Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            I chuckle despite myself. “Sounds about right.”

            “You know the type. Lots of tweed. Lots of distrust toward computers, lots of opinions on girls who wear nail polish despite the distraction of their male peers. I was still at Caltech, but I heard some stories. The position should have been refilled immediately, but there were issues with the budget. Then my grants and I moved here.” He pushes the forgotten mug closer. I’m impatient to hear more, but I take a sip to please him. The warmth spreading into my stomach is delicious. “I offered to help fund the position to hire another experimentalist—not out of some deep hatred for theorists, if you can believe it. I was hired by MIT to beef up their experimental output. Experimentalists are currently outnumbered, and we were filling a specific position. I mentioned the opening to George, and she told me she was interested in applying. She’s at Harvard right now, and physics academia is an old boys’ club everywhere, but . . . Harvard’s bad. So she sent in her materials, and . . . You said you’re familiar with her work. As you can imagine, everyone knew it was going to be her from the start.”

            I can imagine it very well. Her thesis experiments were stepping stones to massive advancements in particle physics. Georgina is the epitome of inspiring.

            “Then you applied. And Monica was so impressed by your CV, she decided to bring you in despite the committee recommending against it. It was pointed out to her that there was nothing you could have done during the interview that would have gotten you the job, but she insisted, reasoning that George already had an excellent position at Harvard and might decide not to accept an offer.” He sighs. “Even if George weren’t a rock star, you have to understand: she and I were in grad school together. We’ve had half a decade longer than you in the field. Half a decade worth of scientific output, publications, grants.”

            You’re the ideal candidate, Monica told me the first night we met, but I wasn’t. I simply wasn’t. “Why did Monica . . . ?”

            “She tried her all to hire a theorist. And I have to admit, she played her cards well by choosing you as her candidate.” He leans forward. I drag my eyes up to his. “Elsie, I was there for the final vote. George won, because she was best qualified, but everyone in the department was impressed with you. Which doesn’t surprise me, after I saw your talk and read your articles.”

            “Right.” I press my fingers into my eyes. “My articles.”

            “They’re excellent. And also . . .”

            I look at him. “Also?”

            He wets his lips, like he needs time to phrase something. “Sometimes, when I read them, I can almost hear them in your voice. Your personality.” He shakes his head, self-effacing, like he knows he’s being fanciful. “A turn of sentence here. A formula there.”

            I thought we’d agreed that I don’t have a personality, I’m tempted to say. But I’m too tired to be bitter, and Jack . . . he’s been nothing but kind. I try for a smile. “I can’t blame you for voting for her.”

            “I didn’t.”

            My eyes widen.

            “I recused myself.”

            “Why?”

            He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come immediately. “I had a . . . conflict of interest.”

            “Because of George.”

            He smiles faintly. “Because of you, Elsie.”

            I have no idea how to interpret this. So I just don’t. “Aren’t you and Georgina . . . ?”

            He cocks his head, confused. God, he’s going to make me say it.

            “Together. Aren’t you two together?”

            He laughs. “No. But we are close friends. And unlike Dora, her wife, I’m scared enough of her to let her drag me to see movies that bend the space-time continuum and feel several hours longer than they actually are.”

            “Oh.” Oh. “During the interview, did she . . . know about me? That I was the other candidate?”

            “Not until a few minutes ago. I wasn’t allowed to tell her who the other candidate was.”

            “It’s just . . .” I scratch my neck, where heat is slowly creeping up. “Earlier, when I introduced myself, she seemed to know who I was.”