Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            Professionally, my life sucks a bit. Psychologically, I’m not, as some would say, “healthy.” Musically, I should hire a tuba to follow me around. But on the upside, I’ve been killing it in the lunch invite department.

            “You want to chat with me,” I repeat. Just to be sure.

            “Yes. Partly because Jack is my closest friend, and it would bug him if I stole you from him even just a bit. But mostly because the last time we met, I acted like a total bitch, and I want to make it up to you.”

            What? “No, no, I’m the one who ran away like a lunatic. My first reaction to finding out that you’d gotten the job was unforgivable and incredibly messed up. I acted like a bitch—”

            “Yes, you totally did.” George’s smile is triumphant. “To make it up to me, you will let me take you out for lunch.”

            “That’s . . .” I slow-blink. “Very well played.”

            “Thank you.” She dusts nonexistent specks off her shoulder, and I laugh.

            “I see why Jack likes you so much.”

            “I see why Jack likes you more.” Her smile softens. “Next Wednesday okay?”

            I nod. “Sounds great.”

            Jack and I leave a few minutes later. I exchange numbers with Olive, and Sunny hugs me goodbye while Jack is getting the car, whispering that any urine sample rumors I might have heard have been greatly exaggerated. She also swears that if Jack and I break up, she’ll side with me, because she already likes me more.

            I laugh on the doorstep. “It makes me feel guilty for stealing your almonds.”

            “Oh, they must be someone else’s. No nuts in this house—they’re, like, so gross.”

            In the car, I’m contemplating the idea that Jack researched, bought, and packed a diabetes-friendly snack just for me when he asks, “Where to for dinner?”

            “Oh.” Something happy and surprised flips in my chest at the idea of the night not being over yet. “I like everything.”

            He merges into traffic. “Excellent. Some of my favorite stuff is everything. Now tell me what you want to eat.”

            I look at his near-perfect profile. He hasn’t shaved in the last couple of days, looks a bit tired. I wonder if he’s been up and about since morning. If he hasn’t had anything since lunch. He’s huge, probably always ravenous. Simple stuff, big portions.

            “Burgers,” I say.

            He gives me a Nice try look. “Yes, Elsie, I do like burgers. That wasn’t the question, though.”

            I scowl. How does he do this? How does he always—

            “Want me to pull over so you can get out and stomp your foot a bit?”

            I growl. Judging from the smile, he absolutely hears me.

            Okay—what do I want? Well, cheese. I’m always in the mood for cheese. But cheese is not really a meal, and the places where it might be are usually too fancy, and—

            “Say it,” he orders.

            “What?”

            “What you’re thinking.”

            “I’m not—”

            “Say it.”

            “Really, I’m—”

            “Say it.”

            “Cheese,” I almost yell. Shocking myself.

            Jack smiles, satisfied. “I know just the place.”



* * *



            • • •

            “You’re joking.”

            “Nope.”

            “We can’t—not here.”

            “Why?”