Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “But you have a job. Several, in fact.”

            “Yes. Absolutely.” I take a deep breath. “But these adjunct gigs are time consuming and leave me little time for research. And I really want to finish developing my—”

            “There is always time for research. One must want to find it.”

            I close my eyes, because this one hurts like hell. The Elsie he wants almost slips away, but I hold strong. “You’re right.”

            “Could you not simply teach fewer classes?”

            I breathe slowly. In and out. “Financially, that’s not a possibility.”

            “I see. Well, sometimes money must take second place.”

            I grip the armrest, feeling a gust of frustration that he’d think me greedy for wanting to buy insulin and live in a place without mutant moths. It’s immediately swallowed by guilt. This is Dr. L. I wouldn’t even know the Nielsen-Ninomiya theorem if it weren’t for him.

            I take a deep breath, forcing myself to mention the idea that’s been swelling in my head since my morning at Jack’s. While there is no dimension in which me working for him would be feasible or appropriate, maybe there is some promise in what he said. “Someone recommended that I consider a postdoctoral fellowship or another research-only position.”

            Dr. L. looks at me, alarmed for a split second, and then sighs. “We have been over this, Elise.”

            “Right. But we talked about theorists. Maybe some experimentalists might be interested in—”

            “Unfortunately, no. I asked widely, and I am very sorry, but no suitable physicist was interested in hiring you as a researcher,” he says, and my stomach sinks even more.

            I lower my eyes to my jeans. God, I’m an idiot. A total fucking idiot.

            “Elise,” he continues, tone softer, “I know how you feel.” He circles his desk, coming to stand in front of me. “Remember when you started your doctorate? How helpless you felt? How I guided you through developing your algorithms, publishing your manuscripts, making a name for yourself within the physics community? I can help you now, too.”

            I think about all the things he’s done for me. All the things I owe to him. I wonder where I’d be without him, and come up empty.

            “Do you trust me?”

            I nod.



* * *



            • • •

            I don’t get a formal rejection from MIT till Wednesday night.

            I’m in the middle of what’s rapidly becoming a semesterly endeavor: relearning Noether’s theorem to be able to teach it to a mostly snoring classroom at eight a.m., only to forget it once again by the time my nine thirty thermo lecture comes around.

            My brain is a colander.

            When the iTwat rings, I look up. Cece is writing her MILF (manuscript I’d like to finish) on the couch, but she meets my eyes.

            “I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Monica tells me after a long explanation that includes the words institutional fit four times. I appreciate the call. Academic rejections are often one-line emails. More often, tumbleweeds.

            “It’s not your fault, Monica,” I say.

            “Or is it?” Cece mutters, which has me smiling.

            “I understand the situation,” I add, just to see Cece sprain an eye-rolling muscle.

            “I want you to know,” Monica says, “that new positions will be opening soon.”

            I thought I’d left my hope bloody and beaten on the side of the road, but apparently it’s still breathing. “Next year?”

            “In three to five years. Several theorists are set to retire, and the dean won’t dare close the tenure-track lines. I hope you’ll apply again.”

            Go on without me, my hope says, contemplating six more semesters of Noether’s theorem. I’ll only slow you down. “Of course I will.”