Love, Theoretically
: Chapter 26

Irinse the dirty cheddar rescued from the floor, thinking, We should probably sweep more often; I hope we don’t get tetanus—just as Cece stands triumphantly with the last three blocks in hand and says, “This floor is surprisingly clean!”

I smile into the swirling drain.

“So.” She leans against the sink, arms crossed. “How much of you coming out as a lying liar has to do with Jack?”

I sober up and kill the faucet. “It’s not . . .” I shake my head. “It’s a mess.”

“What is?”

My heart wrings. “Everything.”

“But you had your sex-cation the other weekend.”

I heat up. “We didn’t really . . .” I notice her raised eyebrow and abort my Deny the Obvious mission. “Have you seen Kirk recently?”

“This is such an unskilled deflection attempt, I’m just gonna pretend it never happened. So, what exactly isn’t going on between you and the Jackster?”

“Whatever it seemed like . . . Wherever we were going, we . . .” I grab the dishcloth. We should probably clean that, too. “I think that might be nowhere.”

“How come?”

I don’t really feel like meeting her eyes. “He lied to me about something. And before you say anything—I know it’s rich of me to call out people for lying. But.”

“Hmm.” She drums her fingers against the steel of the sink. “Does this have to do with the article?”

“Yeah.” I sigh, folding the ratty cloth. “I’m done with sweeping stuff under the rug. If something makes me mad, I’m going to let myself be mad. And that article has been the ammo people use to make fun of my work for fifteen years, so—”

“No, I meant—the article he wrote today?”

I lift my eyes. “The what?”

“You haven’t seen it?”

“Seen what?”

“The entirety of academic Twitter is talking about it. Even the humanities—and you know how busy we are begging our boards of directors not to shutter our departments. Did you really not see it? Jack published an article. Today. In Annals of Theoretical Physics.”

I’m positive that a mallard must have flown in and eaten Cece’s brain.

“Wait—I was wrong,” she admits, and I relax. “It’s not an article. More like one of those op-eds?”

Maybe she’s high? Has she been inhaling Tauron fumes? “There are no op-eds about science.”

“There are op-eds about everything. Trout fishing, plasma coolant, velvet suits, the unbearable lightness of being—”

“Okay. Yes. But Jack didn’t write an op-ed, and if he had, he wouldn’t have published it in the Annals.”

Her brow furrows stubbornly. She picks up her phone. Taps the screen a few times, muttering something about the incredulity of Thomas, then thrusts it in my face.

“Cece, I can’t read anything that’s one millimeter from my nose.”

“Here.” She drops the phone in my palm and goes back to the tartiflette. I let my eyes focus on the words and—

The floor wobbles. Jerks. Then it drops from underneath my feet.

On the home page of the journal that published Einstein, Feynman, Hawking, there is an open letter written by Jonathan Smith-Turner.

An open letter addressed to the scientific community.

I take a few steps back, stopping when my thighs hit the table. The words on the screen feel like something Jack is murmuring in my ears.

The last time I published in Annals of Theoretical Physics, I was seventeen years old, and motivated by something that had nothing to do with science: revenge.

My mother, Grethe Turner, has long since passed away, but she was a brilliant theoretical physicist. When I was in my mid-teens I started developing an affinity for physics myself, and as a consequence I read her diaries and reached out to her former colleagues, hoping to get a better idea of what a career in physics might entail. That is how I discovered her awful experiences with her former mentor, who had forced her to leave academia.

That man was Christophe Laurendeau, and at the time he was the editor in chief of Annals. When I tried to report him for what he’d done to my mother, I was told that there were no grounds to open an investigation. So I took matters into my own hands.

I knew what kind of article Dr. Laurendeau would look upon favorably, and I knew from the grapevine that he was infamous for being lax when it came to the peer review of works that he believed would further his own scientific agenda. So I wrote something that would fit those criteria. Again: my aim was to sabotage Laurendeau’s career, and as unethical as that may sound, it’s something I stand by. He did suffer setbacks, and for several years he was unable to receive funding or mentor students—an outcome I cannot regret.

But that’s not all that happened. After I exploited one specific weakness within one specific journal to target one specific individual, the scientific community began to use my article as an example of the decline of theoretical physics. And what I regret is that as it happened, I stayed silent.

For over fifteen years I did nothing to dispel the idea that I believed theoretical physics to be inferior. I became a symbol of the enmity between theoretical and experimental physics, and of that, I am ashamed. I am ashamed of how it must have made my theorist colleagues feel, and I am ashamed that I did not quell these assumptions for over a decade. Above all, I am ashamed that I put a person I deeply respect in the position of having to explain to me the consequences of my own actions because I was too proud, too angry, and too self-centered to realize them.

So let me send a message to anyone who still cites my article as a weapon in some petty war within our discipline: don’t. I never believed that theoretical physics was less rigorous, or less important a field than experimental physics. And if you do believe that, you are mistaken, and you should read some of the most meaningful theory work of the past few decades. I am citing several below . . .

“Oh my God.” My hands are trembling. My legs, too. And the floor, I’m pretty sure. “Oh my God.”

“Yup.” I look up. I’d forgotten Cece existed. I’d forgotten to breathe. I’d forgotten the rest of the world was a thing. “That’s, like, the science equivalent of proposing with a flash mob.”

“No.” I shake my head forcefully enough to scroll out everything that’s inside it. Mashed potatoes, probably. “He’s not proposing. He’s just . . .” I crumple in a chair.

“Finally reckoning with his decades-long evil legacy because he wants you to be his girlfriend who sends him cute little heart emojis and sixty-nines with him every other day?”

I shake my head again. The truth is, it feels like it. Like the letter is addressed to me. “No—he—he doesn’t—”

“He does. He has that look. I can just tell he’s into all sorts of filthy stuff.” She grins. “Anyway, just from reading this, Madame Person He Deeply Respects, it doesn’t feel like you two are going nowhere.”

My mind is tottering in circles. No. Yes. “It’s complicated.”

“What is?”

“Jack. Jack is complicated.” I massage my temples. “Or maybe not. Maybe he’s not, but—I am complicated. Too complicated.”

“Okay. Totally. I’m not going to spare your feelings and fib about how complicated you aren’t. You did lie to me about liking David Lynch for seven solid years—unless you do like—”

“No.”

“Right. Well, this man just wrote an op-ed that’s gonna get the STEMlords to throw parsnips at him till the day he dies, and I’m pretty sure he did it for you, so that’s something you might want to consider. I mean, he does look pretty sturdy. He can take a few parsnips. He could probably take a whole cauliflower field. Plus, the power of love will numb the pain—”

“Jesus.” I cover my eyes. “Shit.”

“Elsie?” She kneels in front of me. “What’s the problem?”

“Everything.”

“Right. But if you had to be specific . . . ?”

“He’s right. He was right. I was mad because he lied, and he said that I was scared, and . . . I am scared. That I’m too messed up for him.”

“For Jack?”

I nod into my hands. “I lie all the time about who I am. While Jack is just—”

“Oh, Elsie.”

“He sees everything—”

“Elsie.”

“—and he’ll get sick of my bullshit—”

“Elsie?”

“—and he’s way too tall for me—ouch!” My arms drop. There is a red bruise on the back of my hand. Another cheddar cube on the floor. “What the—”

“Stop whining all over my kitchen,” she commands. “Fear aside, do you want to be with Jack? Do you like being with Jack?”

So much.

So, so much.

So, so, so much.

“I like it. But maybe I still shouldn’t.”

“There are things like that. That feel nice but are bad for you. Like MDMA, or Q-tips for ear cleanings. I don’t think Jack qualifies, though.”

“Why?”

Cece’s eyes are earnest. Her fingers reach out for mine.

“You know me, Elsie: I hate giving credit to a dude who probably went to kindergarten at a French château. But you’ve been seeing him for, what, weeks? And I don’t know what it is precisely that you two have been doing for each other. But he just let go of a very shitty thing he’s been carrying around for half his life. And you . . . I feel like I know you better than I ever did before. And I’m thinking that maybe, I owe it a little bit to him.”

I look at Cece, letting her words swirl around me in messy, complicated, unpredictable patterns. Then they settle inside my brain, and I can taste their truth.

Four weeks ago I was a different person.

No: four weeks ago I was an infinite number of different people. I’ve put myself in a hundred tiny boxes, played a thousand roles, sculpted myself in a million smooth lines. But for the first time in memory I’m fighting against that, and . . .

What do you want, Elsie?

I squeeze my hand tight around Cece’s. Then I stand, pick up my coat, and run out the door.

• • •

There’s something new on the door of Jack’s office.

Under the “Jonathan Smith-Turner, Ph.D.” plaque and the “Physics Institute, Director” subplaque, someone taped a printout of the Annals article Cece showed me earlier today.

All two pages.

Including the citations.

One of which is an article of mine.

“Dr. Hannaway?”

I turn to Michi walking down the hallway. “Oh—hi.”

“Hi!” She smiles widely at me. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I was . . .” I point at the door, which looks a lot like I’m pointing at the paper. I quickly lower my hand. “I was looking for Jack.”

“I think he went straight home after the faculty meeting.”

Shit.

No. Not shit. This is good. I can go to his place. I know where he lives. I’ve basically lived there, too, for a couple of weekends. So this is perfect—it gives me more time to think about what I’m going to tell him, since I have no idea. Why am I here? Just swept by the currents, like a salmon during mating season.

I shoot Michi a quick smile and speed-walk down the hallway. I think she yells after me that she followed me on Twitter, but I don’t stop to investigate. Instead I rehearse my conversation with Jack. Hi. Hey. Oh, hello. I’ve seen the article sounds like a good beginning. But I could also start softer. I was just in the area, and my dog ran away. Will you help me replace it? It’s a black-and-white Newfie with a big lolling tongue, and yes, if I have to make up an imaginary pet, I’m going to choose a cute one—

I’m thinking so hard, I barely register that someone is calling me. And it takes a “Dr. Hannaway, is that you?” for me to recognize the voice.

I turn around.

It’s Volkov. And behind him, Ikagawa and Massey. At their side, Monica, Sader, Andrea, half a dozen more people whose names I don’t remember from my interview, and behind, an entire head taller, a million miles wider, only just stepping out of the conference room . . .

Jack. Of course.

Michi was wrong. Faculty meeting only just ended.

“Dr. Hannaway,” Volkov says fondly, like I’m his niece who should visit more often, and even though there are twenty people staring at me and I’d like to disappear into the woods, I actually lift my hand and smile weakly.

“Are you an ocean?” he asks. “Because you just . . . waved!”

Oh God. When did this become my life?

“Elsie?” Monica butts in warily. “Is everything okay?”

My heart slams with mortification. I bet she’s afraid I’ll make a scene. “Um, I . . .” I got lost. Forgot my colonics paraphernalia in the bathroom a few weeks ago. Have you seen a Newfie?

No. No. Come on, Elsie. Honesty.

“I need to talk to Jack,” I say in my newly found firm voice.

Jack.

Who has, by now, noticed me.

And is coming toward me.

Standing in front of me.

Towering toweringly with a puzzled, towered frown directed at me.

Deep breaths. It’s okay. This is fine.

“I didn’t know you two talked,” Monica says, looking skeptically between us.

“I learned a few years ago,” Jack tells her calmly, staring only at me. She’s little more than a fly buzzing around us. “And Elsie’s in the process of mastering the art of speaking for herself.”

I glare. His mouth twitches.

“Elsie, has Jonathan been bothering you? Because I—”

“No. Not at all. We . . .” I’m beet red. “We do talk.”

Her eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in suspicion. “Does this talking you have been doing have anything to do with Jonathan’s article?” she says. To whom, I’m not sure.

Jack keeps looking at me, silent for a stretched beat. “The article was overdue.”

“It certainly was.” Monica huffs. “Still, this seems . . . highly irregular.”

“Not highly.” He shrugs. “More like middle of the road.”

She stiffens. “Jonathan—”

“Monica?” Volkov calls from behind. “Will you help us with the meeting minutes?”

She turns away with a threatening look at Jack, and suddenly I’m very, very aware that coming here might not have been my best idea. For a number of reasons.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He cocks his head. “Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t know—I . . .” I gesture around us, then look, and it’s a bad idea. People are lingering in the hallway, and I don’t think they can hear us, but they’re sure looking, and I wouldn’t want to—

Wait.

No. I don’t care about people and what they think. “I figured you’d be in your office.”

“Nope. We could go,” he offers. “Though if we disappear together into my office . . .”

I nod. Okay, so I do care a bit about what people think. Just the right amount. Maybe I don’t want them to picture me bent over Jack’s desk. Maybe I’m still confused. I’ll think more on this later.

“Elsie?”

“Yes?”

He’s laughing at me. And I hate it. And I love it. “What are you doing here?”

“I just . . .” I clear my throat. “I know we had a really bad fight. And I didn’t answer your calls, because I was really mad. And I know you thought that that was it, and we would never meet again, but . . .”

“I didn’t.”

Oh. “Oh?”

“I was giving you the space you asked for.” He looks patiently amused. “And there was something I needed to do.”

“Right. The article. I know you wrote it because it was overdue, and not because of me, but—”

“Both.”

“—I still wanted to . . . What did you say?”

“It was overdue. And I did it for you.”

My mouth is sand dry. “For me.”

He nods, and his amusement shifts into something more serious. “What you said was true. And it was the right thing to do. But also . . . Elsie, there’s very little I wouldn’t do for you.”

My cheeks burn hot and ice cold. “I . . . Jack. I need to explain. I—”

My phone chooses the worst possible time to vibrate. I glance down at the screen—Mom—reject the call, and immediately look back up at Jack.

“Sorry, I . . . Honesty. We’re doing this with honesty.” I inhale. “I came because I have several honest things to say to you.”

His mouth twitches. “Please, do.”

“Right. Okay. Then . . . first of all, I hate that you didn’t like Twilight, and it invalidates all your other opinions—in movies especially, but not exclusively.”

More phone buzzing. Which I ignore.

“I see.”

“You need to buy curtains, because your apartment is way too bright, way too early. And your grilled cheese is good, but it could be better if you added aioli.”

“Of course.”

“And—”

The iTwat buzzes again, and—dammit.

“Mom,” I pick up. “Not now, please.”

“Elsie. Finally. Your brothers have been giving me so many headaches, and you’ve been AWOL. I need you to—”

“I said, not now,” I repeat impatiently. “I’m in the middle of something important. Lucas and Lance are adults—if they want to ruin their lives, by all means, let them. I don’t care, and I don’t care what Aunt Minnie says on Facebook. Please, stop calling me with anything related to that.” I hang up.

Jack stares at me with a stony, impenetrable expression.

“Um, sorry about that.”

“No problem. It was . . .”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Unhinged?”

“I was going to say hot. Elsie, look at me.” His tone is commanding, but in a way I don’t mind. “Why are you here?”

“Because I . . .”

I close my eyes for a moment. Take a million deep breaths.

“Because I accepted George’s offer. And I’ll be working here next year.” His smile widens with undeniable happiness—then stops abruptly when I add, “And because I hate you, Jack.” I feel something warm on my lips. Salty, too. “I hate you, and it’s pretty annoying, since I think I might also . . .” I shake my head. “And you’re right—I am terrified, scared shitless that the more you know me, the less you’ll like me, and I just . . . I loathe it sometimes.”

He gives me a confused, curious look. Like he knows that I’m complicated, but he doesn’t mind. Like he’d rather spend the rest of his life studying an inch of me than discovering the mysteries behind the universe. “What do you loathe?”

“The way you seem to always get under my skin.”

“Elsie.” His eyes close for a brief moment. When he opens them, stars are born. “You think you don’t live under mine?”

“I . . . I don’t know, really. I don’t really understand you. You didn’t tell me about Laurendeau, and . . . you know everything about me, but I know next to nothing about you. I’m constantly showing myself, but you rarely reciprocate—some, sure, but so much stays hidden, and I’m not sure what . . .”

He moves closer. Cups my face. There are people all around us—Monica, Volkov, Andrea. Jack’s current and my future colleagues are getting a show, but he bends down anyway, like my space is his own.

“Okay, then. Honesty.” He tilts my face backward, lips brushing against my ears. “I want you, Elsie. All the time. I think of you. All. The. Fucking. Time. I’m distracted. I’m shit at work. And my first instinct, the very first time I saw you, was to run away. Because I knew that if we’d start doing this, we would never stop. And that’s exactly how it is. There is no universe in which I’m going to let you go. I want to be with you, on you, every second of every day. I think—I dream of crazy things. I want you to marry me tomorrow so you can go on my health insurance. I want to lock you in my room for a couple of weeks. I want to buy groceries based on what you like. I want to play it cool, like I’m attracted to you and not obsessed out of my mind, but that’s not where I’m at. Not at all. And I need you to keep us in check. I need you to pace us, because wherever it is that we’re going . . . I’m here. I’m already right here.”

Jack straightens. He takes a step back, an intense, calm look in his eyes. Like he’s said what he meant to and could never regret it.

“That was . . .” I clear my throat. “Honest.”

He’s quiet for a moment and then nods. “It’s what I want to be. With you. And I’m sorry I lied.”

“I . . . It’s okay. This once.” I clear my throat. “What you—the things—the fact that—” I take a deep, decisive, mind-clearing breath. And then I finally say it. “I am, too.”

His head tilts. “You’re what?”

“Almost there. Where we’re going . . . I’m practically there, really. It’s like . . . an inch away. I just need to . . .” I take another breath, this time shuddering. “I just need to replace my footing. Feel the ground.”

He smiles, and my heart thuds. Somewhere in the Tadpole Galaxy, comets are born, stars spring into being, liquid crystals twist, align, queue up in tidy formations.

“I’m here,” Jack says. We’re alone in this hallway, me and him. Just the two of us, in any way that matters. “But take your time, Elsie. I’ll wait for as long as it takes.”