Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            I scratch my temple. “You did mention that.”

            “I did?”

            “The tooth. When you . . .”

            “Oh. Yeah.” He sighs. “You know, I actually had fun that night. Maybe I should incorporate more recreational drugs into my lifestyle.”

            “Greg, I feel like I unwittingly precipitated you having to come out to Jack, and I’m really sorry.”

            He shakes his head. “What’s funny is, back at Woodacre, before the tooth decided to rot me from within, I had the thought that it was time for me to just ask Mom to leave me alone. Besides, I could have octuplets and Grandma would probably still leave everything to Monsanto just for spite. And Jack was never the issue. I’d been meaning to tell him for a long time, and it’s nice that now he knows and doesn’t treat me any different. Nothing’s changed, except that he was torn up about not researching the aro/ace spec before and very, very apologetic for lusting after my ‘girlfriend.’ ” He air-quotes the last part and then laughs a little. I want to spray about like a morning mist and disappear into nothingness.

            “Greg, I . . .” Honesty. “I get it, I think. How you feel about relationships. Because I also am not quite sure what I want. And . . . I’d love to continue being friends.”

            “Good. Because now that I almost peed on you, we’re bound for life.” He grins. “Oh my God. You know what I just realized?”

            “What?”

            “That if you and Jack work out, Uncle Paul’s going to ask you guys for threesomes till the day he dies.”

            I close my eyes. I might just be the one projectile-vomiting this time around.



* * *



            • • •

            Lunch with George is a totally different beast. I have one hour between classes at UMass, and she agrees to meet me outside the building where I teach. Not sure why, then, I find her inside my lecture hall one minute before my eleven a.m. Intro to Physics is dismissed.

            “Your essays on modern cosmology are due by—” I stumble when she slips inside, her purple coat a flash of color in the dull room. “By the end of the week. Two pages.”

            “Double spaced?” someone asks from the huddle of warm bodies that is the last row. Not sure why everyone seems to be willing to sell their soul to sit there, since I don’t call on students, and as long as they’re reasonably quiet, I pretend not to see when they’re doing something else. I once had a guy hem curtains through Analytical Mechanics and never batted an eye.

            He got an A-minus. Good for him, and for his windows.

            “Single spaced. Twelve point.” Groans arise. “Please do not insult my intelligence by using Algerian as a font. And do not set the margins to one point three inches hoping I won’t realize, because I will check.”

            I will not check. In fact, I will barely skim the essays for keywords while Cece puts on some Noah Baumbach that is, unfortunately, not Madagascar 3. My students would find me so pathetic if they knew how desperately I hustle to give them all an A.

            “And remember: in-text citations only from scholarly sources.”

            Raised hand. “What if my uncle—”

            “Like I mentioned, while I’m very happy that your uncle minored in biology at the University of Delaware twenty-three years ago, I will not accept his Thanksgiving hot takes as a scholarly source. See you all next week.”

            “This looks like a fun way to spend your time on God’s green earth,” George tells me after joining me on the podium. “How many of these classes do you teach per week?”

            “Oh, only four, five thousand?” She laughs, and I instantly feel guilty. I should be grateful that I have a job. The alternative is hypnotizing my pancreas into thinking it can make insulin and living off Wendy’s ketchup packets. “But it’s not that bad. The students are great, and—”

            “Dr. Hannaway?” A sophomore runs toward me, sweater pulled down on her shoulder. “Could you check if this is just a pimple or—”

            “We’ve been over it, Selina. I’m not that kind of doctor.”