Page 93 of Love, Theoretically
“This is such an M. Night Shyamalan plot twist,” she tells me from the kitchen, where she’s pouring milk into a bowl. “Do you see dead people? Oh my God—amIdead?”
“Shut up. I dress up all the time.”
She waves her spoon at me. “Not for dates.”
“Actually—”
“Not forrealdates with your professional archnemesis andbrother of the guy you used to fake-date, who you wished would incur a death by papercuts but now like enough to fix that cowlick on the back of your head.”
I sigh. “Great synopsis of my life.”
“Thank you. If you ever need a biographer...” She pours Cocoa Puffsintothe milk, like the nonsensical creature she is. “Where are you guys going?”
“Dinner with his friends. He has this really active social circle that makes me look back to that summer when my best friend was a watermelon with googly eyes and feel absolutely devastated.”
“In third grade?”
“High school.”
“Ouch. Well, you havemenow. Ready to call law enforcement if you’re not back by eight thirty. May I? I’ve always wanted to report a missing person.” She holds the spoon like a phone. “No, Officer, she didn’t have enemies, but shewaspart of a weird sectarian conflict that only someone with a doctorate in physics could fully grasp. Last seen cavorting with a big dude in a Saint Patrick’s Day Porta Potty. Yes, I’ll hold.”
I laugh. “Do text me before you call Liam Neeson. And I might be later than that, but I’m not spending the night.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
She gasps. The spoon clatters. “Are you not letting him smack the salmon because of the article he wrote? Is his seventeen-year-old self cockblocking him from the past?”
I frown—at her usage ofsalmonand at the reminder that why, yes, the guy I’m going out withdiddo that. And it’s not that I ever forget. It’s just that I truly cannot reconcile it—the way Jack is whenwe’re together, kind and funny and even admiring of my work, and the fact that fifteen years ago—
“Elsie? Is that it?”
“No. No, he’s just... not planning on having sex with me.”
Her eyes widen. “Areyouplanning on having sex with him?”
Maybe. Probably. No. Should I? I want to. I’m scared. Maybe.“I have to go.” I chew on the inside of my cheek and pick up my purse. Then stop at the door when Cece says, “Hey, Elsie?”
I turn around.
“You look pretty tonight.” Her big eyes are warm. “Even more than usual.”
I smile. I think I look medium as usual, but my heart feels open all of a sudden, open for Cece, this beautiful, odd person who cannot read analog clocks or tell the difference between left and right, who’s been sticking with me through thin and thin andthinfor the past seven years. For a moment, all I want is to open my mouth and say,I hate art house movies. Could we watch a rom-com sometimes?Riverdale? LiterallyanyKardashian show?
What comes out is “You look like a weirdo, pouring milk before the cereal, but I love you anyway.”
I step out to her middle finger. Then my phone rings, and that’s when my night collapses like an accordion.
In my defense, I pick up assuming it’s Jack, calling to say that he’s late, or that I’m late, or that someone hammered him in the frontal lobe and the resulting brain injury helped him realize that he doesn’t want to see me ever again. A tragic miscalculation on my part, because:
“Elsie, finally. You need to come homeright now.”
“Mom?”
“Lance is now with Dana. And Lucas punched him after the soccer game.Everyonesaw.”
God.“But I talked to them last week. Lance said he wasn’t interested—”