Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “You have questions.”

            I laugh. “That was a softball.”

            “It was. Just ask the questions.”

            “They’re kind of . . .” I exhale a laugh. “They’re not really just-casually-getting-to-know-each-other questions. They’re not . . . normal.”

            “You’re not a normal person,” he says, in a way that feels like the opposite of an insult. “And I’d rather you ask than overthink.”

            I close my fingers around his glass, feeling the condensation pool in my palm. Then I pull my hand back into my lap, wet, cold.

            Okay. “Back at Monica’s place, you said that you don’t date. And Olive told me the same . . .”

            He laughs. “Olive?”

            “We may have touched on your love life.” I flush.

            “Ah. Olive.” He nods. “She and Adam are . . . I think she wants others to have what they have.”

            I nod. I’ve known her for two hours, but it’s the impression I got.

            “It’s not a hard and fast rule—no commitment, no dating, no feeding past midnight. I haven’t sworn it off because love is a capitalist construct or some bullshit like that.” He shrugs. “But when I was younger, I was in a couple of relationships where the interest didn’t match up, and . . . It’s better to be up-front. So no one gets hurt.”

            “I see.” I picture a boy being told by his mother that he’s not her son anymore. Then growing up to hate the idea of telling a woman that she’s not his girlfriend anymore. It makes sense, this determination of his. It also makes my heart heavy.

            “What about you?” he asks.

            “Me?”

            “Do you date?”

            I smile. “For a living.”

            “Right. How did that start?”

            “Oh.” I go back to tracing patterns on the glass. “In college. It’s kind of a depressing story. Does not pair well with cheese.” I let out a nervous laugh, hoping he’ll laugh, too.

            Instead he asks, “Why depressing?”

            Honesty. Honesty. It’s a thing that I can probably manage. “Because . . . I didn’t know.”

            “You didn’t know you were dating someone?”

            “No.” I swallow. “I didn’t know it was fake.”

            His attention shifts. Still on me, still focused, but more cautious. Gentle. Land mine territory. “You didn’t.”

            I’ve never spoken aloud about what happened, not even with Cece, because . . . I’m still not sure how it could have happened to me. It’s been years, and it still doesn’t feel like my story. I’ve always been so guarded. So careful-footed. And when I stumbled, I didn’t just skin a knee. I fell facedown and knocked out all my teeth.

            “When I was a sophomore, this guy I knew moved abroad. The place he rented was cheap, so I took over his rent. That’s how I met J.J. He was the roommate.” I push the glass away. “I’d seen him around the Physics Department, and I thought he was an okay guy. Though he was planning on becoming an experimentalist.”

            “Should have tipped you off.”

            I laugh. “We spent almost one entire year politely ignoring each other. Ideal roommate situation. Then he broke up with his girlfriend.” I sigh. “It was messy. Twenty-year-old messy, you know? There were still feelings, but she’d met someone else, and . . . All I know is that a couple weeks later she came over to pick up her stuff, and she found J.J. and me having dinner together while watching something on TV. She went ballistic. She was so jealous, which was hilarious, since J.J. and I were sitting ten feet apart and I was having chickpeas—officially the least romantic food. But that’s how J.J. got the idea that we should pretend to be together so she’d get even more jealous and . . . I don’t know, race through Boston Logan to confess her undying love? It was a fuzzy plan. But I said yes, because . . .”