Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Is Greg one of the decent ones?”

            “Greg’s the most decent, but he prefers to avoid Millicent altogether. He likes it when people get along, which cannot happen if she’s in a given quantum space.”

            “Like Pauli’s exclusion principle.” We exchange a smile next to the passenger seat of the car. “You like her, though.”

            “She’s an absolute monster. But she does burrow into you after thirty or so years,” he says fondly. “Like a tick.”

            I laugh, my breath a gust of white in the space between us. “Should we explain to her that I wasn’t really dating Greg?”

            “Nah. Millicent’s too busy launching feces wars to care about any of that.”

            “You . . .” I try to sound casual. “Do you always call her Millicent?”

            “It’s her name.”

            “I mean, why not Grandma, or Gram, or Granny, or Mawmaw—”

            “Mawmaw?”

            “Whatever. Babushka. Maternal Forebear.”

            Jack’s expression goes inscrutable. “It’s good, calling people by their names. It minimizes misunderstandings.” I think I see a split second of hesitation, like maybe he’s thinking of saying more, but it’s fleeting, swiftly gone in the glistening snow. “Come on. I’ll take you home before your roommate sends out an Amber Alert.”

            I nod, because I do need to sort out the mess that is my life in a Smith-free space. But then something occurs to me: the rest of my life is going to be a Smith-free space.

            A Jack-free space.

            I’ll probably never see him again. Why would I? The circles we move in are a Venn diagram with little overlap. Maybe we’ll meet at a physics conference two years down the road, when I’m still an adjunct teaching forty classes a week and he’s workshopping his Nobel lecture. But my arrangement with Greg is likely over, which means that this is it. The last time I’ll see Jack. This man, this maddening, impossible, space-taking man who seems to know me despite all that I do to not be known, will be gone from my life.

            I should be eager to go back to simpler times, when I used to spend zero hours a week in his company and my brain wasn’t made of guacamole, but . . . what a waste. What a surprisingly terrifying perspective.

            And that’s why I stop him with a tug on the sleeve of his coat. Why I open my mouth and say with no forethought, no premeditation, and a lot of reckless panic, “Youcantakemeout.”

            It comes out with no pauses or intonation, just a bunch of sounds smooshed together. Which Jack, judging by the knot between his brows, did not understand.

            I clear my throat. Take a deep breath. “If you still want to. And if it’s okay with Greg. You can take me out.”

            Jack just stares, motionless, reactionless, for way too long. “Take you out . . . in the mob way?”

            “No. No! That’s not at all what I—” I blush. I’m cold and tired and my head hurts and I have no idea what I’m doing and why won’t he understand? “I can come to your place. I can take you out.”

            He nods. Slowly. “In the mob way.”

            “No, I—” I notice it, the amused gleam in his eyes, like he knows exactly what I’m trying to say. I press my lips together, because I don’t want to encourage him, I don’t want to smile, but I’m about to. “I hate you.”

            “Sure you do.”

            “Why is everything so difficult with you?”

            “I like to keep you on your toes.”

            “Listen—let’s hang out,” I say. This feels foolhardy. Ill advised. Exciting. “Just . . . try. See what happens. Would that be okay?”

            “It would,” he says after a brief pause. “Under one condition.”

            I frown. “Making demands already?”

            “Always.” His mouth twitches, but he’s back to his opaque self. “If we do this . . . when you’re with me, I need you to be honest. No pretending you’re someone else. No trying to be whatever you think it is that I want. You say what you think. And when you can’t, at least let yourself think it. No lies, Elsie.” His jaw sets. “Just you.”