Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            My phone is long dead, there are no clocks in the kitchen, and I have no clue how long we sit at the table. I’m occasionally part of the conversation, but neither Millicent nor Jack asks much of me, and it’s nice, being in this Smith limbo of sorts. Focusing on the way Jack and his grandmother interact, a combination of teasing and deep, utter love for one another. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a room so full of honesty before, but I’m positive that not a single lie has been uttered since I came into this house. It’s exhilarating, but in a stomach-dropping way. Like a roller coaster, or eating blue cheese.

            Jack and Millicent, I discover, spend part of every weekend together—preferably through an ambush. “Last week’s ‘life-or-death emergency’ was that she needed Bitcoin explained to her,” he says dryly. It’s obvious that he doesn’t mind.

            “I also don’t get Bitcoin,” I say after a long sip of tea—the third hot drink Jack’s made for me in twelve hours. Not sure how this is my life.

            “See?” Millicent smiles triumphantly. “Greg’s maybe-girlfriend is on my side.”

            Jack and Millicent know more about each other’s lives than any relative of mine ever did about me. She tracks with no difficulty names, places, events he mentions, and in turn he doesn’t miss a beat when she announces that she’ll wear a green dress to the Rutherford dinner, or after she complains that she finished her show and has nothing to watch.

            “You did not finish it,” he says.

            “I did.”

            “I got you twelve seasons of Murder, She Wrote. You cannot have watched them in one week.”

            “There are no more episodes on the TV.”

            He stands with a sigh. “I’m going to switch the DVD. Be right back.”

            I open my mouth the second he disappears, ready to fill the silence with some comment about the weather, but Millicent is already giving me one of her piercing looks. “You’re not a librarian, are you?”

            I clear my throat. “No. I’m sorry I lied. It’s a long story, but—”

            “I’m ninety—no time for long stories. What is it that you do, then?”

            I fidget with the tea tag. “I’m a physicist.”

            “Like Jack.”

            “Sort of. Not really.” I keep my eyes on the mug. The state of my career is a sore point. “He’s a world-renowned professor. I’m just an adjunct. And he’s an experimental physicist, while I’m—”

            “A theorist.” She nods. “Like his mom, then.”

            I look up and blink at her. “His mom?” Is Millicent getting confused? Like Grandma Hannaway before passing, when she’d mix me up with her least favorite sister and yell at me for stealing her apron? “You don’t mean the one who . . .”

            “Died. Well, of course. He only ever had the one.” She scoffs. “It’s not as if Caroline was eager to take over. Heartbreaking, watching those two boys grow up so close. Same house, same family. One with a mother, the other without.”

            “Oh.” I shouldn’t ask any of the questions buzzing in my head. Millicent is clearly under the impression that Jack and I are something we’re not, or she wouldn’t disclose this. But . . . “How old was Jack?”

            “When Grethe died?” Grethe. “About one. My son remarried just a few months later. They had Greg soon after. You see, for the first few years, it was me who insisted that we tell Jack nothing about Grethe. I thought he could have a normal life, believing that Caroline was his mother and he had lost nothing. But Caroline was never fond of him, and . . . well, it was her right to refuse. I shouldn’t have interfered. Because I made it worse: a few years later he got into some trouble like children often do, and Caroline screamed at him, ‘Don’t call me Mom—I’m not your mother.’ It was a moment of weakness. And Caroline did feel guilty afterwards. But by then, Jack knew.” She sighs. “Hard to explain to a nine-year-old that everything he believes is a lie. That he shouldn’t call Mom the woman his brother calls Mom.” Millicent massages her temple. “Jack seemed to take it in stride. Except that he stopped calling his father Dad, too. I became Millicent. And ever since, he’s been very distrustful of lies. Very preoccupied with . . . boundaries. More than is healthy, I believe.” She busies herself stacking mugs on top of the empty cookie plate. For the first time since I met her, she looks her age. Frail, old, tired. Her mouth is downturned, bracketed by deep lines. “And yet Jack and Greg grew up thick as thieves, despite all that. The one saving grace.”