Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            I nod. And then I realize that I have no idea how to do that, and I laugh, a little sad, a lot terrified. “I can try.”

            He nods. “That’s enough for now.”

            “You should be honest, too,” I add. “No lies on your end, either.”

            “I don’t lie often,” he says simply. Hearing it makes me think of what Millicent said about his past, and my heart clenches. I’ve seen Jack being brutally, needlessly honest. Lying, not so much. “And I can’t see myself lying to you.”

            “You don’t even know me.”

            “I don’t,” he admits. He studies my face for several moments, like he cannot stop on the cover or the first page, like he needs to read the whole book every time. Then he leans into me, and the icy chill of the morning melts away in his heat. My eyes catch on his cheekbones. The line of his jaw, so sharp it could cut a heart. His lips are full and upturned, a start of that lopsided smile of his that makes me angry and weak-kneed, and . . .

            He bends to murmur in the shell of my ear, “I’d like to, though.” My hairs rise, my spine coils like a silent bowstring, and for the first time in my entire life I’m thinking of kisses, of skin, of waking with Jack this morning, of his hand between my shoulder blades, of the ink on his arm, of his lips, which look full and soft, and he hasn’t shaved in a while and he smells good and—

            A click. Behind me. Jack straightens and pulls the passenger door open. That tension inside me is still buzzing. I feel almost dizzy.

            “Get in,” he orders, low and hoarse and maybe not really to me.

            I slide into the seat, and it sinks in that this might be real. Happening outside my head.

            Me, taking a shot at being myself.





16


            FUNDAMENTAL FORCES



From: [email protected]

                Subject: Thermo 201


Hiya! I haven’t come to class this semester because I can’t find the room. Where do we meet, again? Could you draw me a map? Thx.



            “Egregious.”

            Dr. L. says the word with soft g’s and mysterious vowels, like English is a French language that the Americans are just borrowing. I’d find it amusing, but it’s our first meeting since relaying my job news and I can’t feel anything but anxiety. He asked me to come over, and I really didn’t want to, what with the snow and the crock of shit that’s my schedule. And yet here I am.

            “Egregious, that they’d choose another candidate,” he repeats. “Perhaps an appeal is in order.”

            “Knowing who the winning candidate is, I doubt there are grounds.”

            “Georgina Sepulveda, you said?”

            I nod.

            “And who would that be?”

            I’m taken aback that any living physicist wouldn’t know of her work. But Dr. L. can be narrow minded when it comes to experimentalists. Maybe rightfully so?

            “She’s behind the Sepulveda model. A brilliant particle physicist. And she was a Burke fellow years ago.” I look down at my knees. Then back up to Dr. L.’s deep scowl. “I’m sorry, Dr. Laurendeau. I know this is disappointing, but—”

            “I wonder if Smith-Turner influenced the search, after all.”

            My hand grips the armrest of the green chair. “He . . . I doubt it.”

            “We cannot put it past him, can we?”

            I clear my throat. “I’m convinced that he did not—”

            “Elise, you want Smith-Turner to get his comeuppance just as much as I do, don’t you?”

            My stomach sinks and I lower my eyes, mortified. Dr. L. spent the last six years counseling me, and here I am. A screwup. Cavorting with the asshole who nearly ruined his career.

            Not being the Elsie he wants.

            I need to go back to it. To Elise—hardworking, undeterred, laser focused. “This is a huge setback, but I’m . . . regrouping,” I say, trying to sound optimistic. “In terms of finding a job for next year, I—”