Love, Theoretically

by Ali Hazelwood

I’d give everyone the me they wanted, needed, craved, and in exchange they’d care about me.

I find that people like me better if they don’t have to expend emotional energy on me.

none other than Jack Smith.

The class is (predictably) 90 percent male and (predictably) made of students who are around my age. It’s complicated, being a woman in STEM. Even more so when you’re young and unproven. And even more so when you have a semi-pathological need to get along with others.

That you tirelessly study people. Figure out who they are, what they want, and then mold yourself into whatever shape you think will fit them.

Elsie. I’m happy to take over.”

“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.

Where you delete and remake yourself?”

“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.”

“Jacky has a thing for you. Like, he stares all the time. And he asks so many questions about you.”

“Oh, Greg.” This is mortifying. “That’s . . . really not what’s happening.” In the front seat, Jack’s silence is quietly, painfully loud.

“But you’re cool. Like . . . a Barbie.” “A Barbie?” “You’re not blond. But there’s one of you for every occasion.”

“After you left, I . . . followed up with him.”

Do aromatherapy together and discuss who has the biggest Hadron Collider?” “George will get the job anyway. And we won’t be doing that.” A wild dimple appears. “Everyone knows yours is larger, anyway.”

“That way if something goes wrong, if someone rejects you, then it’s not about you, is it?

“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?”

weird, since we talk nearly every day.

It’s because I want her for myself. I want to . . . I don’t even fucking know. I want to take her to dinner, make sure she’s relaxed, make sure she doesn’t feel like she needs to think two steps ahead. I want to know why she can hold a Go stone. And I really, really want to . . . well. I’ll spare you the graphic details. I’m sure you can imagine.”

“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.”

I’m George.” My brain halts. “Well, Georgina. Sepulveda. But please, call me George.”

So I open the drawer, bracing myself for . . . I don’t know. Cock rings. Thumbs. A copy of Atlas Shrugged. But the inside is surprisingly mundane: tissues, pens, keys, a flashlight with a few batteries, coins, and a white piece of paper that I cannot resist picking up. It’s a photo. A Polaroid. Blurry, with a Go board and a handful of people clustered around it. Only one face is fully in focus. A girl with brown hair and even features who frowns at the camera and— Me. It’s me.

“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.”

“Leave them on, too.” His jaw works. “Please.”

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