Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Because . . .”

            Jack waits for me to finish the sentence. When I’m unable to, the ever-present lower-back hand nudges me inside the cozy heat of the restaurant.

            Of Miel.

            “This seems sadistic,” I point out, “even for you.”

            “You underestimated me, then.”

            “Two?” The hostess greets us, chirpy. “Would you prefer a table or a booth?”

            Jack looks at me like we’re a drug cartel and I’m the ringleader who needs to sign off on any decision. Dammit, this honesty business is hard. Okay, so not the booth—Jack’s legs are skyscraper long, so he’d probably hate it. But tables are less private, which he also might hate—

            He leans into my ear. “Stop building observational models about what you think I’ll like, and just be honest about—”

            “Booth,” I grunt out. The hostess makes an obvious mental note to tell our waiter that I’m a weirdo, but her “If you’ll follow me” is impeccable.

            “Excellent choice,” Jack murmurs while we weave toward the table, and all I can think of is that Two-Weeks-Ago-Elsie, bright-eyed and future-hopeful, sat in this very restaurant across from Jack and contemplated slipping under the table to power-drill his kneecaps. Tonight-Elsie gapes at him as he tells the waitress, “I’ll have your craft beer. And she’ll have the cheese board.”

            I lift my eyebrow. “What happened to me asking for what I want?”

            “The cheese board is what you want.”

            It is. But. “How can you be so sure?”

            “Ikagawa ordered it the other night. I saw the way you looked at it.”

            “How’s that?”

            “Like people look at porn.”

            Laughter bubbles out of me. “Okay, you want me to be honest? I’m going to be honest.”

            “Go for it.”

            “Brutally honest.” I take a deep breath. Maybe it’s the booth, but it almost feels like we’re alone in his apartment again. Just the two of us. Intimate. “Sometimes, when I can’t sleep because I’m nervous, I look up cheese on Google Images and I just . . . scroll. I scroll infinitely. And I feel peace.”

            “That’s nothing.” God, his dimple. “George’s entire YouTube history is pimple-popping videos.”

            I snort a laugh into my water. “By the way—she mentioned you wouldn’t give her my number.”

            Jack’s beer arrives. His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek. “I had a very disturbing mental image.”

            “What mental image?”

            “Of George reminding me daily for the next few decades that she got to take out the girl I liked before I ever did.”

            I laugh, picturing her starting her maid of honor speech with “Webster’s Dictionary defines sloppy seconds as . . .” Then I realize who the bride would be in the wedding, and my face is suddenly cooked medium rare. Whoa.

            “You look like that again.”

            “Like what?”

            “Worried.” He searches for words, like he’s not sure himself. “Vigilant. Overthinking.”

            I play with the cloth napkin. “How can you always tell what’s in my head?”

            “Same way you can tell what’s in everyone’s head.”

            I frown. “I just look. Try to pay attention to what people want.”

            “That’s what I do. Except that I don’t care much about most people, but I can’t stop paying attention to you.” He shrugs. There is something so utterly, disarmingly honest about him. “So I look.”

            Is it really that simple? Is that what’s happening here? “What am I thinking now?”