Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            Still, I should leave.

            I try to slip out from under Jack’s massive biceps, but he resists in his sleep. My heart races when he hums something into my nape, fingers gripping my hip. That hard thing pushes into me, trying to nestle farther between the cheeks of my ass, and I gasp.

            “You smell so good,” he growls into my skin, and all of a sudden I’m glowing with heat and embarrassment and something else, something new and pulsating and unfamiliar. I squirm around the feeling. Oh God. Is this—am I turned on? He’s barely awake, and I bet he thinks I’m his pillow girlfriend or whoever he slept with last, and I’m here, all hot and—

            “Elsie,” he nearly grunts. His arm tightens around my waist, then abruptly relaxes.

            He’s still fast asleep. And this time, when I wiggle away, he lets me go. I’m running upstairs, flushing cherry red, and he’s once again breathing evenly.

            It’s okay. It’s fine. Kind of creepy that I’m even thinking about this, since he’s asleep. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth (yup, with my finger), wash my face, and reassure Cece that I haven’t been sex trafficked.

            My inbox is bloated with emails. The highlight:


From: [email protected]

                Subject: Melanie


Melanie is a good person and did not mean to copy that essay from the internet, she told me so, and I believe her because I raised her and in my household we do not condone lies. She was framed (her roommate has a vendetta against her, ever since the menstrual cup incident). Please let my daughter resubmit her assignment.


Melanie’s mom



            I sigh, twice, then stress-snoop in Jack’s cabinets. Finding some Rogaine or antifungal meds or prescription-strength deodorant would humanize him, but there’s only toothpaste (wintergreen—disgusting) and soap. So I sit back on the edge of the tub and spend an unspecified length of time thinking of a way to let Dr. L. know that I failed.

            I failed him.

            By the time I crawl downstairs, Jack’s moving around the kitchen, phone lodged between shoulder and ear, laughing softly and saying, “. . . since you’re staying three days, we—”

            He turns around. When he notices me standing at the bottom of the staircase, his smile fades. Yes, I’m still wearing the Northeastern shirt I slept in, and yes, my hands are swallowed by my cardigan, and yes, I can’t help stacking my feet on top of each other.

            Clearly, I’m bringing sexy back.

            “Need to go—see you next week.” Jack puts down his phone, then slides a mug of coffee across the kitchen island. For me, I assume. Which means that I have no choice but to make my way there and take a seat on a stool.

            He looks a bit disheveled, the back of his hair sticking up, stubble longer than last night, shoulders and arms filling the worn T-shirt, but he still has that air about him. Amused. Confident. Unbothered. I wait for him to mention that we slept together—We. Slept. Together. But he doesn’t seem to be inclined to be a dick about it.

            “Hey,” he says.

            The peerection (trademark pending) is gone. I think. I can’t really see. He probably used the bathroom downstairs and—

            Not the point, Elsie. Focus.

            “Hey.” I take a sip of my coffee—disgusting, as coffee always is. I set down my mug, open my mouth to apologize again about last night, about the state of the world, about the cluster of atoms that shapes my very existence, when he says, “Can I make you breakfast?”

            “Oh.” I shake my head even as my stomach growls. “I’m fine, I—”

            “May I please watch you eat something?” Bam, dimple. “It’ll be good for my mental health.”

            I’ll just take this day for what it is: me marinating in a puddle of embarrassment. “If you have a piece of toast, that’d be great. Thank you.”

            He nods, slips a slice of whole grain in the toaster, and then asks a really odd question. “Why aren’t you a full-time researcher?”

            I blink. “What?”

            “You got your Ph.D., then went straight to adjuncting. Most people try to squeeze in a full-time research position like a postdoc, especially if they’re not passionate about teaching.”