Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Fuck?”

            I flush harder and nod. I’m usually pretty matter-of-fact when it comes to sex. Not sure why Jack brings out the blushing adolescent in me. “It’s a . . . performance of sorts. I do it for lots of men. Like Austin—who, by the way, was by far my worst client. By parsecs. Greg’s the best, of course.” I glance away. I’m babbling, but it’s weird to talk about Faux with someone who’s not directly involved in some capacity. “And Greg and I . . . we became friends. I know it’s unbelievable, given that he paid me and that I made up an entire backstory for myself, but I would have done it for free. For him. If I could afford it. Except that . . .”

            “Adjuncting doesn’t pay for shit?”

            I laugh. “Pretty much.”

            Jack sighs and leans against the back of the couch. “Why didn’t you tell me? When we met at the restaurant?”

            “It wasn’t my thing to tell, you know? You were going to ask why he’d hired me. And I was going to have to waffle, and . . . We should probably stop talking about this. So you can have the conversation with him. Once he’s not so, um, focused on quinoa and nipples.”

            He nods. And then he does something unexpected. Revolutionary. Gobsmacking. Universe rocking.

            He says, “I’m sorry, Elsie.”

            It takes me by surprise. So much so that I blurt out a “For what?”

            “For accusing you of lying to my brother. Over and over.”

            “You did, didn’t you?” I cock my head and observe him for a moment. His strong, handsome face looks pained. “Does it hurt?”

            “What?”

            “This apology.” He glares at me, and I laugh. “Was it your first? Did I pop your apology cherry?”

            “Apology retracted.” His expression shifts into something inward. Like he’s finally processing an important, crucial, weighty piece of information. Like something’s shifting in his worldview, and the universe around him needs to be adjusted for it. I wonder what that might be till he focuses back on me and says, “You and Greg never dated. He doesn’t . . .” There is something hesitant to it, like he needs to hear me confirm it. To make sure it’s true, sculpted into stone.

            “Nope. He’s not into me, never has been.” I nearly roll my eyes. “You happy?”

            “Yes.” His tone is dead serious, and I snort, standing up. Time to leave.

            “Shall we Grubhub champagne and cupcakes? Celebrate that I won’t be polluting the shades of the Smith estate?”

            He gives me an odd, long look. “You think that’s the reason I’m happy?”

            “What else?”

            He shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate. Instead he stands, too, following me to the coatrack by the entrance. “Did Greg ever tell you I was a physicist?”

            “Nope. Well, yes, but it didn’t register, because projectile vomiting was involved—don’t ask. He also didn’t know I was a physicist, because we’re usually stingy with personal details. Fake last names, fake professions. An extra layer of protection, you know?”

            “We?”

            “There are several of us. Fake daters, that is. We work for this app, Faux. Available for Apple and Android—Android version’s so buggy, though.” I need to stop babbling. Jack’s looking at me like I’m a Higgs boson about to give him a lap dance.

            “Is that how Austin found you?”

            “Sadly, yeah.” I bite my lower lip. “Do you think he told Monica about my alternative academic career yet?”

            “He won’t.”

            “How can you be sure?”

            “After you left, I . . . followed up with him.” Jack’s features are a bland mask. Unreadable as ever. “You’ll be fine.”

            “How do you know?”

            “Trust me.”