Love, Theoretically
Ali Hazelwood
To all my readers, from the AO3 days to where we are now. The Adam and Olive cameo is for you.
PROLOGUE
In my life I have experienced regret, embarrassment, maybe even a touch of agony. But nothing, absolutely nothing prepared me for the ignominy of finding myself in a bathroom stall, pressed against the arrogant older brother of the guy I’ve been pretending to date for the past six months.
It’s an award-winning, rock-bottoming low. Especially when coupled with the knowledge that Jack Smith is saving my ass. When he picks me up by the waist to maneuver me around the cramped space, gravity-defyingly strong, I’m not sure what’s worse: the fact that his hands are all that prevent me from crumpling like a scrunchie, or the mortifying amount of gratitude I feel toward him.
“Settle down, Elsie,” he says against the skin of my cheek, terse as usual, but also incongruously soothing. He’s close—too close. I’m close—too close. Not nearly close enough? The sweet oblivion of death. “And stop fidgeting.”
“I’m not fidgeting, Jack,” I say, fidgeting.
But after a second I just give in. I close my eyes. Relax into his chest. Feel the scent of him in my nostrils, anchoring me to sanity. And wonder which one, out of my millions of asinine life choices, led me to this moment.
1
WAVES AND PARTICLES
Twenty-four hours earlier
All throughout middle school, my Halloween costume was the duality of light.
I made it with a marker, drawing a bunch of circles and zigzag lines all over one of Dad’s white undershirts I’d rescued from the trash can. In hindsight, the production value was so low, not even the physics teacher managed to guess what it was. I never minded, though. I’d walk around the hallways hearing Bill Nye’s voice in my head, his beautiful explanation of the ways light could be two different things at once, depending on what others wanted to see: a particle and a wave.
It seemed like a winning idea. And had me wondering if I, too, could contain two—no, a whole multitude of Elsies. Each one would be crafted, custom tailored, carefully curated with a different person in mind. I’d give everyone the me they wanted, needed, craved, and in exchange they’d care about me.
Easy peasy, photons squeezy.
Funny how my physics career and my people-pleasing career started around the same time. How I can draw a straight line from baby’s first quantum mechanics concept to my current job. Actually, to both my current jobs. The day one, in which I earn next to nothing by hatching physical theories that explain why small molecules cluster together like cliques of mean girls during lunch hour. And the other one, in which . . .
Well. The other one, in which I pretend to be someone else, at least pays well.
“Uncle Paul will try to rope us into a threesome, again,” Greg tells me, soulful brown eyes full of apologies, and I don’t hesitate. I don’t act annoyed. I don’t shudder in revulsion thinking about Uncle Paul’s sewage breath or his oily comb-over, which reminds me of pubic hair.
Okay, maybe I do shudder a little bit. But I cover it up with a smile and a professional “Got it.”
“Also,” he continues, running a hand through his messy curls, “Dad recently developed severe lactose intolerance but refuses to ease up on the dairy. There might be . . .”
“Gastrointestinal events.” Understandable. I’d resist giving up cheese, too.
“And my cousin Izzy—she’s known to become physically aggressive when people disagree with her over the literary value of the Twilight Saga.”
I perk up. “Is she pro or against?”
“Against,” Greg says darkly.
I love Twilight even more than cheese, but I can withhold my TED Talk on why Alice and Bella should have left all those idiots behind and ridden off into the sunset.
Team Bellice 4evah.
“Understood.”
“Elsie, I’m sorry. It’s Grandma’s ninetieth. The whole family will be here.” He sighs, breath smoky white in the night air of this icy Boston January. “Mom’s going to be at her worst.”
“Don’t worry.” I ring the doorbell of Greg’s grandmother’s town house and offer my most encouraging smile. He hired me to be his fake girlfriend, and he’ll get the Elsie he wants me to be: reassuring, yes, but also gently bossy. A dominatrix who doesn’t like to wield a whip—but could if necessary. “Remember our exit strategy?”
“Pinch your elbow twice.”
“I’ll say I’m feeling poorly, and we’ll duck out. And when the threesome offer comes, heavily imply that I have gonorrhea.”
“That wouldn’t deter Uncle Paul.”
“Genital warts?”
“Mmm. Maybe?” He massages his temple. “The only good thing is that my brother’s coming.”
I tense. “Jack?”
“Yeah.”
Stupid question. Greg only has the one. “I thought you said he’d be gone?”
“His work dinner got canceled.”
I groan inwardly.
“What?”
Shit, I groaned outwardly. “Nothing.” I grin and squeeze his arm through his coat. Greg Smith is my favorite client, and I will see him through this evening unscathed. “Let me handle your family, okay? It’s what you pay me for, after all.”
It really is. And I’m grateful every day that I’ve never had to remind him. Many of my clients wonder more or less openly what other services I might offer, even though the terms of service in the Faux app are pretty explicit. They clear their throat, stroke their chin, and ask, “What exactly is included in this . . . fake-girlfriend rate?” I’m often tempted to roll my eyes and knee them in the nuts, but I try to not take offense, to smile kindly, and to say, “Not sex.”
I also—to answer the standard follow-up questions—don’t kiss, frot, dirty talk, get naked, do butt stuff, give BJs, HJs, TJs, and whatever other Js might exist that I’m not aware of. I don’t let them pee on me or fondle my feet, nor do I facilitate and/or allow orgasms in my general vicinity.
Not that there would be anything wrong: sex work is legitimate work, and people who engage in it are just as deserving of respect as ballerinas, or firefighters, or hedge fund managers. But ten months ago, when I graduated with a Ph.D. in theoretical physics from Northeastern, I figured that by now I’d have a reasonably remunerated academic position. I did not imagine that at twenty-seven I’d be paying my water bill by helping adult men pretend that they have dating lives. And yet here I am, fake-girlfriending my way through my student loans.
Not to kill anyone’s buzz, but I’m starting to suspect that life might not always turn out the way you want. An unavoidable loss of faith: there are only so many times one can be hired to project the idea that a client is a charming, well-adjusted, emotionally available human being capable of holding on to a medium-term relationship with an equally high-functioning adult, in order to . . . Well, it varies. I’ve never asked Greg why Caroline Smith is so obsessed with the idea of her thirty-year-old son having a significant other. Based on snippets of overheard conversations within the Smith Cinematic Universe, I suspect it has to do with the massive estate that will come into play once the matriarch dies, and with the belief that if he provided the first great-grandchild, he’d be more likely to inherit . . . a diamond-studded water hose, I assume?
Rich people. They’re just like us.
But Greg’s nosy mom is still much better than his brother, who’s bad news for a whole bunch of reasons that do not bear contemplating. Frankly, it’s a relief that she is my target. It means that when the front door of Smith Manor opens, I can focus solely on her: the withholding, PVC-hearted woman who manages to air-kiss us, fuss with Greg’s hair, and push two full glasses of wine into our hands all at once.
“How’s life in finance, Gregory?” Caroline asks her son. He downs half of his drink in a single gulp—I suspect because I’ve heard him explain that he does not, in fact, work in finance. At least four times. “And you, Elsie?” she adds without waiting for a reply. “How are things at the library?”