to stick around academia till the full professor stage do, right? It’s just . . . the income difference between tenured faculty and people like me is gaping. Maybe scholars move up from the poverty line and forget all about how they used to jerk awake to coconut-crab roaches crawling on their skin. Maybe there’s a switch in the brain that teaches people the difference between hors d’oeuvres and amuse-bouches and makes them want to drop serious cash on cow skull wall decor?

            I sip the club soda I pretended to splash with gin and mutter, “God.”

            “Pretty sure God left this department years ago,” someone whispers above my ear.

            I turn and—it’s Jack. Of course it’s Jack. The electron to my nucleus, constantly spinning around me in the most annoying of orbits. He’s so close I have to tilt my chin, and from this perspective it strikes me again how handsome he is. Like a picture in an airport store that sells fancy perfume.

            “Stop frowning,” he orders, and at first I automatically smooth my forehead.

            Then I frown harder. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

            “Come on, Elsie.” The corner of his lips twitches. “I didn’t even ask you to smile.”

            He’s standing in the door, one hand on each side of the doorframe. His biceps brushes against my hair, but I won’t step out of reach. I was here first. Also, I’m clearly twelve. “Did you need something?”

            “Just checking in. Making sure you’ve eaten enough.”

            I roll my eyes. “I did. Thanks, Daddy.” My blood sugar is at 120 milligrams. I’m killing it.

            “Thought so, since you’re not lying facedown on Monica’s”—he glances at the rug beneath my feet, and his nose scrunches—“dead Dalmatian?”