Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            Jack’s expression through the rearview mirror is sealed. “She has a thing for Twilight, I’ve discovered.”

            Greg is delighted. “The vampire or the wolf—”

            “Greg, how was the retreat?” I interrupt him with a smile.

            “Sooo mandatory. But then my tooth exploded in my mouth, and I got to leave early. Hey, you know how sometimes there are shoes on the power lines? Who puts them there?”

            “Um, not sure. Listen, do you remember if you got a chance to check your texts on your way to the dentist? Or your email? Or listen to your voicemails?”

            He stares at me with an intense, solemn expression. I tense with anticipation as his eyes go wide. Then he says, “Oh my God. We should play I Spy!”

            I sigh.

            Fifteen minutes later, after Greg claims to spy a bear, P. Diddy, and a can of garbanzo beans, we park outside a pretty Roxbury house carved into two apartments.

            “Where are your keys, Greg?” I ask.

            “I’ve got a spare,” Jack says, finishing in twenty seconds a parallel parking job that would have taken me twenty minutes and my whole dignity. “Just make sure he doesn’t wander into traffic.”

            I’d like to think that Greg’s place is what mine and Cece’s would be like if we managed to lift our credenza, could afford non-bedbugged furniture, and were less prone to frolicking in our own filth. It’s simple and cozy, covered in knickknacks that remind me of Greg’s personality and his quirky sense of humor. Jack dwarfs the entrance, but he doesn’t seem out of place. He obviously spends time here, because he knows exactly where to find the light switch, how to raise the thermostat, which shelf to set the mail on.

            “Cutlet!” Greg yells, fisting Jack’s shirt. “Cutlet—where is she?”

            I look around, expecting to see a cat slinking closer, but it’s just us in the apartment—me idling, Jack relentlessly inching Greg toward a bedroom. “On my desk at work. Let’s go take a nap, G. Sounds nice, right?”

            “Did you water her? Has she changed? Does she still remember me?”

            “I watered it. Her. She looks the same. Not sure she remembers you, since she’s nonsentient—like most cactuses. How ’bout that nap?”

            “Can I have a drink first, please?”

            “Elsie, could you get him some water while I put him to bed?”

            “Milk! Did you know that milk comes from nipples?”

            Jack and I exchange a brief Isn’t coparenting fun glance, and I rush into the kitchen. I can’t find the actual glasses, so I pour the milk into a Bonne Maman jar. I’ll bring it to Greg, then leave in an Uber the second they disappear into the bedroom. I have my lecture to prep. Cece doesn’t know where I am. I can’t be alone with Jack. Yes, perfect.

            “Here you go,” I tell Greg, who’s being herded to his bedroom while humming “Gangnam Style.” “You only have almond milk—technically not from a nipple.” I hand him the jar and—big mistake. Huge. Because Greg sips none percent of it before spilling the entirety of it on Jack’s shirt.

            I gasp. Greg laughs uproariously while yelling something about the milk being back on nipples. Jack gives his brother a patient, ever-suffering-dad smile. “You having fun?”

            “Soooo much. Hey, remember when we switched Mom’s yogurt with mayo?”

            “I do. It was genius—your idea, of course.”

            “And Mom puked.”

            “She was pissed. Come on, let’s go to bed.”

            “I got grounded for a day. But you got grounded for two weeks, because she kind of hates you.”

            “Worth it.” Jack smiles, like he doesn’t mind being told that his mom hates him. Greg tries to embrace him, and Jack stops him. “Bud, I’ll get non-nipple milk all over you.”

            “Why don’t I get him into bed?” I take Greg’s arm, pulling him with me. “Go find something clean.”