Page 123 of Love, Theoretically
But it’s not surprising that Andrea would believe that. It’s exactly whereIbelieved he stood, approximately two meltdowns in his apartment ago. He’s Jonathan Smith-Turner. What he did to theoretical physics one and a half decades ago is in the Library of Congress and has a Wikipedia entry.
“What are you doing?” George says, appearing in the hallway.
“Oh, nothing. Just... looking at this art.” I point to a flower painting to my right.
“Do you want it? My wife made it with her ex at one of those paint-and-sip things. I’ve been trying to get rid of it.”
I laugh shakily. “Um, maybe next time.”
She enters the living room and I go to Jack, who’s staring out the window, back stiff and muscles coiled.
“Grumpy because you lost?” I ask, even though I know he’s not.I just want to watch the tension leave his body. Because maybe it’ll leave mine, too.
“Elsie.”
I heard you, I should say.Do you really despise—
You said “girlfriend”—
What did she mean, when—
But there’s no time. He leans forward, hands around my neck, and kisses me deep for a long time. People walk by, make jokes, give us looks, but he doesn’t stop. I don’t want him to, either.
“Everything okay?” I ask when he pulls back.
He looks away. Grabs his bottle from the counter and drains what’s left. “Want to leave?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
The ride to my place is quiet. I feel cold everywhere except on my knee—where Jack’s hand rests, his grip just a bit tighter than casual. I’m not sure why I invite him upstairs. Maybe I know what needs to happen. Maybe I’m just trying to hold on to him, to prolong that point of contact.
Cece’s not home, probably out on Faux business, and I’m vaguely relieved. Our place is messy, because the last time we cleaned was when Mrs. Tuttle came over to convince us that the green stuff on the wall was totally paint, totallynotmold. I try to see the apartment through Jack’s eyes, but to his credit he doesn’t act too Smith about the conditions I live in. Instead, he does something soJack, my chest almost explodes with it: he picks up the top of the credenza like it weighs nothing. His biceps strain against the flannel as he puts it where it belongs, perfectly centered on the bottom part.
Three seconds. For something Cece and I have been putting off for three years.
“Nice place,” he says, dusting off his hands on his jeans.
I laugh softly. “It’s not.”
He leans against the table where I’ve worked, eaten, laughed, cried for the past seven years. “Then you really should move in with me.”
I laugh again. I should thank him for the credenza. It’s just...
“I wasn’t joking. This place is...” There’s a bug, belly-up on the floor. “Don’t those live in tropical areas?”
“Mmm. Our working theory is that this place is a 4D nexus where multiple climate regions exist at once and... Were you serious? About moving in?”
He shrugs. “Would save you money.”
“Pretty sure half of your rent is more expensive than half of this.”
“I don’t rent. So you wouldn’t have to pay me. I don’t care about that.”
Right. He doesn’t care about money. Because he has money. “I can’t leave Cece,” I say lightly. “Want to take her in, too?”
“I have an extra room.”
I snort. And then realize the look he’s giving me.