Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “I think it’s cowhide?”

            “Ah. That explains the skulls on the wall.”

            “They really . . .” I clear my throat. “Tie the whole room together?”

            “You think she killed them herself?”

            “Why? Afraid you’re next?”

            “Of course. Monica’s terrifying.”

            I laugh. There’s nothing Jack can do to make me look unhirable now. We’re just two friendly archenemies chatting at a party. No one’s paying attention to us, which feels oddly nice. Isolating but restful. Because Jack expects nothing from me.

            “Are you and Andrea dating?” I ask, because I can and I’m curious.

            “No.” He seems surprised. “Why?”

            I shrug. “I see you together a lot.” That’s who he was chatting with while Volkov soapboxed about competitive duck herding.

            “We’re friends, we collaborate, we’re the only two faculty members under thirty-five.” He takes a sip of his beer. “I don’t date much.”

            Right. That’s what Greg said, too. What bugs me is—I’m positive that Andrea, an otherwise brilliant woman, thinks Jack’s a nice guy. And that Michi thinks he’s a good mentor, judging by how comfortable she feels interacting with him via meltdowns. About anyone else, these would be green flags, but I know better.

            “So,” I say, “your nematics experiments are going poorly?”

            “Indeed. How did you know? Oh, right. You were there when Volkov announced my repeated failures to obtain decent results to a three-hundred-person auditorium.” The self-deprecating smile is back, and so is the dimple. I don’t want to laugh again, but . . . it’s hard. I’ve had a long day.

            “I kind of liked it. In fact, I think I had an orgasm when it happened.”

            “I bet.” His eyes darken around the blue wedge.

            “On a scale from taking a CrossFit class to writing parody articles as a form of activism, how mad are you that someone suggested you use a model of mine?”

            “What’s a CrossFit, and why would I be mad? My lab discussed the application of your model in our meeting today.”

            I lean back to search his eyes. “What?”

            “Michi bragged to everyone that you guys are friends. She followed you on Twitter, I think.”

            “I don’t have Twitter.”

            “I did tell her you probably aren’t @SmexyElsie69—”

            “Wait, are you serious? Are you really going to apply my model?”

            “Of course.”

            “But it’s a purely theoretical model.”

            He shrugs. “We’ve been stuck for months. And it’s brilliant. And like I told you multiple times, I’ve always incorporated theoretical models and collaborated with—”

            “Stop.” I turn to face him directly and get half-wedged under his arm. We look like we’re about to embrace. In a Game of Thrones, stab-you-while-I-hug-you way. “Listen, I . . . Stop this, please. I don’t know what you want from me. I’ve been adjuncting for a year, and it sucks so much—so, so much. I just want a job in a good department to continue with my research.”

            “You deserve it,” he says quietly. I feel the words for irony. Find no trace.

            “Stop it,” I repeat. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but—”

            “Game?” He scowls. “I just said that I hope you get the opportunity to continue your work, because you clearly are one of the great minds of our generation.”

            I tense. “I don’t need your condescending praises.”

            “I—” He shakes his head. His hand comes up to my chin, straightens my face to better study me. Which he does, for endless seconds, before asking, “What happened to you, Elsie?”