Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “It’s not a call,” he says, looking straight ahead.

            More buzzing. “Are you sure?”

            “Yeah. Just an incessant barrage of texts.”

            “Oh. It sounds . . . urgent.”

            “It isn’t. Not by any sane definition of the word.” He sighs, uncharacteristically defeated. “Do you mind if I stop somewhere before taking you home? It’s on the way and it’ll take a minute.”

            “No, it’s fine,” I say—only to regret it when he pulls up a disturbingly familiar driveway. “This is . . . Isn’t this . . . ?”

            Jack kills the engine. “Regrettably, yes.”

            “I . . .” Should he be bringing me here, considering . . . literally everything? “Do you want me to, um, hide in the trunk or something?”

            “It’s ten degrees. The car will get cold pretty fast.”

            “So I should hide in the bushes?”

            He looks at me like he’s going to stage an intervention for my tenuous grasp of the second law of thermodynamics. “Come on. It’ll be a minute.”

            Outside feels like Hoth, and my butt actively mourns the toasty warmth of the seat. It’s considering a commemorative bench when the front door opens to the cruel, menacing, cutthroat glory of the most terrifying Smith.

            Millicent.

            “Well, well, well,” she singsongs, standing cross-armed. She’s wearing simple black pants and a cardigan, but even in a casual outfit there’s something intensely matriarchal about her. I cannot picture her ever having been anything but ninety and rich. “Look who’s not dead.”

            “You know,” Jack says from my side, in that ever-amused tone of his, “I have many regrets in life.”

            “I’m certain you do.”

            “But teaching you how to text is the biggest.”

            Millicent waves her hand. “When you were three, I had to drive you to the ER because you stuck a purple crayon up your butthole. That should be your biggest regret.”

            Jack herds me inside the foyer with a gentle push on my lower back, like touching me casually is an established thing we have going on.

            “You took your sweet time, considering the money you could inherit when I croak.” Millicent holds her cheek up for Jack to kiss her. He refuses, instead enveloping her in a bear hug that she pretends to bristle at but clearly loves.

            “I told you,” he says, “just get buried with it.”

            “I’m being cremated.”

            “I hear paper burns great.”

            She scoffs. “Keep on this way, and I’ll just will my entire fortune to Comcast.” She whirls around and marches down the glitzy hallway. Jack heads the same way, unperturbed, somehow managing not to look out of place despite being a mountain of muscles in a Caltech hoodie. After a moment of consideration, I decide to follow him.

            Better not be alone. Wouldn’t want to be accused of stealing an ashtray.

            We step into the same kitchen where Jack caught me lying about the wine two weeks ago. I watch him walk to a cupboard, hold Millicent’s eyes as he opens it, take out a bag of sugar, set it on the table, cross his arms, and ask, “Was this your life-or-death emergency?”

            Millicent beams. “Why, yes. I just could not reach it, and I so hate bitter coffee.”

            I glance at the cupboard. Which is . . . not high.

            “Glad I was able to come to your aid on this very urgent matter.” Jack nods politely, stops for a quick peck on his grandmother’s cheek, then saunters to the door. His hand finds the usual spot on my back, and he gently pushes me out of the kitchen, clearly ready to leave, when—

            “But since you’re already here, you should really stay for coffee.”

            Jack’s arms drop to his sides, and he turns around.