Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Excuse me?” I feel flayed alive when he looks at me like that. Stripped to my bones.

            “Every time I mention that I admire your work, you become dismissive and combative.”

            No, I don’t. Or do I? “Maybe if you didn’t spend half your time reminding me that I’m on par with a skanky villain from a mid-2000s CW show, I—”

            “I am able to multitask.” He sounds . . . not upset, but on his way. Not his usual detached self. “I can admire you as a scientist and at the same time resent what you’re doing to my brother.”

            “Allegedly doing to your brother. And . . .” Am I being needlessly antagonistic? No. No, Jack and I are antagonists. Insulin and glucagon. Rey and Kylo Ren. Galileo and the entire Catholic Church, circa 1615. “It’s hard to believe that you respect me when all I know you for is dissing the very people who do my job and advocating for George to be hired.”

            “That has nothing to do with you, and everything with George—who you know nothing about.”

            “Right. Maybe if I met him and heard all about his one and a half publications, I’d withdraw my application in cowed admiration.”

            Jack’s eyes widen. “What?” He bites the inside of his cheek. “Elsie. You’re operating on some pretty big assumptions—”

            “Elsie. Here you are.” Monica crosses the cowhide toward us. She looks at me. Then at Jack. Then at me again. “I thought you might need some saving,” she murmurs in my ear. Judging from his half smile, Jack heard, too.

            “I was just making sure she still wants to work with us after Christos put his hand down his waistband while trying to convince her that cereal is technically soup.” Jack’s tone is once again amused. Relaxed.

            “He does make some valid points,” I interject before Monica field-dresses Jack on the cowhide. “Monica, this evening has been so lovely. Thank you so much for having me in your beautiful home.”

            “But of course. Have you met my family?”

            “Your husband, yes. His research is fascinating.” He’s an evolutionary biologist. We teared up together over the tawny frogmouths, who mate for life and let themselves starve by the body of their dead partner. Good times.

            “What about Austin, my son? He just got home. He’s staying with us—currently between . . . careers. Looks like spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to major in golf management was not a good investment.” Her smile is tight. “Did you know Jack and Austin hang out?”

            “Oh.” I look between Jack and Monica, who seem to find the fact, respectively, amusing and teeth-grind worthy.

            “We play basketball at the same gym,” Jack explains. His voice vibrates through me, like he’s very close.

            “On Sunday nights. Right during our family dinner—which Austin hasn’t attended in weeks.”

            “Maybe you should install a hoop in your living room.” He points at the wall. “Right there, between those two fossils?”

            “Maybe you should install a hoop up your—oh, there he is. Austin, dear, let me introduce you to our guest of honor.”

            A tall man resentfully stops staring at his phone to come to us. He’s handsome in a common, forgettable kind of way, and initially I think that’s why he looks vaguely familiar. But as I watch him exchange a friendly handshake with Jack, I realize it’s more than that. I’m positive that I’ve seen him before. Where, though? I cannot place him. One of my students? No. He must be in his late twenties.

            Then it hits me. When Monica says, “Austin, this is a future potential colleague, Dr. Elsie Hannaway.”

            Because Austin’s response is to give me the once-over, snort, and then say, “No, she’s not.”

            And that’s when it occurs to me that the last time I met Austin Salt, he offered me seventy dollars to have sex with him.





9


            ESCAPE VELOCITY


            Fuck.

            Fuck, fuck, fuck.

            It was my fifth or sixth date through Faux, four years ago, and Francesca, the app manager, was scrambling to find someone last minute. “The client doesn’t even want a preliminary meeting,” she told me over the phone. I was running across campus, from an astroparticle seminar to an Intro to Physics TA meeting, frantically dodging gaggles of undergrads. “All he needs is ‘arm candy’—his words. It’s the formal inauguration of a new golf course, and he wants to impress his boss. If someone asks, you met through friends a couple of months ago and work in insurance. Background check’s good, and he’ll pay extra for short notice—you in?”