Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            I remember Jack taking care of Greg after the dentist, and my heart squeezes. I try to picture them as kids, picture Jack being anything but his tall, assured, authoritative self, and fail miserably.

            “Are you sure she . . . Grethe.” I want to ask if Turner was her last name. The reason Jack’s a Smith but not really a Smith. “Are you sure she was a theorist?” Physics runs in Jack’s family, when the only thing that runs in mine is eczema.

            “Why do you ask?”

            “Just . . . Jack doesn’t seem to like theorists very much.”

            Millicent gives me a look. “He likes you, doesn’t he?”

            She speaks like I’m the least sharp cookie in the jar, and I flush. “But he once wrote an article that—”

            “Oh, that.” She chuckles, like it’s a fond family memory. First day of kindergarten, meeting Goofy at Disneyland, and that time her grandson sent an entire field of study into a tailspin. “That had nothing to do with theoretical physics. He was just a teenager acting out, angry because of what he’d found out about Grethe. But he’s a man now. A good one. Too bad I can’t leave him my money, or he’ll just divide it up between the rest of my ungrateful family.”

            “What had he found out about Grethe?” Was the entire Smith-Turner Hoax about his mom? Did he . . . hate her? Was it some sort of revenge on her for . . . for what? Dying? It’s too ridiculous. “Did he write the article because of her?”

            I must be asking too many questions. Millicent’s expression shifts, first to guarded, then to vacuous. “I forget,” she says with a ditzy shrug, even though she doesn’t. Millicent, I’m certain, hasn’t forgotten a single thing in her life—not Greg’s name, and certainly not what led Jack to be who he is today. “Jack will tell you. When you’ve been together long enough.”

            “No, we . . . Really, Jack and I are not—we’re not doing it,” I say. My brain cringes so hard, it folds in on itself.

            “Oh, I know. This is something else altogether, isn’t it?”

            “It’s nothing at all. We’re not even friends.”

            “Right.” Her tone is almost . . . pitying? “Well, you’ll figure it out in your own time.”

            “Figure out what?”

            “DVD player’s all set,” Jack announces, emerging in the doorway, “and I’ve left detailed instructions on how to switch to the next season, since the ones I wrote last week are gone.”

            “Oh, yes. I had to throw the notepad at your aunt Maureen when she said my green pullover was too bright.”

            “Of course, you had to. Can I drive Elsie home now? Or is the abduction still ongoing?”

            Millicent huffs. “Do take her, please. I’m sick of both of you. You’re not nearly as entertaining as Jessica Fletcher.”

            She kicks us out as unceremoniously as she welcomed us in, making a symphony of faux-irritated noises that are belied by how hard she clings to Jack’s hug.

            “I’ll stop by later to shovel some snow,” he promises.

            “Fine, but do not come in. I’ll be busy with my show.”

            “I know.” He kisses her forehead. “Be good till next weekend. Have fun writing spite wills.”

            “I shall,” she says defiantly before slamming the door in our faces.

            “Does she really?” I ask on our way to the car. The snow crunches under our feet.

            “What?”

            “Write wills for spite.”

            “Probably.”

            “Why?”

            “Pettiness. Boredom. Loneliness. When I was sixteen, my father made a comment about her roast being dry, and she pledged a million dollars to a bunny shelter.”

            “God. Why?”

            “It’s a vicious cycle. Most of my family does seem to gravitate around her because of the money, which is why Millicent wields it like a weapon. But that doesn’t endear her to the family members who are normal human beings and believe that threatening to vengefully pledge your estate to JPMorgan Chase just to make a point might be pushing it too far.”