Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Hang on.” I frown. “What’s the name of the material?”

            “I keep forgetting. Some kind of resistant blah synthetic blah fiber blah blah.” She taps her lips with the chopsticks. “Taurus, maybe?”

            I wish I were drinking, because this deserves a spit take. “Cece, are you fake-girlfriending the dude who invented Tauron?”

            “Oh, yeah. That’s what it’s called.”

            “Tauron is literally everywhere.” I blink. “He must be a millionaire.”

            “I think he is. And that’s why you don’t have to teach sixty-nine classes next year.”

            She gives me an expectant look till I sigh and mutter, “Nice.”

            “Thank you. Anyway, I’ll cover rent. So you can work a reasonable amount. One or two classes. And the rest of the time you can stay home and do your research about sparkles.”

            “Crystals.”

            “Crystals. And we can spend our nights eating Gruyère and ranking Wong Kar-wai’s movies from most to least cinematographically poignant.”

            Does she know how much you like Twilight?

            I smile, trying to remember one single Wong Kar-wai movie. Pretty sure we did a two-day marathon three years ago, which I spent solving equations on my mind’s blackboard while Cece was in full Stendhal syndrome. “2046 would win.”

            She smiles dreamily. “Probably.”

            I don’t like Kirk. No—I don’t like the way Cece looks when she talks about him, because I’ve seen her act like that only about foreign movies, or Sapir-Whorf, or hedgehogs. It just doesn’t seem like a good idea to like one’s fake boyfriend that much. But I don’t have a chance to say it, because Cece is standing again, rummaging in the cupboard for wonton strips. And because my phone is buzzing with a text—the first I’ve ever gotten from this number:

                             Are you free tomorrow night?





17


            DISPLACEMENT


            I wear black jeans.

            A cute sweater.

            Ankle boots.

            I leave my hair down. Then I pull it up in a bun. Then I let it down again. Then I braid it.

            Then I leave it down.

            I haven’t told Cece where I’m going, because she’s not home, and I’m physically unable to send her a text explaining that:

            I.

            Am.

            Going.

            Out.

            WithJackSmithTurner.

            Maybe. I’m still not positive that the reason he wants to see me is not to stealthily substitute my insulin with Frappuccino. Maybe I should make a safety call—make the investigators’ job easier when they find my corpse in a swamp. But the car is already there when I get downstairs, and I simply slip into the passenger seat.

            The cabin smells like leather, Jack, and bad ideas. I should say something. Hi, how are you? Did you have a good week? Favorite Teletubby? Off-year elections thoughts? I’ve done this a million times—gone out with people. A million fake dates. Then why? Why? Why can’t I . . . Why?

            “I think,” he drawls, “I just heard your head explode.”

            I turn to him. He’s handsome in a near-painful way, and my head is still in mid-explosion.

            “Want to go back up?” The smile. Uneven. Amused. All-knowing. “Try this another day?”

            I shake my head before I change my mind. “I want to do this now.” I swallow. Face straight ahead. “I think.”

            He starts the engine. “Look at you.”

            “Look at me?”

            He puts his hand on the headrest of the seat to back out of the spot. His fingers brush against my hair, soft, distracted.