Love, Theoretically

by Ali Hazelwood

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

Suddenly, Jonathan Jack Jesus Christ Superstar Smith-Turner, who plays board games and teaches something that starts with phys- and is most definitely not physical education, is a big fucking issue.

“Are you turning yourself into what I want? Is that why whenever I’m with you, I . . .”

“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.”

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.

“He stood up for you when some shit-faced manboy verbally harassed you—Elsie, it’s the bare minimum. The bar’s so low, you could pick it up and beat him with it.”

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

“It’s easier like that, isn’t it?” “What is?” “Never showing anyone who you really are.” He watches me calmly. Patiently. In the soft light of the apartment, his eyes are dark all around. Sometimes I hear a car running, but the traffic here is not nearly as loud as at my own apartment. “That way if something goes wrong, if someone rejects you, then it’s not about you, is it? When you’re yourself, that’s when you’re exposed. Vulnerable. But if you hold back . . . Losing a game’s always painful, but knowing that you haven’t played your best hand makes it bearable.”

“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?”

“She’s beautiful, the girl. Really beautiful. There are lots of beautiful women in the world, and if you can believe it, it’s not something I usually notice, but I’m paying more attention to her than I otherwise would.

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.”

“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.”

“It was cute,” he rasps in my ear, “how you thought that fucking you once would make me want to fuck you less.”