Love, Theoretically
: Chapter 8

What do you mean, you think we should leave them be?”

Mom’s voice is so shrill, I glance around to make sure no one overheard her through the phone. Dr. Voight waves at me before slipping inside the auditorium—the one where I’ll give my research talk in fifteen minutes—and my stomach flips, omelet-style.

“It’s just . . . Lucas is very stubborn. Short of locking him in my dishwasher, I’m not sure how to stop him from acting up.” I hasten to add before Mom asks me to do just that, “And I think he’ll be okay if we give him space to sulk.”

“What about Thanksgiving?”

Uh? “What about Thanksgiving?”

“What if he’s not done sulking by Thanksgiving? Where do I seat him? What if he doesn’t show? Your aunt will say that I don’t have my family under control. That she should host next year! She’s been trying to steal this from me for decades!”

“Mom, it’s . . . January.”

“And?”

I spot Jack and Andrea coming my way, laughing, Michi and a gaggle of grads in tow. He’s one whole head taller than the crowd—like at every single Smith gathering—and wears a gray long-sleeved henley that manages to look simultaneously like the first thing he found in the laundry hamper and a high-end piece tailored to showcase that protein is his favorite macronutrient.

Haute couture by Chuck Norris.

I wish he didn’t nod at me with that stupid smirk. I wish he wasn’t amused by my glare.

“If by November things aren’t better, I’ll . . . look into rope restraints and cheap storage space, I promise. Gotta go, Mom. I’ll call you back tonight, okay?” I hang up to replace a good luck email from Dr. L., who hasn’t quite mastered text messaging yet, and smile.

At least someone cares.

“I’m so, so sorry about yesterday,” Monica says, arriving in a flurry of clicking heels. Her eyes knife into Jack’s monstrous shoulders, and I do love how committed she is to despising him. Truly warms my high-risk cardiovascular system. “I left you with Jack for so long. I had no idea Sasha was late—men. So unreliable.”

“Not a problem.” It’s not even a lie. Last night I managed to put in two solid hours of email answering before dinner, and I didn’t even doze off when Cece told me all about the recent breakthrough in her analysis of “The Odessa Steps” (i.e., act 4 of the 1925 silent movie Battleship Potyomkin). We’ve watched it together before—multiple times, since I made the rookie mistake of pretending to love it the first. But last night I was considerably less tired than usual, and my theory is that Jack’s the reason.

Here’s the deal: things between him and me are unsalvageably bad. I’ll never conjure an Elsie able to please him, especially since he’s figured out my APE strategies. And as much as I hate knowing that there’s someone out there whom I cannot win over, it also lets me off the hook. With Jack, I don’t need to be someone else, because I can’t be someone else. It’s unsettling, and disturbingly baring, and also . . . relaxing.

Basically, I had fun with Jack Smith-Turner. A phrase never before uttered by a human tongue.

Have I been doing it all wrong? Maybe instead of getting people to think that I’m worth their time, I should stop giving a shit about them? Hmm. Food for thought.

“On the positive, everyone who’s had one-on-ones with you adored you, Elsie.” Monica grins. “And the students—glowing feedback. I think we got this in the bag. You just need to nail this research talk.”

No pressure. “On it.” I smile.

Her hand settles warmly on my shoulder. “You’ll be such a wonderful asset to the department.”

Ten minutes later, after Monica has introduced me to a packed auditorium (I suspect mandatory attendance), I can still feel the weight of her fingers. She mentioned the Forbes 30 Under 30, the SN 10: Scientists to Watch, and the Young Investigator Prize, and everyone clapped. People look between me and my slides. No one seems to be nodding off yet. I’m talking about the models I created, some unpublished material I haven’t had a chance to write up yet, and . . .

God. I fucking love it.

The thing is, I’m good at it. Really, genuinely good. Anything else I’ve ever been praised for—You’re so pretty, Elsie, so interesting to talk to, so funny, so extroverted, so introverted, so kind, so understanding, so pleasant, so thoughtful, so levelheaded, so insightful, so crazy, so carefree, so disciplined, so intense, so laid-back—is made up. A product of fog machines and carefully angled mirrors that reflect what others want me to be. But physics . . . I didn’t fake my way into physics. And I love talking about it to other people—not something I’ve been able to do over the past year, since I teach approximately seventy bajillion classes and my students are still at the “apple falls on head” stage of physics. I sometimes try to involve Cece in my work, but every time I mention liquid crystals, she giggles and whispers, “My Preciousss.” Which is okay. It’s not exactly a party topic, but physicists? They’re into it. Experimentalists love the applications, and theorists love to wonder what they were up to during the big bang, whether they’re the real origin of life on Earth, if they can be added to a smoothie.

It’s a win-win.

“. . . this was phase two of the model—let me know if it’s not crystal clear.” I deliver the first of my three scheduled puns to a roomful of chuckles. If the world is a just place, this prostitution of my sense of humor will buy me Volkov’s vote. “Now, moving on to the third.”

Jack’s in the fourth row, paying me an uncomfortable amount of attention, writing something in a notebook. At best, he’s doodling cool S’s—at worst, drafting an online petition to dissuade MIT from hiring a diabetic slug who pilfers imported sodas and catfishes impressionable young men. He has something planned. I know it. He knows it. We both know it, and that’s why our gazes meet and hold so often. But I’ve practiced this talk so much, I could give it while getting my crotch waxed. Whatever you’re plotting, I’m ready for it, I think at him the next time our eyes catch. He smirks back his familiar, uneven smile.

I carry on and wait for the shoe to drop. And wait. And wait. And . . .

It doesn’t. Jack doesn’t raise his hand to ask an unintelligible four-part question. His students don’t jump out of their chairs to stage an anti-theory flash mob. Once we get to the Q&A, I peek at the ceiling, fully expecting a bucket of pig’s blood. Nothing.

Just Dr. Massey, raising his hand from the left side, saying, “What a deeply fascinating model, Dr. Hannaway. Some of the experimentalists here would really benefit from your collaboration.” He points at a middle-aged man sitting in front of him. “Toby, you’re working on nematics.”

“No, not me. It was Dr. Deol.”

“No, Deol’s particles. Maybe Sasha?”

The room devolves into a chicken coop, everyone talking over everyone until Volkov interrupts: “Wasn’t it Dr. Smith-Turner?”

He turns around with effort, looking for someone, and I pray he misspoke. I pray there’s another Smith-Turner in the crowd. I pray for a quick and merciful ending. But: “Jack, you’ve been stuck on your nematics experiments, right? You could use this model, correct?”

I dare to glance at Jack, expecting to see him frown. To scoff. To lash back. But he says, “Indeed, I have. And indeed, I could.” He smiles a little, pleased in a way that’s not bitter enough for my taste.

I just knocked this talk out of the park. Jack should be sobbing. Why does he look almost . . . admiring?

His eyes hold mine again. I glance away first and take the next question.

• • •

“You are a most impressive young scientist,” Volkov tells me, pausing to pop a bacon-wrapped mushroom in his mouth. “A rising star, with a bright career ahead of you.”

“I’ll make sure to buy sunglasses.” I watch him cackle his way to the canapés table, hoping he won’t be back.

The interview went well, but I’m ready for it to be over. This shindig at Monica’s place is the homestretch: ostensibly, an informal reception meant to convey the amiable culture of the department and the convivial rapport among its faculty members. But I’ve been to tons of these back at Northeastern, and all they manage to show is that we academics are awkward, resentful nerds unable to interact with our colleagues without liters of ethanolic lubricant.

Which have by now been distributed. The room ranges from buzzy to outright drunk. The conversation from PS5 games to gossip about the grad students. (Cole is universally loathed, had a soul patch phase, once tried to organize an orgy in the spectroscopy lab. I should introduce him to Uncle Paul.)

Monica’s house is fancy and sprawling, and I shouldn’t be shocked: she is a big shot—of course she has KFC buckets of money. Many of those who manage to stick around academia till the full professor stage do, right? It’s just . . . the income difference between tenured faculty and people like me is gaping. Maybe scholars move up from the poverty line and forget all about how they used to jerk awake to coconut-crab roaches crawling on their skin. Maybe there’s a switch in the brain that teaches people the difference between hors d’oeuvres and amuse-bouches and makes them want to drop serious cash on cow skull wall decor?

I sip the club soda I pretended to splash with gin and mutter, “God.”

“Pretty sure God left this department years ago,” someone whispers above my ear.

I turn and—it’s Jack. Of course it’s Jack. The electron to my nucleus, constantly spinning around me in the most annoying of orbits. He’s so close I have to tilt my chin, and from this perspective it strikes me again how handsome he is. Like a picture in an airport store that sells fancy perfume.

“Stop frowning,” he orders, and at first I automatically smooth my forehead.

Then I frown harder. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Come on, Elsie.” The corner of his lips twitches. “I didn’t even ask you to smile.”

He’s standing in the door, one hand on each side of the doorframe. His biceps brushes against my hair, but I won’t step out of reach. I was here first. Also, I’m clearly twelve. “Did you need something?”

“Just checking in. Making sure you’ve eaten enough.”

I roll my eyes. “I did. Thanks, Daddy.” My blood sugar is at 120 milligrams. I’m killing it.

“Thought so, since you’re not lying facedown on Monica’s”—he glances at the rug beneath my feet, and his nose scrunches—“dead Dalmatian?”

“I think it’s cowhide?”

“Ah. That explains the skulls on the wall.”

“They really . . .” I clear my throat. “Tie the whole room together?”

“You think she killed them herself?”

“Why? Afraid you’re next?”

“Of course. Monica’s terrifying.”

I laugh. There’s nothing Jack can do to make me look unhirable now. We’re just two friendly archenemies chatting at a party. No one’s paying attention to us, which feels oddly nice. Isolating but restful. Because Jack expects nothing from me.

“Are you and Andrea dating?” I ask, because I can and I’m curious.

“No.” He seems surprised. “Why?”

I shrug. “I see you together a lot.” That’s who he was chatting with while Volkov soapboxed about competitive duck herding.

“We’re friends, we collaborate, we’re the only two faculty members under thirty-five.” He takes a sip of his beer. “I don’t date much.”

Right. That’s what Greg said, too. What bugs me is—I’m positive that Andrea, an otherwise brilliant woman, thinks Jack’s a nice guy. And that Michi thinks he’s a good mentor, judging by how comfortable she feels interacting with him via meltdowns. About anyone else, these would be green flags, but I know better.

“So,” I say, “your nematics experiments are going poorly?”

“Indeed. How did you know? Oh, right. You were there when Volkov announced my repeated failures to obtain decent results to a three-hundred-person auditorium.” The self-deprecating smile is back, and so is the dimple. I don’t want to laugh again, but . . . it’s hard. I’ve had a long day.

“I kind of liked it. In fact, I think I had an orgasm when it happened.”

“I bet.” His eyes darken around the blue wedge.

“On a scale from taking a CrossFit class to writing parody articles as a form of activism, how mad are you that someone suggested you use a model of mine?”

“What’s a CrossFit, and why would I be mad? My lab discussed the application of your model in our meeting today.”

I lean back to search his eyes. “What?”

“Michi bragged to everyone that you guys are friends. She followed you on Twitter, I think.”

“I don’t have Twitter.”

“I did tell her you probably aren’t @SmexyElsie69—”

“Wait, are you serious? Are you really going to apply my model?”

“Of course.”

“But it’s a purely theoretical model.”

He shrugs. “We’ve been stuck for months. And it’s brilliant. And like I told you multiple times, I’ve always incorporated theoretical models and collaborated with—”

“Stop.” I turn to face him directly and get half-wedged under his arm. We look like we’re about to embrace. In a Game of Thrones, stab-you-while-I-hug-you way. “Listen, I . . . Stop this, please. I don’t know what you want from me. I’ve been adjuncting for a year, and it sucks so much—so, so much. I just want a job in a good department to continue with my research.”

“You deserve it,” he says quietly. I feel the words for irony. Find no trace.

“Stop it,” I repeat. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but—”

“Game?” He scowls. “I just said that I hope you get the opportunity to continue your work, because you clearly are one of the great minds of our generation.”

I tense. “I don’t need your condescending praises.”

“I—” He shakes his head. His hand comes up to my chin, straightens my face to better study me. Which he does, for endless seconds, before asking, “What happened to you, Elsie?”

“Excuse me?” I feel flayed alive when he looks at me like that. Stripped to my bones.

“Every time I mention that I admire your work, you become dismissive and combative.”

No, I don’t. Or do I? “Maybe if you didn’t spend half your time reminding me that I’m on par with a skanky villain from a mid-2000s CW show, I—”

“I am able to multitask.” He sounds . . . not upset, but on his way. Not his usual detached self. “I can admire you as a scientist and at the same time resent what you’re doing to my brother.”

“Allegedly doing to your brother. And . . .” Am I being needlessly antagonistic? No. No, Jack and I are antagonists. Insulin and glucagon. Rey and Kylo Ren. Galileo and the entire Catholic Church, circa 1615. “It’s hard to believe that you respect me when all I know you for is dissing the very people who do my job and advocating for George to be hired.”

“That has nothing to do with you, and everything with George—who you know nothing about.”

“Right. Maybe if I met him and heard all about his one and a half publications, I’d withdraw my application in cowed admiration.”

Jack’s eyes widen. “What?” He bites the inside of his cheek. “Elsie. You’re operating on some pretty big assumptions—”

“Elsie. Here you are.” Monica crosses the cowhide toward us. She looks at me. Then at Jack. Then at me again. “I thought you might need some saving,” she murmurs in my ear. Judging from his half smile, Jack heard, too.

“I was just making sure she still wants to work with us after Christos put his hand down his waistband while trying to convince her that cereal is technically soup.” Jack’s tone is once again amused. Relaxed.

“He does make some valid points,” I interject before Monica field-dresses Jack on the cowhide. “Monica, this evening has been so lovely. Thank you so much for having me in your beautiful home.”

“But of course. Have you met my family?”

“Your husband, yes. His research is fascinating.” He’s an evolutionary biologist. We teared up together over the tawny frogmouths, who mate for life and let themselves starve by the body of their dead partner. Good times.

“What about Austin, my son? He just got home. He’s staying with us—currently between . . . careers. Looks like spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to major in golf management was not a good investment.” Her smile is tight. “Did you know Jack and Austin hang out?”

“Oh.” I look between Jack and Monica, who seem to replace the fact, respectively, amusing and teeth-grind worthy.

“We play basketball at the same gym,” Jack explains. His voice vibrates through me, like he’s very close.

“On Sunday nights. Right during our family dinner—which Austin hasn’t attended in weeks.”

“Maybe you should install a hoop in your living room.” He points at the wall. “Right there, between those two fossils?”

“Maybe you should install a hoop up your—oh, there he is. Austin, dear, let me introduce you to our guest of honor.”

A tall man resentfully stops staring at his phone to come to us. He’s handsome in a common, forgettable kind of way, and initially I think that’s why he looks vaguely familiar. But as I watch him exchange a friendly handshake with Jack, I realize it’s more than that. I’m positive that I’ve seen him before. Where, though? I cannot place him. One of my students? No. He must be in his late twenties.

Then it hits me. When Monica says, “Austin, this is a future potential colleague, Dr. Elsie Hannaway.”

Because Austin’s response is to give me the once-over, snort, and then say, “No, she’s not.”

And that’s when it occurs to me that the last time I met Austin Salt, he offered me seventy dollars to have sex with him.