Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            It happened.

            I’m in the worst-case scenario.

            The scene of me finding out from George runs on a loop in my brain for several minutes, each replay spotlighting a different mortifying detail.

            I ran away in the middle of a conversation like a child.

            I left my closest friend alone in a snowstorm.

            I said terrible, unfair things.

            I don’t make the decision to prowl downstairs, but once I’m there, I know it’s where I need to be. The lamps are off and the snow is still falling, but enough light comes from the street to make out the contours of the place. Of Jack, who lies on his back on the sectional, a thin blanket draped over his lower half. His eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep. Not sure how, but I know it. And he knows that I know it, because when I step closer, he doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes, but he does ask, “Do you need something?” His voice is scratchy, like he did sleep at some point.

            “No,” I lie. Which, of course, he knows. He knows everything.

            “Want me to bring you up some water?”

            “No. I . . .” I’m awake, but not fully. Because I kneel beside the couch, my head just inches from his, and ask, “I . . . Can I tell you something?” His eyes finally open. He looks at me, and my hair is probably a mess, I am surely a mess, but I need to say this. “I don’t . . . What I said about George getting the job because she’s your girlfriend. Or friend. Because of some weird political intrigue—it was unfair of me. Despicable. And I don’t believe it. And I just—it was awful of me to—”

            “Elsie.” His tone is even and deep. “Hey. It’s okay. You already apologized.”

            He doesn’t get it. “I know, but of all the things that happened today, it seems like the shittiest. And I cannot control any of this—not my career tanking, not whether I’m going to have health insurance or make rent—but I . . . I can control the way I react. So I’m sorry I said it. About George. And about you. And . . . people do it to me all the time. In the last year of my Ph.D., I got this stupid award. When I walked into the student lounge the following day, other students were saying that it was only because I was a woman, and . . . I felt like total shit, and I really didn’t think they were right, but for a second I wasn’t sure, for a second they made me doubt myself, and I just—I don’t want to be like them. I—”

            “Hey.” Jack shifts and then does something I don’t fully understand. He—

            Oh.

            Somehow, he pulls me up. And somehow, I’m on the couch. Lying on the couch. Next to him. My head nestles under his chin, his arms surround mine, our thighs tangle together. I open my mouth to say something like What the hell? or Oh my God or ?!??, but nothing comes out.

            Instead, I burrow deeper.

            “Assholes,” he says.

            I’m still asleep. This is a dream. A nightmare. A blend. “Who?”

            “The people who didn’t like you winning the Forbes award.” How does he know that’s the award I was talking about? “You should report them.”

            “For what?” I ask against his throat. He’s warm and smells nice. Like sleep. Like clean. Like he could easily change my sink, save kittens stuck in a tree, extinguish a fire. “For being dicks?”

            “Yes. Though HR would call it sexual discrimination and building a hostile work environment.”

            “It’s not that simple,” I mumble.

            “It should be.” His chin brushes my hair every time he speaks, and I remember trying to mention what happened to Dr. L. The way he commiserated with me but also said that it would be better if I just forgot it happened and focused my energies on physics.

            “What would you do if your students said something like that?”

            “I’d make sure they can never have a career in physics.”

            The words vibrate from his skin through mine, and I know he means it. I don’t have a single doubt. And that’s how I start crying again, like a stupid Versailles fountain, and how his hold on me tightens, legs twisting further with mine. His fingers twine in the hair at my nape and press me deeper into him, shielding me from the cold and everything that’s bad.