Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “I thought you loved the movie.” I give him an appalled look. Jack leans against the dresser, arms crossed. “It’s what your friend said,” he explains.

            “Oh, no. I mean, she thinks I do. She thinks I’m into artsy movies, but I don’t really . . .” Tell her the truth.

            I think Jack can read my mind. “Does she know how much you like Twilight?” he asks with a small, kind smile.

            “No way.” I laugh weakly. “If anything, she might suspect I enjoy it ironically.”

            “Ironically?”

            “Yeah. You know, when you like something because it’s bad and love making fun of it?”

            He nods. “Is that why you enjoy Twilight?”

            “I don’t know.” I sit on the edge of the mattress, gripping the soft comforter. “I don’t believe so, no.” I ponder. “I like simple, straightforward romance stories with dramatic characters and improbably high stakes,” I add, surprising myself a little. I didn’t know this before putting it into words, and I feel like Jack has beaten me to some part of myself. Again. “Also, I like to imagine Alice and Bella ending up together after the movie is over.”

            “I see.” As ever, he files away. Then he pulls something that looks like sweats and a tee from under his pillow and heads for the door. “If you change your mind or get cold, just look around. You’ll find something to wear.”

            “Are you giving me permission to rummage around your bedroom? Like you have nothing to hide?”

            He lifts one eyebrow. “What would I hide?”

            “I don’t know.” I shrug. “A giant tentacle dildo. Viagra. A diary with a pink locket.”

            “None of that would be worth hiding,” he says, the most quietly confident man in the entire world. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything, okay?” The door closes with a soft click, and I’m right here.

            In Jack Smith-Turner’s bedroom.

            Alone with his pillows and his CERN wall art and probably the desiccated livers of twelve theorists. Plus, a whole lot of falling snow.

            I quickly update Cece on the shit show that’s my life, then slide under the covers on what I hope isn’t Jack’s side, groaning in pleasure.

            I have a really firm mattress. Great for spinal health.

            He sure does, and it’s perfect. I immediately relax, enveloped by the comforter and a nice, dark scent that I’m not ready to admit is Jack’s. I could stay here forever. Barricade myself. Never face the consequences of my own failures.

            Cece replies (This is so weird??? But good night???), and I notice that my battery is at 12 percent. I glance around for a charger, find none, then notice the nightstand. Jack gave me permission, right? So I open the drawer, bracing myself for . . . I don’t know. Cock rings. Thumbs. A copy of Atlas Shrugged. But the inside is surprisingly mundane: tissues, pens, keys, a flashlight with a few batteries, coins, and a white piece of paper that I cannot resist picking up.

            It’s a photo. A Polaroid. Blurry, with a Go board and a handful of people clustered around it. Only one face is fully in focus. A girl with brown hair and even features who frowns at the camera and—

            Me. It’s me.

            The photo was taken at Millicent Smith’s birthday party. A game ends in a draw; Izzy yells at people to smile; all the Smiths turn toward her.

            Except for the tallest. Who keeps looking at me, only at me, a faint smile on his lips.

            “Oh,” I say softly. To whom, I don’t know.

            I lean back against the pillow, staring at the picture pinched between my fingers. Lights still on, contemplating the fact that my furrowed brow resides in Jack’s nightstand, I drift off in a handful of seconds and dream of nothing.



* * *



            • • •

            When I wake up, the alarm clock says 3:46 a.m., and my first conscious thought is that I didn’t get the job.

            I failed.