Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            After years of hearing Dr. L. talk about Jack, it’s surreal having Jack bring up Dr. L., however obliquely. “I did think of it, but there weren’t any in the area. Theorists don’t exactly swim in funding . . .”

            “What about other places? You want to stay in the Boston area?”

            “Yes. Well, I don’t want to, but I should. For my family.”

            “Are you close? Do they have health issues?”

            “No. And no. Just, my mom and my brothers are . . .” Shit shows. Complete, utter shit shows. Like me. “I can’t leave.”

            He nods. Like he doesn’t fully understand, like he understands too much. “You realize that your skill set would be of interest to more than theorists, right? Your work is highly translational. Experimental physicists would fight to have you on their teams.”

            They didn’t, though. Dr. L. asked around widely, and no one was fighting. No one was even politely arguing. “Like who?”

            He holds my eyes for a beat too long, and—

            “No.” I shake my head. “No.”

            His mouth twitches. “I do have the funding.”

            “No.”

            “And the need.”

            “Nope.”

            He’s fully smiling. Like I’m his personal entertainment center, amusing him in 4K and Dolby Surround. “We could negotiate salary.”

            “No. Nope. No. I’m not going to work for you.”

            “Why?”

            “I’m not going to grade your tests and bring you coffee—”

            “I have three TAs.” He looks pointedly at my full mug. “And I’m happy to take care of your coffee . . . You don’t even like coffee, do you?”

            I squirm in the stool. “I . . .”

            “Oh, Elsie.” He shakes his head in mock disappointment and takes away the mug. “I thought you were above sparing my feelings.”

            “You were really nice to me last night, and . . .” I clear my throat. “Anyway, I can’t work for you.”

            “Why?”

            “Because you are Jonathan Smith-Turner and almost destroyed my entire field.” And Dr. L. would kill me, I don’t add, but I still feel a stab of guilt for being about to literally break bread with my mentor’s archenemy.

            “Okay.” He shrugs, setting a glass of water and toast in front of me. “Disappointing. But it does give me free rein to ask something else.”

            “Ask what?”

            “Can I take you out?”

            The words don’t immediately compute. For several seconds they float in my brain like driftwood, aimless, unparsable, and then their meaning dawns on me. “You mean you want to . . . murder me.”

            He winces. “Once again, what happened to you?”

            “You asked to take me out—”

            “For a date.”

            “Oh.” I blush. “Oh.” I scratch the side of my nose. “Um . . .”

            Jack’s eyebrow lifts. “You seem more alarmed by dinner than murder.”

            “No. Yeah. I mean, it’s just . . . Why?”

            “You know, I’m growing concerned about your language comprehension skills.” The corner of his mouth is quirking up, and I cannot take this anymore.

            “Stop it,” I order.

            “Stop what?”

            “Being amused by me! I don’t understand why you’d want to . . . We’ve done nothing but butt heads since the day we met.” I cover my eyes with both hands. “Why are you suddenly being so nice? Giving me shelter, offering me a job? I just . . . Is this some fetish of yours? Some people get off on armpit sex, you enjoy messing with me and—”