Love, Theoretically

There are no curtains, and I wake up first.

The morning light is blinding white, as painful as a million naked mole rats gnawing at my eyeballs. Judging from the slow, rhythmic breath chuffing against the back of my neck, it’s something Jack has gotten used to.

I feel rested. Warm and cozy. At some point in the night I must have turned around in his arms, because my back is pressed against his chest. His hand is under my shirt, splayed flat against my belly, fingers brushing my pod, but not in a creepy, sexual way. He’s just trying to keep me close so that we both fit under the thin blanket. It should feel like being spooned by a piranha, but it somehow works, and . . .

Maybe it is a bit sexual. Because there’s something very hot, very, very hard, very, very, very big pressing against my ass.

Jack probably needs to pee. Don’t men get hard in the mornings when they need to go to the bathroom? It’s a pee erection. A peerection. Yup.

Still, I should leave.

I try to slip out from under Jack’s massive biceps, but he resists in his sleep. My heart races when he hums something into my nape, fingers gripping my hip. That hard thing pushes into me, trying to nestle farther between the cheeks of my ass, and I gasp.

“You smell so good,” he growls into my skin, and all of a sudden I’m glowing with heat and embarrassment and something else, something new and pulsating and unfamiliar. I squirm around the feeling. Oh God. Is this—am I turned on? He’s barely awake, and I bet he thinks I’m his pillow girlfriend or whoever he slept with last, and I’m here, all hot and—

“Elsie,” he nearly grunts. His arm tightens around my waist, then abruptly relaxes.

He’s still fast asleep. And this time, when I wiggle away, he lets me go. I’m running upstairs, flushing cherry red, and he’s once again breathing evenly.

It’s okay. It’s fine. Kind of creepy that I’m even thinking about this, since he’s asleep. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth (yup, with my finger), wash my face, and reassure Cece that I haven’t been sex trafficked.

My inbox is bloated with emails. The highlight:

From: [email protected]

Subject: Melanie

Melanie is a good person and did not mean to copy that essay from the internet, she told me so, and I believe her because I raised her and in my household we do not condone lies. She was framed (her roommate has a vendetta against her, ever since the menstrual cup incident). Please let my daughter resubmit her assignment.

Melanie’s mom

I sigh, twice, then stress-snoop in Jack’s cabinets. Finding some Rogaine or antifungal meds or prescription-strength deodorant would humanize him, but there’s only toothpaste (wintergreen—disgusting) and soap. So I sit back on the edge of the tub and spend an unspecified length of time thinking of a way to let Dr. L. know that I failed.

I failed him.

By the time I crawl downstairs, Jack’s moving around the kitchen, phone lodged between shoulder and ear, laughing softly and saying, “. . . since you’re staying three days, we—”

He turns around. When he notices me standing at the bottom of the staircase, his smile fades. Yes, I’m still wearing the Northeastern shirt I slept in, and yes, my hands are swallowed by my cardigan, and yes, I can’t help stacking my feet on top of each other.

Clearly, I’m bringing sexy back.

“Need to go—see you next week.” Jack puts down his phone, then slides a mug of coffee across the kitchen island. For me, I assume. Which means that I have no choice but to make my way there and take a seat on a stool.

He looks a bit disheveled, the back of his hair sticking up, stubble longer than last night, shoulders and arms filling the worn T-shirt, but he still has that air about him. Amused. Confident. Unbothered. I wait for him to mention that we slept together—We. Slept. Together. But he doesn’t seem to be inclined to be a dick about it.

“Hey,” he says.

The peerection (trademark pending) is gone. I think. I can’t really see. He probably used the bathroom downstairs and—

Not the point, Elsie. Focus.

“Hey.” I take a sip of my coffee—disgusting, as coffee always is. I set down my mug, open my mouth to apologize again about last night, about the state of the world, about the cluster of atoms that shapes my very existence, when he says, “Can I make you breakfast?”

“Oh.” I shake my head even as my stomach growls. “I’m fine, I—”

“May I please watch you eat something?” Bam, dimple. “It’ll be good for my mental health.”

I’ll just take this day for what it is: me marinating in a puddle of embarrassment. “If you have a piece of toast, that’d be great. Thank you.”

He nods, slips a slice of whole grain in the toaster, and then asks a really odd question. “Why aren’t you a full-time researcher?”

I blink. “What?”

“You got your Ph.D., then went straight to adjuncting. Most people try to squeeze in a full-time research position like a postdoc, especially if they’re not passionate about teaching.”

After years of hearing Dr. L. talk about Jack, it’s surreal having Jack bring up Dr. L., however obliquely. “I did think of it, but there weren’t any in the area. Theorists don’t exactly swim in funding . . .”

“What about other places? You want to stay in the Boston area?”

“Yes. Well, I don’t want to, but I should. For my family.”

“Are you close? Do they have health issues?”

“No. And no. Just, my mom and my brothers are . . .” Shit shows. Complete, utter shit shows. Like me. “I can’t leave.”

He nods. Like he doesn’t fully understand, like he understands too much. “You realize that your skill set would be of interest to more than theorists, right? Your work is highly translational. Experimental physicists would fight to have you on their teams.”

They didn’t, though. Dr. L. asked around widely, and no one was fighting. No one was even politely arguing. “Like who?”

He holds my eyes for a beat too long, and—

“No.” I shake my head. “No.”

His mouth twitches. “I do have the funding.”

“No.”

“And the need.”

“Nope.”

He’s fully smiling. Like I’m his personal entertainment center, amusing him in 4K and Dolby Surround. “We could negotiate salary.”

“No. Nope. No. I’m not going to work for you.”

“Why?”

“I’m not going to grade your tests and bring you coffee—”

“I have three TAs.” He looks pointedly at my full mug. “And I’m happy to take care of your coffee . . . You don’t even like coffee, do you?”

I squirm in the stool. “I . . .”

“Oh, Elsie.” He shakes his head in mock disappointment and takes away the mug. “I thought you were above sparing my feelings.”

“You were really nice to me last night, and . . .” I clear my throat. “Anyway, I can’t work for you.”

“Why?”

“Because you are Jonathan Smith-Turner and almost destroyed my entire field.” And Dr. L. would kill me, I don’t add, but I still feel a stab of guilt for being about to literally break bread with my mentor’s archenemy.

“Okay.” He shrugs, setting a glass of water and toast in front of me. “Disappointing. But it does give me free rein to ask something else.”

“Ask what?”

“Can I take you out?”

The words don’t immediately compute. For several seconds they float in my brain like driftwood, aimless, unparsable, and then their meaning dawns on me. “You mean you want to . . . murder me.”

He winces. “Once again, what happened to you?”

“You asked to take me out—”

“For a date.”

“Oh.” I blush. “Oh.” I scratch the side of my nose. “Um . . .”

Jack’s eyebrow lifts. “You seem more alarmed by dinner than murder.”

“No. Yeah. I mean, it’s just . . . Why?”

“You know, I’m growing concerned about your language comprehension skills.” The corner of his mouth is quirking up, and I cannot take this anymore.

“Stop it,” I order.

“Stop what?”

“Being amused by me! I don’t understand why you’d want to . . . We’ve done nothing but butt heads since the day we met.” I cover my eyes with both hands. “Why are you suddenly being so nice? Giving me shelter, offering me a job? I just . . . Is this some fetish of yours? Some people get off on armpit sex, you enjoy messing with me and—”

“Look at me, Elsie.” His voice snaps me to attention. Jack has moved around the island and is leaning against it, next to me. The back of his finger taps gently against my hand, grounding me. A silent Shut up, will you. “You done spiraling?”

“I’m not spiraling,” I lie. “Jack, believe me. You don’t want to spend time with me.”

He nods, thoughtful. “What else don’t I want?”

“I’m serious. For one, I’m technically still fake-girlfriending your brother.”

“Didn’t know it worked as a verb. Cute.”

“And you hate the personality-switching thing.”

“That won’t be a problem.” His eyes gleam. “Since I also enjoy calling you on your bullshit.”

My cheeks heat. “We have nothing in common. What would we even talk about?”

“We could spend two weeks just on liquid crystals. Or you could tell me about Twilight. Your erotic Bill Nye fan fiction phase. Stream of consciousness would be fine, too. I’d love to know what you’re thinking.”

“I think a lot about how much I hate you,” I say with no conviction.

“I think a lot about how much you hate me, too.” His smile is tender. “When’s the last time you had someone in your life you could be completely honest with, Elsie?” Asked by anyone else, it would be a patronizing question. Because it’s him, it just feels genuine.

“I . . .”

Maybe my parents, when I was very young. But I can’t remember a single moment in the past two decades in which I wasn’t context dependent. In which I didn’t feel the need to cut myself into pieces, serve the one I thought others would want on a silver platter. There have been easier people, like Cece. People who knew most parts of me, like Cece. Even people who recognized the pleaser in me and encouraged me to stop, like Cece.

Okay: there has been Cece. And I’m grateful. But even with her, I’ve never been fully sincere. I’ve always been scared that honesty would be the deal breaker.

“It’s been a while,” I say. But Jack already knew that.

“Then you’re overdue.”

This is . . . terrifying.

“No,” I say firmly, shaking my head. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m not interested.”

Disappointment darkens his eyes, but I can barely take it in before a phone buzzes—his.

“Shit,” he mutters. But he looks away and picks it up, and after a heaving sigh he says, “I need to leave.” He grabs a sweater from the couch. “Let’s go. I’ll drop you off first.”

I slide to my feet. “I can take the bus. The storm’s over, so—”

“Elsie.” Hand against my back, he pushes me to the entrance.

“No, seriously. You’ve already done so much . . .” He takes a soft, cozy black hat and slides it over my head. It’s not mine, but it feels great. And apparently I’m not awake enough to insist that I don’t need a ride and button up my coat at the same time. “It’s fine, I can even take an Uber and . . .”

He notices my shaking hands and gently brushes them away to do my buttons himself.

“Elsie, it’s fine. I get it. You don’t want me to take you out.” He gets to the highest button. His knuckles brush against my downturned chin. “At least let me take you home.”

•   •   •

Jack’s a confident driver, relaxed even in bad weather conditions, with the roads not quite clear and other cars swaying. I sink into the heated seat he turned on for me and remember the time I swerved to avoid a squirrel, almost causing a multivehicle crash.

The squirrel turned out to be a Wendy’s paper bag, but it’s fine. I’m good at other things. Probably.

“Feel free to pick up,” I say, pointing at Jack’s phone. It’s been buzzing nonstop in the cupholder, a weird techno soundtrack to NPR’s world news segment.

“It’s not a call,” he says, looking straight ahead.

More buzzing. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Just an incessant barrage of texts.”

“Oh. It sounds . . . urgent.”

“It isn’t. Not by any sane definition of the word.” He sighs, uncharacteristically defeated. “Do you mind if I stop somewhere before taking you home? It’s on the way and it’ll take a minute.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say—only to regret it when he pulls up a disturbingly familiar driveway. “This is . . . Isn’t this . . . ?”

Jack kills the engine. “Regrettably, yes.”

“I . . .” Should he be bringing me here, considering . . . literally everything? “Do you want me to, um, hide in the trunk or something?”

“It’s ten degrees. The car will get cold pretty fast.”

“So I should hide in the bushes?”

He looks at me like he’s going to stage an intervention for my tenuous grasp of the second law of thermodynamics. “Come on. It’ll be a minute.”

Outside feels like Hoth, and my butt actively mourns the toasty warmth of the seat. It’s considering a commemorative bench when the front door opens to the cruel, menacing, cutthroat glory of the most terrifying Smith.

Millicent.

“Well, well, well,” she singsongs, standing cross-armed. She’s wearing simple black pants and a cardigan, but even in a casual outfit there’s something intensely matriarchal about her. I cannot picture her ever having been anything but ninety and rich. “Look who’s not dead.”

“You know,” Jack says from my side, in that ever-amused tone of his, “I have many regrets in life.”

“I’m certain you do.”

“But teaching you how to text is the biggest.”

Millicent waves her hand. “When you were three, I had to drive you to the ER because you stuck a purple crayon up your butthole. That should be your biggest regret.”

Jack herds me inside the foyer with a gentle push on my lower back, like touching me casually is an established thing we have going on.

“You took your sweet time, considering the money you could inherit when I croak.” Millicent holds her cheek up for Jack to kiss her. He refuses, instead enveloping her in a bear hug that she pretends to bristle at but clearly loves.

“I told you,” he says, “just get buried with it.”

“I’m being cremated.”

“I hear paper burns great.”

She scoffs. “Keep on this way, and I’ll just will my entire fortune to Comcast.” She whirls around and marches down the glitzy hallway. Jack heads the same way, unperturbed, somehow managing not to look out of place despite being a mountain of muscles in a Caltech hoodie. After a moment of consideration, I decide to follow him.

Better not be alone. Wouldn’t want to be accused of stealing an ashtray.

We step into the same kitchen where Jack caught me lying about the wine two weeks ago. I watch him walk to a cupboard, hold Millicent’s eyes as he opens it, take out a bag of sugar, set it on the table, cross his arms, and ask, “Was this your life-or-death emergency?”

Millicent beams. “Why, yes. I just could not reach it, and I so hate bitter coffee.”

I glance at the cupboard. Which is . . . not high.

“Glad I was able to come to your aid on this very urgent matter.” Jack nods politely, stops for a quick peck on his grandmother’s cheek, then saunters to the door. His hand finds the usual spot on my back, and he gently pushes me out of the kitchen, clearly ready to leave, when—

“But since you’re already here, you should really stay for coffee.”

Jack’s arms drop to his sides, and he turns around.

“Millicent,” he says, stern. Amused. Must be a rich people thing, calling grandmas by their names. “Like I mentioned last week, and the ones before, you don’t need to trick me into spending time with you.”

“Oh, Jack. But I have been burned. Many times.”

“When was the last time you asked me to come over and I didn’t?”

“Three years ago. On my birthday. It could have been my last.”

“But was it?”

“Hindsight, shmindsight.” She stares remotely into the distance. “I waited and waited for my one bearable grandchild to show up—”

“I lived across the country.”

“—but alas, you’d left me. Abandoned me. Moved to the West Coast in search of something elusive. A Nobel Prize, perhaps?”

“I called you every day for seven years.”

“How’s that Nobel Prize coming along, anyway?”

He sighs. “You don’t have to trick me,” he repeats, and this time she grins at him, impish and mischievous, and I remember that she has always been my favorite of Greg’s relatives.

“But it’s more fun this way.”

I suspect this is an interaction they’ve had multiple times. I suspect Jack is trying to not smile. “I’m taking Elsie home. Then I’ll come back and—”

“Elsie?” Millicent turns, as though noticing me for the first time. “Elsie.” She takes a step toward me, and I stop breathing, trying to make myself inconspicuous. Who needs oxygen? I’ll just photosynthesize from now on. “Why is Elsie so familiar?”

I gulp. Comically.

“Ah. Yes. You beat Jack at Go.”

“We . . . tied, actually.” I glance at Jack, who’s smiling like my discomfort puts him in a good mood.

“Indeed.” Millicent’s eyes laser-focus on me, and I wonder what I should say if she asks why I’m here. What’s the cover story? “You don’t look too good.”

“Oh. I . . .”

“She had a rough night,” Jack says mildly. “Let her be.”

Millicent nods knowingly. “Dear, whenever they can’t get it up, they sit on the edge of the mattress with their heads between their hands and whine like babies and turn it into our problem, but—”

I gasp. “Oh, no. No, no, that’s not what we—”

“She just found out she didn’t get a job,” Jack explains, unruffled. “But thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“If you say so.” Millicent seems unconvinced. Then her eyes light up with a glimmer of recollection “Wait. She’s not yours, is she? She’s the girlfriend of the one who always looks like he just stress-ate a crab apple over a trash can.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “You mean Greg? My brother? Your grandson?”

“How would I know? I have four children and seven grandchildren. How many names do you expect me to memorize?”

“Eleven would be a good start.”

“Bah.” Her eyes fix on me, sharp. “She is his, though.”

“Not really,” Jack says. “It’s a long story.”

“Perfect. You can tell me over coffee. Two sugars as always, Jack?”

“Yup.” He turns to leave again. “I’ll have it when I come back from taking Elsie—”

“Nonsense. Elsie must stay, too. I simply cannot let her leave.”

“Yes, you can, because kidnapping is a serious felony offense.”

“Pssh.”

“I’m driving her home and—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupt. They both look at me, stunned by my capacity for speech. “I don’t mind staying.”

“See? She doesn’t mind!” Millicent claps her hands and drops any pretense of helplessness, pulling three mugs from a cupboard that’s much higher than the one with the sugar. Jack hesitates, though. He takes a step closer and scans my face for traces of my little untruths.

“Really,” I say only for Jack’s ears, “it’s fine.”

“Fine? Spending unremunerated time with two Smiths?”

Staying perfectly suits my yellow-brick quest for the lesser evil, because it allows me to postpone informing Dr. L. of what happened or even dealing with the consequences of it. As long as I’m here, time is suspended. The past is set, and I didn’t get the job. Any future, however, is possible: AOC will rise to power to forgive my student loans. My pancreas will produce its own insulin. I’ll retire to the countryside, live off the land, and spend my days thinking about the kinematics of crystal-rich systems.

And Jack knows, because his bullshit detector works like a charm: he sees that I really want to stay and pulls back a chair for me; then our coats are off, we’re sitting across from each other, and I’m glancing around to avoid noticing that he’s focusing on me like I’m the key to understanding the free-fall acceleration of antimatter. Millicent begins transferring fancy jam thumbprint cookies from a fancy box to a fancy plate. I scan the wrapping for nutritional values, finding none.

“So,” she asks conversationally, “how long have you two been doing it?”

I gasp so hard, I nearly choke. Jack calmly pours his coffee, unruffled. “We’re not,” he says.

“You’re not what?”

“Doing it.”

Millicent looks between us. “Not even a little bit?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think I’d know if we were.” Jack piles sugar in his mug, and I want to fling myself into an active volcano.

“I certainly hope so. Oh well.” She shrugs quaintly. “I guess it’s for the best. You were always so protective of your brother—it would be a tad out of character for you to seduce his girlfriend.”

“Let’s not use the word seduce before eleven a.m., ’kay?” Jack stands and starts moving around the kitchen. “And let’s talk about something else, since Elsie’s in the middle of an anoxic event.”

I absolutely am. My organs are shutting down.

“What else shall we discuss? I am but a helpless elderly lady. Nothing ever happens to me. Ah yes: the neighbors’ dog has been defecating on my lawn again. I’m considering hiring someone to go defecate on theirs. Would either of you be interested?”

“I’m a bit busy,” Jack says. A second later, a steaming mug appears in front of me. Jack cages me from behind, one hand next to mine on the table, the other fussing with something papery. He steeps a tea bag in the hot water, and I feel his chest brushing against my back and hair as he says, “But Elsie is in the market for a new job.”

I twist around to glare at him, but he’s already back to his seat. Millicent, on the other hand, is giving me an expectant look.

“I—sorry, I . . . I can’t, and . . .” It’s probably illegal? “Sorry.”

“Second job offer she’s refused this morning,” Jack murmurs.

“Mmm. Picky. No matter, I’ll ask my other grandchildren, then. Perhaps strongly hint that their inheritance will depend on it?”

“Less helpless elderly lady and more bitter old hag territory,” Jack says fondly.

“Perhaps. What’s with the tea?” she asks Jack.

“Elsie doesn’t like coffee.”

“Oh.” There’s something loaded in that oh. “You could have said so, Elsie.”

“No, she couldn’t.” Jack’s eyes hold mine from above his mug. The dimple appears, making my heart stutter. The air between us smells like Earl Grey, raspberry jam, and early Sunday morning. “But we’re working on it.”

My phone is long dead, there are no clocks in the kitchen, and I have no clue how long we sit at the table. I’m occasionally part of the conversation, but neither Millicent nor Jack asks much of me, and it’s nice, being in this Smith limbo of sorts. Focusing on the way Jack and his grandmother interact, a combination of teasing and deep, utter love for one another. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a room so full of honesty before, but I’m positive that not a single lie has been uttered since I came into this house. It’s exhilarating, but in a stomach-dropping way. Like a roller coaster, or eating blue cheese.

Jack and Millicent, I discover, spend part of every weekend together—preferably through an ambush. “Last week’s ‘life-or-death emergency’ was that she needed Bitcoin explained to her,” he says dryly. It’s obvious that he doesn’t mind.

“I also don’t get Bitcoin,” I say after a long sip of tea—the third hot drink Jack’s made for me in twelve hours. Not sure how this is my life.

“See?” Millicent smiles triumphantly. “Greg’s maybe-girlfriend is on my side.”

Jack and Millicent know more about each other’s lives than any relative of mine ever did about me. She tracks with no difficulty names, places, events he mentions, and in turn he doesn’t miss a beat when she announces that she’ll wear a green dress to the Rutherford dinner, or after she complains that she finished her show and has nothing to watch.

“You did not finish it,” he says.

“I did.”

“I got you twelve seasons of Murder, She Wrote. You cannot have watched them in one week.”

“There are no more episodes on the TV.”

He stands with a sigh. “I’m going to switch the DVD. Be right back.”

I open my mouth the second he disappears, ready to fill the silence with some comment about the weather, but Millicent is already giving me one of her piercing looks. “You’re not a librarian, are you?”

I clear my throat. “No. I’m sorry I lied. It’s a long story, but—”

“I’m ninety—no time for long stories. What is it that you do, then?”

I fidget with the tea tag. “I’m a physicist.”

“Like Jack.”

“Sort of. Not really.” I keep my eyes on the mug. The state of my career is a sore point. “He’s a world-renowned professor. I’m just an adjunct. And he’s an experimental physicist, while I’m—”

“A theorist.” She nods. “Like his mom, then.”

I look up and blink at her. “His mom?” Is Millicent getting confused? Like Grandma Hannaway before passing, when she’d mix me up with her least favorite sister and yell at me for stealing her apron? “You don’t mean the one who . . .”

“Died. Well, of course. He only ever had the one.” She scoffs. “It’s not as if Caroline was eager to take over. Heartbreaking, watching those two boys grow up so close. Same house, same family. One with a mother, the other without.”

“Oh.” I shouldn’t ask any of the questions buzzing in my head. Millicent is clearly under the impression that Jack and I are something we’re not, or she wouldn’t disclose this. But . . . “How old was Jack?”

“When Grethe died?” Grethe. “About one. My son remarried just a few months later. They had Greg soon after. You see, for the first few years, it was me who insisted that we tell Jack nothing about Grethe. I thought he could have a normal life, believing that Caroline was his mother and he had lost nothing. But Caroline was never fond of him, and . . . well, it was her right to refuse. I shouldn’t have interfered. Because I made it worse: a few years later he got into some trouble like children often do, and Caroline screamed at him, ‘Don’t call me Mom—I’m not your mother.’ It was a moment of weakness. And Caroline did feel guilty afterwards. But by then, Jack knew.” She sighs. “Hard to explain to a nine-year-old that everything he believes is a lie. That he shouldn’t call Mom the woman his brother calls Mom.” Millicent massages her temple. “Jack seemed to take it in stride. Except that he stopped calling his father Dad, too. I became Millicent. And ever since, he’s been very distrustful of lies. Very preoccupied with . . . boundaries. More than is healthy, I believe.” She busies herself stacking mugs on top of the empty cookie plate. For the first time since I met her, she looks her age. Frail, old, tired. Her mouth is downturned, bracketed by deep lines. “And yet Jack and Greg grew up thick as thieves, despite all that. The one saving grace.”

I remember Jack taking care of Greg after the dentist, and my heart squeezes. I try to picture them as kids, picture Jack being anything but his tall, assured, authoritative self, and fail miserably.

“Are you sure she . . . Grethe.” I want to ask if Turner was her last name. The reason Jack’s a Smith but not really a Smith. “Are you sure she was a theorist?” Physics runs in Jack’s family, when the only thing that runs in mine is eczema.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just . . . Jack doesn’t seem to like theorists very much.”

Millicent gives me a look. “He likes you, doesn’t he?”

She speaks like I’m the least sharp cookie in the jar, and I flush. “But he once wrote an article that—”

“Oh, that.” She chuckles, like it’s a fond family memory. First day of kindergarten, meeting Goofy at Disneyland, and that time her grandson sent an entire field of study into a tailspin. “That had nothing to do with theoretical physics. He was just a teenager acting out, angry because of what he’d found out about Grethe. But he’s a man now. A good one. Too bad I can’t leave him my money, or he’ll just divide it up between the rest of my ungrateful family.”

“What had he found out about Grethe?” Was the entire Smith-Turner Hoax about his mom? Did he . . . hate her? Was it some sort of revenge on her for . . . for what? Dying? It’s too ridiculous. “Did he write the article because of her?”

I must be asking too many questions. Millicent’s expression shifts, first to guarded, then to vacuous. “I forget,” she says with a ditzy shrug, even though she doesn’t. Millicent, I’m certain, hasn’t forgotten a single thing in her life—not Greg’s name, and certainly not what led Jack to be who he is today. “Jack will tell you. When you’ve been together long enough.”

“No, we . . . Really, Jack and I are not—we’re not doing it,” I say. My brain cringes so hard, it folds in on itself.

“Oh, I know. This is something else altogether, isn’t it?”

“It’s nothing at all. We’re not even friends.”

“Right.” Her tone is almost . . . pitying? “Well, you’ll figure it out in your own time.”

“Figure out what?”

“DVD player’s all set,” Jack announces, emerging in the doorway, “and I’ve left detailed instructions on how to switch to the next season, since the ones I wrote last week are gone.”

“Oh, yes. I had to throw the notepad at your aunt Maureen when she said my green pullover was too bright.”

“Of course, you had to. Can I drive Elsie home now? Or is the abduction still ongoing?”

Millicent huffs. “Do take her, please. I’m sick of both of you. You’re not nearly as entertaining as Jessica Fletcher.”

She kicks us out as unceremoniously as she welcomed us in, making a symphony of faux-irritated noises that are belied by how hard she clings to Jack’s hug.

“I’ll stop by later to shovel some snow,” he promises.

“Fine, but do not come in. I’ll be busy with my show.”

“I know.” He kisses her forehead. “Be good till next weekend. Have fun writing spite wills.”

“I shall,” she says defiantly before slamming the door in our faces.

“Does she really?” I ask on our way to the car. The snow crunches under our feet.

“What?”

“Write wills for spite.”

“Probably.”

“Why?”

“Pettiness. Boredom. Loneliness. When I was sixteen, my father made a comment about her roast being dry, and she pledged a million dollars to a bunny shelter.”

“God. Why?”

“It’s a vicious cycle. Most of my family does seem to gravitate around her because of the money, which is why Millicent wields it like a weapon. But that doesn’t endear her to the family members who are normal human beings and believe that threatening to vengefully pledge your estate to JPMorgan Chase just to make a point might be pushing it too far.”

“Is Greg one of the decent ones?”

“Greg’s the most decent, but he prefers to avoid Millicent altogether. He likes it when people get along, which cannot happen if she’s in a given quantum space.”

“Like Pauli’s exclusion principle.” We exchange a smile next to the passenger seat of the car. “You like her, though.”

“She’s an absolute monster. But she does burrow into you after thirty or so years,” he says fondly. “Like a tick.”

I laugh, my breath a gust of white in the space between us. “Should we explain to her that I wasn’t really dating Greg?”

“Nah. Millicent’s too busy launching feces wars to care about any of that.”

“You . . .” I try to sound casual. “Do you always call her Millicent?”

“It’s her name.”

“I mean, why not Grandma, or Gram, or Granny, or Mawmaw—”

“Mawmaw?”

“Whatever. Babushka. Maternal Forebear.”

Jack’s expression goes inscrutable. “It’s good, calling people by their names. It minimizes misunderstandings.” I think I see a split second of hesitation, like maybe he’s thinking of saying more, but it’s fleeting, swiftly gone in the glistening snow. “Come on. I’ll take you home before your roommate sends out an Amber Alert.”

I nod, because I do need to sort out the mess that is my life in a Smith-free space. But then something occurs to me: the rest of my life is going to be a Smith-free space.

A Jack-free space.

I’ll probably never see him again. Why would I? The circles we move in are a Venn diagram with little overlap. Maybe we’ll meet at a physics conference two years down the road, when I’m still an adjunct teaching forty classes a week and he’s workshopping his Nobel lecture. But my arrangement with Greg is likely over, which means that this is it. The last time I’ll see Jack. This man, this maddening, impossible, space-taking man who seems to know me despite all that I do to not be known, will be gone from my life.

I should be eager to go back to simpler times, when I used to spend zero hours a week in his company and my brain wasn’t made of guacamole, but . . . what a waste. What a surprisingly terrifying perspective.

And that’s why I stop him with a tug on the sleeve of his coat. Why I open my mouth and say with no forethought, no premeditation, and a lot of reckless panic, “Youcantakemeout.”

It comes out with no pauses or intonation, just a bunch of sounds smooshed together. Which Jack, judging by the knot between his brows, did not understand.

I clear my throat. Take a deep breath. “If you still want to. And if it’s okay with Greg. You can take me out.”

Jack just stares, motionless, reactionless, for way too long. “Take you out . . . in the mob way?”

“No. No! That’s not at all what I—” I blush. I’m cold and tired and my head hurts and I have no idea what I’m doing and why won’t he understand? “I can come to your place. I can take you out.”

He nods. Slowly. “In the mob way.”

“No, I—” I notice it, the amused gleam in his eyes, like he knows exactly what I’m trying to say. I press my lips together, because I don’t want to encourage him, I don’t want to smile, but I’m about to. “I hate you.”

“Sure you do.”

“Why is everything so difficult with you?”

“I like to keep you on your toes.”

“Listen—let’s hang out,” I say. This feels foolhardy. Ill advised. Exciting. “Just . . . try. See what happens. Would that be okay?”

“It would,” he says after a brief pause. “Under one condition.”

I frown. “Making demands already?”

“Always.” His mouth twitches, but he’s back to his opaque self. “If we do this . . . when you’re with me, I need you to be honest. No pretending you’re someone else. No trying to be whatever you think it is that I want. You say what you think. And when you can’t, at least let yourself think it. No lies, Elsie.” His jaw sets. “Just you.”

I nod. And then I realize that I have no idea how to do that, and I laugh, a little sad, a lot terrified. “I can try.”

He nods. “That’s enough for now.”

“You should be honest, too,” I add. “No lies on your end, either.”

“I don’t lie often,” he says simply. Hearing it makes me think of what Millicent said about his past, and my heart clenches. I’ve seen Jack being brutally, needlessly honest. Lying, not so much. “And I can’t see myself lying to you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t,” he admits. He studies my face for several moments, like he cannot stop on the cover or the first page, like he needs to read the whole book every time. Then he leans into me, and the icy chill of the morning melts away in his heat. My eyes catch on his cheekbones. The line of his jaw, so sharp it could cut a heart. His lips are full and upturned, a start of that lopsided smile of his that makes me angry and weak-kneed, and . . .

He bends to murmur in the shell of my ear, “I’d like to, though.” My hairs rise, my spine coils like a silent bowstring, and for the first time in my entire life I’m thinking of kisses, of skin, of waking with Jack this morning, of his hand between my shoulder blades, of the ink on his arm, of his lips, which look full and soft, and he hasn’t shaved in a while and he smells good and—

A click. Behind me. Jack straightens and pulls the passenger door open. That tension inside me is still buzzing. I feel almost dizzy.

“Get in,” he orders, low and hoarse and maybe not really to me.

I slide into the seat, and it sinks in that this might be real. Happening outside my head.

Me, taking a shot at being myself.