Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            Jack scans my face for a long time. Then he exhales slowly and nods once, as if coming to an arduous decision. “Elsie—”

            “My turn to ask a question,” I interrupt. I’m done talking about J.J. and Dr. L. “Since we’re on the topic.”

            Jack hesitates, like he’s not ready to let go of the subject. “What is it?”

            “Olive also said something else. That when you do go out with women, it’s usually to . . .” I can’t bring myself to utter the words. But it doesn’t matter, because Jack looks like he knows exactly what I want to say. I point back and forth between us. “Is that what you want?”

            He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he studies me, stern, unreadable, impenetrable as he hasn’t been in a while. And then, after a long beat of choosing words carefully, he slowly says, “You and I won’t be having sex—”

            “You guys ready to order?” The waitress interrupts us.

            We don’t go back to the topic. And I wonder why the knot of relief in my belly feels so much like disappointment.





18


            FLUX


            My main sentiment going into lunch with Greg is fear—closely followed by self-loathing, guilt, and an uncontrollable impulse to run back home and feed myself to Hedgie. Does he hate me? Does he hold me responsible for outing him? Does he want his money back? He deserves it. I’ll sell a cornea. Or a foot. Whatever goes for highest.

            As it turns out, I shouldn’t have worried. Because Greg grins widely the moment he sees me, and then asks suggestively, “You and my brother, huh?”

            “Oh, no. No, I . . .”

            We’re at our usual café, but even though today I could use some diversions, there are no screaming toddlers or projectile vomiting or tragic mishearings. Just the barista in a “Breathe If You Hate Tom Brady” shirt, me, and Greg’s winky face. I silently wish for a tectonic earthquake, to no avail.

            “We—Jack and I are just . . . hanging out.”

            There was dinner last Thursday, of course, which ended when he drove me home and answered my “Do you want to do this again?” with an infuriating “Do you?” And then the Saturday afternoon spent hunting down the Murder, She Wrote novelization for Millicent and bickering about the validity of string theory. (“It has produced no testable experimental predictions.” “We are working on the math!” “Work away, but until you come to me with a substantial breakthrough, the multiverse is as scientific as the Great Pumpkin.”) And last night, of course, when he drove me to a Northeastern lecture I was going to attend anyway. (“Or you can take the subway and we can meet there, if you enjoy watching people masturbate to Tropicana ads.”) Afterward we spent one hour in his car, trash-talking the speaker for saying that the gravitational-wave experiment was a waste of money.

            It’s Tuesday now, and yes, I’ve seen Jack three times in the past week, but if I told Greg, he’d assume that we’re a couple, which we aren’t. We haven’t even held hands, unless one counts that time I was complaining about the militarization of science and almost got run over by a Honda Civic. He’d grabbed my wrist and pulled me back and hadn’t let go until he’d gotten me safely to the other side of the road. Plus half a block.

            Whatever this is, it’s slow—static, some would say. I may have found myself thinking about kissing. I may have found myself thinking about whether Jack is thinking about kissing. I may have been pitting seemingly conflicting things he’s said—You and I won’t be having sex; The girl I liked; Really beautiful; It’ll go away—against each other in a March Madness–like bracket, trying to figure out how exactly he feels about me.

            I guess I could ask. I will. Once I’m ready.

            “It’s not serious. We’re just . . . getting to know each other, and—” Greg’s eyebrow lifts, and I crumple. Spiritually. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

            He grins. “I had a feeling.”

            “A feeling?”

            “He asked lots of questions about you. I thought he was just being his usual needlessly protective older brother self, but when we got into ‘Does Elsie prefer winter or summer?’ territory, I realized it was something else.”