Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            My stomach sinks.

            He’s pissed. Really pissed. I’ve seen him amused, curious, annoyed, even angry last night with Austin, but this . . . He’s furious. Because I’m here. Because he thinks I extorted his brother. Because I overfilled the milk jar. There’s going to be a whole messy confrontation, and after the last three days, I’m not even sure I want to avoid it.

            “Listen.” I take two steps toward him, one back, two forward. If we have to argue, we might as well be close. Keep the volume down to avoid waking Greg. I run my sweaty palms over the back of my leggings. “I know I haven’t been exactly . . . truthful. And I assume you’re figuring out what’s going on between Greg and me. But this entire shit show is reaching a quantum-entanglement, spontaneous-parametric-down-conversion, decoherent stage. And I’m asking you to wait till Greg feels better to have a frank conversation with him.”

            Jack opens his mouth, no doubt to unleash his wrath, and then . . .

            He doesn’t.

            Instead he closes it, shakes his head, and covers his eyes with his hands.

            Oh, fuck. What is this?

            “Jack?” No answer. “Jack, I . . .”

            I debate what to do for a moment, then go sit next to him. If he starts yelling now . . . well. R.I.P. my eardrum.

            “It’s okay,” I say. “Greg’s not sick or anything, I promise. Nothing bad is—”

            “He told me.” Jack straightens his back, eyes once again on the print. “I should have known.”

            “Known what?”

            “When he was . . . I’m not sure. Fifteen? He was still in high school. I came back from college during break.” His throat works. “He took me aside and said that he was worried. That he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be in a romantic relationship. And I told him he shouldn’t worry. That it was still early and he’d find someone. That it was normal to be nervous before becoming sexually active. That he should just keep an open mind. And then I . . .” Something jumps in Jack’s jaw. He closes his eyes. “And then I asked to watch Battlestar Galactica together. Like a total fucking asshole.”

            I never came out to anyone in my family, Greg once told me. I think I tried, once. Kind of. But then I chickened out and . . . I don’t know. It’s better this way.

            “Have you ever heard of the ace/aro spectrum?” I ask gently. I’m being gentle to Jack, apparently.

            He shakes his head, eyes still closed.

            “It’s . . . well, some of it is what Greg told you. But there’s more. Lots of complexities. There are good resources online that you might want to look up before you guys have another talk. And he . . . I think he’s still trying to figure himself out.” Many of us are, I nearly add. But it’s more of myself than I’d rather show.

            “Fuck.” Jack turns to me. His expression is . . . Devastated is the only word that comes to mind. If he started slapping himself, I wouldn’t be surprised. “He should have punched me in the face.”

            I open my mouth. Close it. Then think, What the hell. “Would it make you feel better if I punched you in the face?”

            His eyebrow lifts. “Would it make you feel better?”

            “Oh, a lot.”

            He lets out a silent, wistful laugh, and my heart squeezes for both Smith brothers. “Jack, you were a kid. And ignorant. And an asshole. And . . . okay, you’re still two of these things.” I lift my hand. It hovers for a few seconds by his shoulders while I contemplate the insanity of me voluntarily offering physical and emotional comfort to Dr. Jonathan Smith-Turner. Endothermic hell must be supercooling. “Your apology isn’t mine to accept, but I know Greg cares about you as much as you care about him.” His shoulder is tight and warm under my palm. Solid.

            “He was paying you to pretend he was in a relationship. So my family would get off his back?”

            I press my lips together and nod. He swears softly.

            “If it makes any difference, he wasn’t paying me to . . . Not that there would be anything bad with it, but we didn’t . . .” I flush under his eyes.