Love, Theoretically

His condo is large, especially for downtown.

Two-story, 90 percent windows, open floor-y. There might even be a color scheme, dark blues and warm whites, but I can’t picture Jack using the word palette, so I chalk it up to chance. Still, the place is clean and uncluttered enough that I automatically take off my shoes at the entrance, then pad my way after him to the open-plan kitchen, hoping Jack won’t notice that my socks match in pattern (stripes) but not color (pink and orange).

I wish there were hints that he’s a closeted brony, or an avid collector of genital casts, but this place screams I might be an unmarried man in his thirties, but it’s not because I don’t have my shit together.

Then again: he might be unmarried, but he’s not quite single.

I sit gingerly at the wooden dining table and eye a bowl of fresh fruit; books and printouts of journal articles stacked neatly on the breakfast island; Jack’s large back, his muscles bunching under green flannel as he putters around the stove, quickly types something on his phone, and sets a mug on the counter. The snow is picking up, giant flakes swirling under the streetlight, and getting home is going to be a bitch. I could splurge on an Uber. Shouldn’t, though.

This is weird. So, so weird.

I should be too devastated to feel awkward, but like I said, I’m an excellent multitasker. Able to experience the existential dread seeping into my unemployed bones and to fantasize about crawling into a golf hole out of sheer embarrassment. Even worse, I’m so damn cold. I wrap my hands in the tear-sticky sleeves of my cardigan, slide them between my thighs, and close my eyes.

I take a slow, deep breath.

Another.

Another.

Seconds or minutes later, porcelain clinks against the wood. I blink up and Jack’s forearm is there, with its roped muscles, and the light hairs, and that cut of tattoo peeking from under the rolled-up sleeve. I’ve seen him half-naked, and I still don’t know what it’s supposed to be.

“Hot chocolate,” he says gently, as though I’m a skittish kitten.

It smells delicious, of sugar and comfort and heat. I watch a handful of marshmallows float happily around the top, and my mouth waters.

“Do you know,” I start, then shake my head and fall silent.

Food can be such an ordeal when your pancreatic cells have left the chat. I remember my last year of middle school, at Chloe Sampson’s birthday party—the most amazing sheet cake with buttercream frosting. Before eating a slice, the diabetes-havers (i.e., me) needed to know exactly what was in it, to counteract it with the appropriate dose of insulin. But who knows what’s in a slice of Costco cake? Not me. And not Mrs. Sampson. And not the Costco website or the customer service hotline, which Mrs. Sampson called while fifteen starving teenage girls glared at me for holding up the party, and . . .

Well. The point is, I’ve learned to say no to unexpected sugar, no matter how tasty looking. People don’t like nuisances.

“Thank you, but I’m not thirsty.”

“You need the carb count?” Jack sets the package with the nutritional info beside it. “To adjust your bolus?”

I tilt my head. “Did you just use the word bolus?”

“Sure did.” He takes a seat right across from me. Even the chairs in his house look too small for him.

“How?”

“I went to school. I know words.” He seems amused.

“You went to school for words like centripetal and brittleness and Rosseland optical depth. The only people who know stuff about basal insulin and bolus are doctors.”

“How fortunate, then.”

“Medical doctors. And people with diabetes.”

He stares for a moment. Then says, “I’m sure others do, too. Families of people with diabetes. Friends. Partners.” His voice is deep and rich, and I need to look away from the way he’s studying me.

So I take out my phone and quickly check my insulin, pretending I can’t feel his eyes on me. I lift my T-shirt to make sure that the pod didn’t get dislodged in the single act of exercise I engaged in during the last decade, and . . . Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I did this in front of someone who isn’t Cece. I want to ask Jack if he read up on diabetes after finding out about mine, but it’s possibly the most self-centered thought I’ve ever had.

I have about forty new notifications across five apps. All from Cece.

CECE: Where are you?

CECE: We’re going to the Starbucks across from the theater to wait for you guys to come back.

CECE: Pls, let me know you’re okay. I know this sucks but I’m with you. We can do this. We’ll move into a basement. I’ll pick up more Faux dates, you’ll be my sugar baby.

CECE: Jack texted George and told her you’re okay. She seems to think he’s trustworthy but idk. He looks like an oak tree on steroids with a six-foot-eight wingspan. Is he even human?

CECE: Elsie?

I answer with a quick I’m fine. With Jack. Go home, please. When I look up, Jack is staring.

I clear my throat. “Bad-faith interview. What does it mean?”

His expression darkens. “That would be any interview in which the outcome is, for whatever reason, predecided. Like positions that are advertised as open when they’re meant for a specific candidate.”

“The MIT position was created for Georgina?” I feel a pang in my chest.

“More complicated than that. The position was originally left vacant when James Bickart—an experimentalist—retired two years ago. He was, I believe, three million years old.”

I chuckle despite myself. “Sounds about right.”

“You know the type. Lots of tweed. Lots of distrust toward computers, lots of opinions on girls who wear nail polish despite the distraction of their male peers. I was still at Caltech, but I heard some stories. The position should have been refilled immediately, but there were issues with the budget. Then my grants and I moved here.” He pushes the forgotten mug closer. I’m impatient to hear more, but I take a sip to please him. The warmth spreading into my stomach is delicious. “I offered to help fund the position to hire another experimentalist—not out of some deep hatred for theorists, if you can believe it. I was hired by MIT to beef up their experimental output. Experimentalists are currently outnumbered, and we were filling a specific position. I mentioned the opening to George, and she told me she was interested in applying. She’s at Harvard right now, and physics academia is an old boys’ club everywhere, but . . . Harvard’s bad. So she sent in her materials, and . . . You said you’re familiar with her work. As you can imagine, everyone knew it was going to be her from the start.”

I can imagine it very well. Her thesis experiments were stepping stones to massive advancements in particle physics. Georgina is the epitome of inspiring.

“Then you applied. And Monica was so impressed by your CV, she decided to bring you in despite the committee recommending against it. It was pointed out to her that there was nothing you could have done during the interview that would have gotten you the job, but she insisted, reasoning that George already had an excellent position at Harvard and might decide not to accept an offer.” He sighs. “Even if George weren’t a rock star, you have to understand: she and I were in grad school together. We’ve had half a decade longer than you in the field. Half a decade worth of scientific output, publications, grants.”

You’re the ideal candidate, Monica told me the first night we met, but I wasn’t. I simply wasn’t. “Why did Monica . . . ?”

“She tried her all to hire a theorist. And I have to admit, she played her cards well by choosing you as her candidate.” He leans forward. I drag my eyes up to his. “Elsie, I was there for the final vote. George won, because she was best qualified, but everyone in the department was impressed with you. Which doesn’t surprise me, after I saw your talk and read your articles.”

“Right.” I press my fingers into my eyes. “My articles.”

“They’re excellent. And also . . .”

I look at him. “Also?”

He wets his lips, like he needs time to phrase something. “Sometimes, when I read them, I can almost hear them in your voice. Your personality.” He shakes his head, self-effacing, like he knows he’s being fanciful. “A turn of sentence here. A formula there.”

I thought we’d agreed that I don’t have a personality, I’m tempted to say. But I’m too tired to be bitter, and Jack . . . he’s been nothing but kind. I try for a smile. “I can’t blame you for voting for her.”

“I didn’t.”

My eyes widen.

“I recused myself.”

“Why?”

He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come immediately. “I had a . . . conflict of interest.”

“Because of George.”

He smiles faintly. “Because of you, Elsie.”

I have no idea how to interpret this. So I just don’t. “Aren’t you and Georgina . . . ?”

He cocks his head, confused. God, he’s going to make me say it.

“Together. Aren’t you two together?”

He laughs. “No. But we are close friends. And unlike Dora, her wife, I’m scared enough of her to let her drag me to see movies that bend the space-time continuum and feel several hours longer than they actually are.”

“Oh.” Oh. “During the interview, did she . . . know about me? That I was the other candidate?”

“Not until a few minutes ago. I wasn’t allowed to tell her who the other candidate was.”

“It’s just . . .” I scratch my neck, where heat is slowly creeping up. “Earlier, when I introduced myself, she seemed to know who I was.”

He freezes—a millisecond of hesitation—then resumes with his casual, stone-strong confidence. “I did talk to her about you. But that was long before your interview. I told her that Greg was finally seeing someone. And that I was struggling.”

“Because you disapproved.”

“Elsie.” His tone is patient but firm. “I understand if you are uncomfortable with what I told you. But I’ve never lied to you, and I’m not going to start now.” His eyes hold mine like a vise. “I was attracted to someone I shouldn’t have been attracted to. I felt guilty and frustrated, and I confided in George.” There’s a frog in my throat. An entire ecosystem. Five astral planes. Something glows and pulsates inside my stomach, and I don’t know how to even begin to respond. Luckily I don’t have to, because Jack adds, “Greg wanted to meet with you this week. I asked him not to.”

“Why?”

“Because I had to tell him that you wouldn’t get the job. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t slip up, and . . . I was planning to be the one who explained everything.”

I feel myself smile. “Not a good liar, is he?”

“I’m surprised he didn’t blurt out about your arrangement on your first date.”

“Yeah.” Me too, actually. “How is he?”

“Good. Fine. The tooth healed. We talked about . . . him. Honestly, he didn’t insult me nearly as much as he should have.”

“Lucky for you, you found me.” Your resident nutjob. Screaming abuse on the sidewalk.

“Elsie.” He’s doing that intense eye-holding thing again. “It’s fine.”

Nothing about this is fine, and it likely won’t be for a long time. But I nod anyway and stand. “Right. I . . . Sorry, again. Thank you for explaining everything. And for the hot chocolate. I should go home before the snow gets bad.”

He turns to one of the million windows. “Looks bad already.”

It does. The outside’s a whiteout of flurries, and my post-crying-jag exhaustion is swallowing me whole. Maybe I can throw a smoke bomb and disappear into the quantum vacuum. “Before it gets worse.”

He stands, too. “I’ll drive you.”

“What? No. The roads aren’t safe. I’ll just take an Uber.”

He lifts one eyebrow.

“With Cece,” I add, checking my phone. “No need to put you in danger if . . .” I trail off and go through my texts.

CECE: George assumes you’re staying with Jack???? Does she know something I don’t?????

CECE: Uber surge pricing is insane. George offered to drive me home, but we need to leave now or the snow will strand her car.

CECE: Pls text me to reassure me that he’s not making sausages out of your small intestine.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. This is fine. It’s okay.

“You need a new phone,” Jack says quietly, glancing at the cracked screen.

I need a new job. “I’ll take the bus, actually.”

“You think buses are running?”

“Hopefully.” I attempt a smile. He’s been nothing but kind, and he deserves a smiling, less-than-depressive Elsie. “Unless you’d like me to camp out on your couch,” I joke.

“Nah. You can take the bed,” he says without pause. Like he’s been thinking this through.

He can’t have been. “You’re not serious.”

“I’ll even change the sheets.”

“I . . . Why?”

He shrugs. “It’s been a while.”

“I meant, why do you—”

“Because you’re cold, Elsie.” He steps closer, and I can feel the hot glow of his skin. “Because you had a rough night, and probably a rough month. Because it’s not safe. And because I like having you around.”

I should probably try to process this, but I’m so, so tired. “Do you have a spare room?”

“I do. No bed in it, though, and according to my friend Adam, my air mattress ‘sucks ass.’ ”

“Is that where you keep the skeletons of theorists?”

He smirks. Doesn’t deny it. “I’ll take the couch. That’s where I fall asleep reading theory articles every night, anyway.”

Maybe it’s a jab, but it makes me laugh. I glance at the sectional, which could comfortably house three of him and looks cozier than my childhood bed. I’m really not in the position to refuse this, though I make a last-ditch effort. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“Elsie.”

I hate it when he says my name like that. A little stern, amused, annoyed. Like I should be past my bullshit, even though I’m neck deep, drowning in it. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Do you need insulin? There’s a pharmacy down the block.”

Apparently I now discuss my meds supply with Jonathan Smith-Turner. Wild. “I just changed my pod. I’m good.”

He nods, and then . . . I guess it’s happening. I’m staring at his back and following him up the L-shaped staircase, like the neutron star of helplessness I’ve been reduced to. I try to picture waking up tomorrow. Squirting his toothpaste on my finger. Making my way downstairs, nonchalantly complimenting his orthopedic pillow, then throwing out a Laters! before venturing out into the blinding white.

I’m in the awkwardest timeline, but a proper freak-out will have to wait until I have enough energy.

“Bathroom’s in here,” he says once we reach the upstairs landing. He rummages in a linen closet, then plugs a night-light into the wall. For me.

My heart squeezes.

“That’s my office.” He opens a door. “And here’s the bedroom.”

Jack has a headboard, unlike other, more basic people (me). And a blue comforter, dark sheets that match the rug, and a bed that’s probably a few notches above king. Emperor? Galactic dominator? No clue, but I bet he had it custom-made. I bet the woodworker took a good look at Jack and said, “We’ll need the wood of a thousand-year Huon pine for a monstrosity like you. I shall head to Tasmania on my skiff at first light.”

The rest of the room is tidy and uncluttered—no dirty boxers draped over the leather chair by the window, no Clif Bar wrappers on the floor. The window takes up the entire east wall, and there’s one single piece of art: a framed picture of the Large Hadron Collider. The endcap of the Compact Muon Solenoid—a futuristic, mechanical flower.

It’s beautiful. I know that Jack did some work at CERN, and maybe he took it himself—

“I’ll change the sheets,” he says, brushing past me toward the dresser, and I realize that I’ve been staring.

“Oh, don’t. I’m not exactly picky, and . . .” I clear my throat. Whatever, it’s fine. “We can both sleep in here. I mean, the bed is huge.”

He’s giving me his back, but I see the moment the words land. The drawer is half-open, and his movements stutter to a stop. Muscles tense under his shirt, then slowly relax. When he turns around, it’s with his usual uneven smile. “Seems like a lot for you,” he says. A bit strained, maybe. There’s no dimple in sight.

“A lot?”

“Going from running away from me to sleeping in the same bed, in under one hour.”

I flush and look at my toes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run—I just . . . And I’m not, like, coming on to you.” I’d love to sound sharp and indignant, but it’s just not where I’m at.

“We’ve established that you don’t need to come on to me, Elsie. Do you want something to sleep in?”

“Oh.” I shake my head. “I’m good. I’m wearing leggings, anyway. I figured that if I had to suffer through 2001, I could at least be comfy.”

“I thought you loved the movie.” I give him an appalled look. Jack leans against the dresser, arms crossed. “It’s what your friend said,” he explains.

“Oh, no. I mean, she thinks I do. She thinks I’m into artsy movies, but I don’t really . . .” Tell her the truth.

I think Jack can read my mind. “Does she know how much you like Twilight?” he asks with a small, kind smile.

“No way.” I laugh weakly. “If anything, she might suspect I enjoy it ironically.”

“Ironically?”

“Yeah. You know, when you like something because it’s bad and love making fun of it?”

He nods. “Is that why you enjoy Twilight?”

“I don’t know.” I sit on the edge of the mattress, gripping the soft comforter. “I don’t believe so, no.” I ponder. “I like simple, straightforward romance stories with dramatic characters and improbably high stakes,” I add, surprising myself a little. I didn’t know this before putting it into words, and I feel like Jack has beaten me to some part of myself. Again. “Also, I like to imagine Alice and Bella ending up together after the movie is over.”

“I see.” As ever, he files away. Then he pulls something that looks like sweats and a tee from under his pillow and heads for the door. “If you change your mind or get cold, just look around. You’ll find something to wear.”

“Are you giving me permission to rummage around your bedroom? Like you have nothing to hide?”

He lifts one eyebrow. “What would I hide?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “A giant tentacle dildo. Viagra. A diary with a pink locket.”

“None of that would be worth hiding,” he says, the most quietly confident man in the entire world. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything, okay?” The door closes with a soft click, and I’m right here.

In Jack Smith-Turner’s bedroom.

Alone with his pillows and his CERN wall art and probably the desiccated livers of twelve theorists. Plus, a whole lot of falling snow.

I quickly update Cece on the shit show that’s my life, then slide under the covers on what I hope isn’t Jack’s side, groaning in pleasure.

I have a really firm mattress. Great for spinal health.

He sure does, and it’s perfect. I immediately relax, enveloped by the comforter and a nice, dark scent that I’m not ready to admit is Jack’s. I could stay here forever. Barricade myself. Never face the consequences of my own failures.

Cece replies (This is so weird??? But good night???), and I notice that my battery is at 12 percent. I glance around for a charger, find none, then notice the nightstand. Jack gave me permission, right? So I open the drawer, bracing myself for . . . I don’t know. Cock rings. Thumbs. A copy of Atlas Shrugged. But the inside is surprisingly mundane: tissues, pens, keys, a flashlight with a few batteries, coins, and a white piece of paper that I cannot resist picking up.

It’s a photo. A Polaroid. Blurry, with a Go board and a handful of people clustered around it. Only one face is fully in focus. A girl with brown hair and even features who frowns at the camera and—

Me. It’s me.

The photo was taken at Millicent Smith’s birthday party. A game ends in a draw; Izzy yells at people to smile; all the Smiths turn toward her.

Except for the tallest. Who keeps looking at me, only at me, a faint smile on his lips.

“Oh,” I say softly. To whom, I don’t know.

I lean back against the pillow, staring at the picture pinched between my fingers. Lights still on, contemplating the fact that my furrowed brow resides in Jack’s nightstand, I drift off in a handful of seconds and dream of nothing.

•   •   •

When I wake up, the alarm clock says 3:46 a.m., and my first conscious thought is that I didn’t get the job.

I failed.

It happened.

I’m in the worst-case scenario.

The scene of me finding out from George runs on a loop in my brain for several minutes, each replay spotlighting a different mortifying detail.

I ran away in the middle of a conversation like a child.

I left my closest friend alone in a snowstorm.

I said terrible, unfair things.

I don’t make the decision to prowl downstairs, but once I’m there, I know it’s where I need to be. The lamps are off and the snow is still falling, but enough light comes from the street to make out the contours of the place. Of Jack, who lies on his back on the sectional, a thin blanket draped over his lower half. His eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep. Not sure how, but I know it. And he knows that I know it, because when I step closer, he doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes, but he does ask, “Do you need something?” His voice is scratchy, like he did sleep at some point.

“No,” I lie. Which, of course, he knows. He knows everything.

“Want me to bring you up some water?”

“No. I . . .” I’m awake, but not fully. Because I kneel beside the couch, my head just inches from his, and ask, “I . . . Can I tell you something?” His eyes finally open. He looks at me, and my hair is probably a mess, I am surely a mess, but I need to say this. “I don’t . . . What I said about George getting the job because she’s your girlfriend. Or friend. Because of some weird political intrigue—it was unfair of me. Despicable. And I don’t believe it. And I just—it was awful of me to—”

“Elsie.” His tone is even and deep. “Hey. It’s okay. You already apologized.”

He doesn’t get it. “I know, but of all the things that happened today, it seems like the shittiest. And I cannot control any of this—not my career tanking, not whether I’m going to have health insurance or make rent—but I . . . I can control the way I react. So I’m sorry I said it. About George. And about you. And . . . people do it to me all the time. In the last year of my Ph.D., I got this stupid award. When I walked into the student lounge the following day, other students were saying that it was only because I was a woman, and . . . I felt like total shit, and I really didn’t think they were right, but for a second I wasn’t sure, for a second they made me doubt myself, and I just—I don’t want to be like them. I—”

“Hey.” Jack shifts and then does something I don’t fully understand. He—

Oh.

Somehow, he pulls me up. And somehow, I’m on the couch. Lying on the couch. Next to him. My head nestles under his chin, his arms surround mine, our thighs tangle together. I open my mouth to say something like What the hell? or Oh my God or ?!??, but nothing comes out.

Instead, I burrow deeper.

“Assholes,” he says.

I’m still asleep. This is a dream. A nightmare. A blend. “Who?”

“The people who didn’t like you winning the Forbes award.” How does he know that’s the award I was talking about? “You should report them.”

“For what?” I ask against his throat. He’s warm and smells nice. Like sleep. Like clean. Like he could easily change my sink, save kittens stuck in a tree, extinguish a fire. “For being dicks?”

“Yes. Though HR would call it sexual discrimination and building a hostile work environment.”

“It’s not that simple,” I mumble.

“It should be.” His chin brushes my hair every time he speaks, and I remember trying to mention what happened to Dr. L. The way he commiserated with me but also said that it would be better if I just forgot it happened and focused my energies on physics.

“What would you do if your students said something like that?”

“I’d make sure they can never have a career in physics.”

The words vibrate from his skin through mine, and I know he means it. I don’t have a single doubt. And that’s how I start crying again, like a stupid Versailles fountain, and how his hold on me tightens, legs twisting further with mine. His fingers twine in the hair at my nape and press me deeper into him, shielding me from the cold and everything that’s bad.

“I just . . .” I sniffle. “I really wanted a chance to finish my molecular theory of two-dimensional liquid crystals.”

“I know.” His lips press against my hair. Maybe on purpose. “We’ll figure out a way.”

There is no we, I think. And Jack says, “Not yet, no,” with a small sigh that lifts his big chest. “It’ll be fine, Elsie. I promise.”

He cannot. Promise, that is. There are no reliable sources, no known quantities. We’re in a sea of measurement uncertainty. “Maybe this rejection will be my supervillain origin story.”

He chuckles. “It won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because this is not your character arc, Elsie. More like a . . . character bump.”

I laugh wetly against his Adam’s apple. I need to go back upstairs. I’ve never slept with anyone, never even considered it. I can’t control what I do at night—what if I move too much or snore or take up too much space? A cover hog is the Elsie no one wants. But with Jack I have nothing to lose, right? We’re past all that. “I can’t believe I woke you up at four and you didn’t murder me.”

“Why would I murder you?”

“Because. It’s late.”

“Nah. I’m kind of into it.” He yawns against the crown of my hair.

“You’ll really enjoy the thrill of frequent nighttime urination as a senior citizen, then.”

“It’s not that.” I think he might be about to conk out. “This . . . It fits nicely in a bunch of really weird fantasies I have about you.”

I remember the picture in his nightstand. His earnest face in Greg’s apartment. I’m breathing the same air as Jack Smith, but I don’t feel scared or unsafe.

Just comforted, really. Warm and so sleepy.

“Do these fantasies involve giant tentacle dildos?” I’m yawning, too. Fading fast.

“Of course.” I can hear his wry smile. “Way more outlandish stuff, too.”

“Milkmaid role-play?”

“Wilder.”

“It’s furries, isn’t it?”

“You wish.”

“You have to tell me, or I’ll picture necrophilia and dismemberment.”

“In my weird fantasies, Elsie . . .” He shifts me till our curves and angles match up. Perfectly. “In my fantasies, you allow me to keep an eye on you.” I feel his lips at my temple. “And when I really let go, I imagine that you let me take care of you, too.”

It does sound outlandish. “Why?”

“Because in my head, no one has done it before.”

I fall asleep huddled in the curve of Jack’s throat, wondering whether he might be right.