Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            He freezes—a millisecond of hesitation—then resumes with his casual, stone-strong confidence. “I did talk to her about you. But that was long before your interview. I told her that Greg was finally seeing someone. And that I was struggling.”

            “Because you disapproved.”

            “Elsie.” His tone is patient but firm. “I understand if you are uncomfortable with what I told you. But I’ve never lied to you, and I’m not going to start now.” His eyes hold mine like a vise. “I was attracted to someone I shouldn’t have been attracted to. I felt guilty and frustrated, and I confided in George.” There’s a frog in my throat. An entire ecosystem. Five astral planes. Something glows and pulsates inside my stomach, and I don’t know how to even begin to respond. Luckily I don’t have to, because Jack adds, “Greg wanted to meet with you this week. I asked him not to.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I had to tell him that you wouldn’t get the job. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t slip up, and . . . I was planning to be the one who explained everything.”

            I feel myself smile. “Not a good liar, is he?”

            “I’m surprised he didn’t blurt out about your arrangement on your first date.”

            “Yeah.” Me too, actually. “How is he?”

            “Good. Fine. The tooth healed. We talked about . . . him. Honestly, he didn’t insult me nearly as much as he should have.”

            “Lucky for you, you found me.” Your resident nutjob. Screaming abuse on the sidewalk.

            “Elsie.” He’s doing that intense eye-holding thing again. “It’s fine.”

            Nothing about this is fine, and it likely won’t be for a long time. But I nod anyway and stand. “Right. I . . . Sorry, again. Thank you for explaining everything. And for the hot chocolate. I should go home before the snow gets bad.”

            He turns to one of the million windows. “Looks bad already.”

            It does. The outside’s a whiteout of flurries, and my post-crying-jag exhaustion is swallowing me whole. Maybe I can throw a smoke bomb and disappear into the quantum vacuum. “Before it gets worse.”

            He stands, too. “I’ll drive you.”

            “What? No. The roads aren’t safe. I’ll just take an Uber.”

            He lifts one eyebrow.

            “With Cece,” I add, checking my phone. “No need to put you in danger if . . .” I trail off and go through my texts.

                             CECE: George assumes you’re staying with Jack???? Does she know something I don’t?????

                CECE: Uber surge pricing is insane. George offered to drive me home, but we need to leave now or the snow will strand her car.

                CECE: Pls text me to reassure me that he’s not making sausages out of your small intestine.



            I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. This is fine. It’s okay.

            “You need a new phone,” Jack says quietly, glancing at the cracked screen.

            I need a new job. “I’ll take the bus, actually.”

            “You think buses are running?”

            “Hopefully.” I attempt a smile. He’s been nothing but kind, and he deserves a smiling, less-than-depressive Elsie. “Unless you’d like me to camp out on your couch,” I joke.

            “Nah. You can take the bed,” he says without pause. Like he’s been thinking this through.

            He can’t have been. “You’re not serious.”

            “I’ll even change the sheets.”

            “I . . . Why?”

            He shrugs. “It’s been a while.”

            “I meant, why do you—”