Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Either way, as a mother myself,” Cece says with a meaningful glance at Hedgie, “if my douchebag kid came to me whining that the rising star of theoretical physics denied him an eighty—”

            “Seventy.”

            “—seventy-dollar hand job—the audacity of that bitch—I’d exclusively be angry at my douchebag kid.”

            I straighten and sigh again. The gouda’s predictably gone, so I pick up the carrot and take a small bite, avoiding Hedgie’s corner. Though, why, really? How bad could toxoplasmosis be? Not nearly as painful as the way Jack stared at me after everything. Like he could break me down into the smallest diatomic molecules with a look and a handful of words.

            Better take my chances with the salmonella.

            “I need to talk to Jack. Explain what Austin said.”

            Cece scoffs. “You don’t owe him anything.”

            “He helped me, though. Without him I—”

            “He stood up for you when some shit-faced manboy verbally harassed you—Elsie, it’s the bare minimum. The bar’s so low, you could pick it up and beat him with it.”

            Okay. So maybe I don’t need to talk to Jack. I want to, though. I want to explain to him that . . .

            That what? Really, what? He must have put together that what I’m doing with Greg is similar to what I did with Austin. And if he hasn’t . . . didn’t I decide two days ago that I don’t care what he thinks of me? That he’s a lost cause anyway? If I don’t get the MIT job, I’m never going to meet Jack again. And if I do . . . we’ll be cordial, distant enemies. He’s still the nutsack who turned seventeen and decided to declare war on an entire discipline—my discipline. So he’s the one guy I can’t read, the one person who can’t be APE’d. All the more reason to never voluntarily interact with him again.

            I just don’t know why it’s scorched into my stupid brain, that last glance he gave me as I stepped out of Monica’s home. And the earlier one, when he grabbed my chin and studied me like I’m something unique. My own Cartesian coordinates.

            What happened to you, Elsie?

            I square my shoulders. “You’re right. Greg’s the one I need to talk to.” Warn him that Jack might ask questions. Give him time to prepare answers. Greg’s the reason I was keeping secrets all along. He’s the one who deserves protecting. “In the meantime, no more Faux.” I look at Cece. “Should you quit, too? You’ll be on the job market once you’re done with your thesis—what if this happens to you, too?”

            “It won’t be until next year. We might be dead by then.”

            “Would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

            We exchange smiles. “I must say, the situation is making me reconsider Faux. Then again, the number of dollars in my bank account is making me reconsider my reconsiderations.” She taps her chin. “It’s a good reason to keep working with Kirk.”

            I frown. “Kirk?”

            “Yeah, that guy who—”

            “I know who Kirk is. I just thought . . . You’ve been talking about him a lot. And you refer to him by his first name.”

            “How else should I refer to him?”

            “Historically, your clients have been, you know . . . Big Nostrils Jim. Not Anderson Cooper. Doomsday Prepper Pete. Anchovy Breath One. Anchovy Breath Two. Deep V-Neck. Anchovy Breath Three—”

            “I get the gist.”

            “Kirk is always just Kirk, which has me wondering if . . .”

            “Whoa.” Her eyes widen dramatically. “Am I being attacked? In my own home?”

            “No. I just—”

            “At my own table?”

            I shake my head. “No, I—”

            “On my own chair that I retrieved from the curbside and that used to have bedbugs and maybe still does?”

            “No! I didn’t mean to—” I notice Cece’s sly smile. “You’re evil.”