Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            I turn around slowly. Step away just as slowly, barely taking in the sidewalk. The man walking his husky. The group of students feigning excitement for an upcoming Truffaut retrospective. I walk past them and I walk some more, unhurried, like everything’s going to be fine.

            Everything will be all right.

            I’m at the red crosswalk light when I hear, “Elsie?”

            It’s Cece, calling from where I left her behind. I ignore her.

            “Is everything okay?” George. “Shit, did I do something?”

            Cece doesn’t answer her. “Elsie, let’s . . . let’s just go home.”

            Silence. Then Jack: “Elsie. Come back, please.” He sounds like his eyes looked, and it’s simply intolerable.

            The crossing light turns green. I take a deep breath, let the cold air fill my lungs, and start running.





13


            ANNIHILATION


            I run one block.

            One and a half.

            Two.

            Snowflakes stick to my skin. My lungs burn. My pod catches on the waistband of my leggings, and yet it feels good.

            I’m no athlete. I’ve only ever run for the bus and passing PE grades, but this is nicely all-consuming. I focus on the slap of my boots against the sidewalk, the oxygen that’s never quite enough, the taste of iron in the back of my throat. My thigh muscles clench, protest, but the feeling of getting away makes up for it. The snow thickens, forming a tunnel, a cocoon to tune everything else out. I’m making my way through a wormhole to a separate point in space-time. A different timeline, in which I’m not a failure, I won’t spend one more year without healthcare and the money to live like a fucking human being, I won’t disappoint my mentor and my friend and—

            Fingers close around my wrist. I lose my balance. Stumble. Fall on my face—no, not quite. Something stops me. Strong hands on my waist straighten me, set me on my heels, and then Jack is towering in front of me, the colossus of everything that’s wrong in my life. I want to scratch my nails down his face and see him in as much pain as I am in right now.

            I could. We’re virtually alone. Hundreds of feet away from Cece and George—

            Shit. I just ran away from them like I’m fucking bananas. Like I’m an entire fruit salad.

            “You weren’t supposed to find out like that,” he says, barely winded. I cannot breathe. Fuck this shit—I’m never exercising again. “She has no idea you were the other candidate. You were supposed to be notified on Monday—”

            “Fuck you,” I spit out.

            Jack is taken aback, and so am I. Did not expect for that to come out of my mouth, but in desperatio veritas. We share a second of surprise, then he collects himself. “It was never going to be you, Elsie.” His tone is not unkind, but it’s not compassionate, either. Like he knows I could take neither. “Volkov and his team were never going to vote for you, because—”

            I walk around him, but he grabs my wrist.

            “—because it was never a fair competition. I told you that George would get the job—”

            “It was just posturing!”

            “It was not. I told you as much as I could without divulging confidential information. This entire search was mishandled, and making you aware of who the other candidate was was a huge misstep on Monica’s part—”

            “Well, clearly I had no clue who George really was.”

            He exhales. “Elsie.” A flake settles on his cheekbone, right under the slice of blue. It instantly melts. “Elsie, you never stood a chance.”

            “I hate you.”

            “That’s fine. Hate me. But know this: it was a bad-faith interview.” He takes a step closer. His warmth makes the chill bearable, and I hate him for it. “Elsie. I am sorry.”

            “Bullshit.”

            “Elsie—”