Love, Theoretically

by Ali Hazelwood

“Are you turning yourself into what I want? Is that why whenever I’m with you, I . . .” His voice trails off, or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I’ve just reached critical mass.

“Not everyone wants you to be someone else, Elsie.” He’s wrong about that, but I can smell his skin. It’s good in a way that’s primeval. Almost evolutionary. I hate it. “And I definitely wouldn’t want you to be George.” “And why is that?” He presses his lips together. He’s even closer now. Surprisingly earnest. “It would be a waste.” “A waste of what?” “Of you.”

“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.”

“Have you considered that maybe you’re already the way I want you to be? That maybe there are no signals because nothing needs to be changed?”

“I’m relieved because whatever thing I have for her, it’ll go away. It won’t survive knowing that she lied. Except that I didn’t account for having to watch her talk about physics, or read her work. I didn’t account for having to spend two days with her and finding out that she is . . .” He smiles at me. Gentle. Resigned. “Spectacular.”

It occurs to me on Friday night that the attraction has little to do with him being tall or handsome, and everything to do with how perceptive he is. Jack sees me—a puppet who maybe, just maybe, is a real girl after all.

and inexplicable, gut-felt presence. Taking up more room than he should on the sidewalk, looking at me as though I’m the ghost of Nikola Tesla and meeting me by chance in downtown Boston is unforeseen but very welcome.

“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.

The cabin smells like leather, Jack, and bad ideas. I should say something. Hi, how are you? Did you have a good week? Favorite Teletubby? Off-year elections thoughts? I’ve done this a million times—gone out with people. A million fake dates. Then why? Why? Why can’t I . . . Why? “I think,” he drawls, “I just heard your head explode.” I turn to him. He’s handsome in a near-painful way, and my head is still in mid-explosion.

“More so than a dozen people in monogrammed shirts vulture-circling a ninety-year-old in the hope that she’ll drop dead and a few wads of cash will roll in their direction?”

“So, to summarize: Because your pancreas stopped producing insulin when you were a child, you now owe your family a doula-worthy degree of emotional labor?”

“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.”

“You could be my entire world,” he whispers in my ear before moving to my collarbone. “If you let me.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “I’m starting to be partial to the way you bypass all rational explanations for everything I say, and dash straight to me being an unhinged serial killer.”