Love, Theoretically

by Ali Hazelwood

“I’m not fidgeting, Jack,” I say, fidgeting.

“Bold of you to assume that the real me is my best hand.” That stupid, crooked half smile is back. “Foolish of you to think it isn’t.”

“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.”

He sighs. “Somewhere along the way your wires got crossed. Your brain decided that you’re not worth people’s time and effort, and that if you ask for anything, they won’t just say no, they’ll also leave you.” He says it matter-of-factly, like he’s Archimedes of Syracuse repeating his findings about upward buoyant forces to the acropolis for the tenth time. “That’s not how love works, Elsie. But don’t worry for now. I’ll show you.”