Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “No. I—” I’m not . . . No.

            “I’ll answer your questions. Tell you exactly what happened.”

            “I can’t—”

            His hand comes up to cup the back of my head, like he wants to make sure that our eyes are locked for this. That we understand each other. “Elsie, if I let you go right now, you’re just going to replay the whole interview in your head and reach the misguided conclusion that it’s your fault you didn’t get the job. And you’re never going to let me talk to you again.” His expression is painfully honest. How does he know all this stuff about me? I don’t even know it.

            “Maybe I’ll just blame it on you.” I sniffle.

            He huffs out a laugh. “There she is.”

            “I’m sorry. I know you want to help, but I just—I can’t talk now. I’m crying.”

            “That’s fine.”

            “No, it’s not fine. Because I almost never cry”—a sob—“which m-means that I have no idea how to stop.”

            “Then you can cry forever.”

            “No. I d-don’t want to cry. And I left Cece b-behind. And I need to tell Dr. L. that I didn’t get the job. And you need to let Georgina k-know where you are. And I’m f-fucking freezing. I hate this city, and I hate being a physicist, and I hate Volkov’s stupid p-puns, and—”

            His arms are wool and iron around me. Perfectly warm, perfectly solid. It’s several more moments of crying before I realize that he has pulled me against him. That this is a hug. His lips, dry and warm, press against my forehead as though he cares, as though all he wants is to comfort me. Low murmurs warm my frozen skin, soft sounds that I cannot immediately decipher.

            “Shh. It’s okay, Elsie. It’s going to be fine.”

            I want to believe him. I want to sink into him more than I’ve ever wanted anything else. I want to bury my face in his black coat and make it my own personal wormhole. Instead I keep crying huge, silent tears, curl my fingers into the fabric of his sleeve, and hold on tight.

            This, this is the worst. My lowest yet. And not only is Jack Smith-Turner witnessing it, I also don’t have it in me to mind too much.

            So when he says, “Let me get you warm. Let me do this one thing for you,” and his hand slides down to take mine, I allow him to guide me wherever he wants.





14


            CENTER-OF-MOMENTUM FRAME


            His condo is large, especially for downtown.

            Two-story, 90 percent windows, open floor-y. There might even be a color scheme, dark blues and warm whites, but I can’t picture Jack using the word palette, so I chalk it up to chance. Still, the place is clean and uncluttered enough that I automatically take off my shoes at the entrance, then pad my way after him to the open-plan kitchen, hoping Jack won’t notice that my socks match in pattern (stripes) but not color (pink and orange).

            I wish there were hints that he’s a closeted brony, or an avid collector of genital casts, but this place screams I might be an unmarried man in his thirties, but it’s not because I don’t have my shit together.

            Then again: he might be unmarried, but he’s not quite single.

            I sit gingerly at the wooden dining table and eye a bowl of fresh fruit; books and printouts of journal articles stacked neatly on the breakfast island; Jack’s large back, his muscles bunching under green flannel as he putters around the stove, quickly types something on his phone, and sets a mug on the counter. The snow is picking up, giant flakes swirling under the streetlight, and getting home is going to be a bitch. I could splurge on an Uber. Shouldn’t, though.

            This is weird. So, so weird.

            I should be too devastated to feel awkward, but like I said, I’m an excellent multitasker. Able to experience the existential dread seeping into my unemployed bones and to fantasize about crawling into a golf hole out of sheer embarrassment. Even worse, I’m so damn cold. I wrap my hands in the tear-sticky sleeves of my cardigan, slide them between my thighs, and close my eyes.

            I take a slow, deep breath.

            Another.