The Love Hypothesis

by Ali Hazelwood

  “Yep.” He nodded, though the movement seemed taut. Which had Olive realizing that maybe he was not as relaxed as she’d initially thought.

  “How much do you hate this, on a scale from one to ‘correlation equals causation’?”

  He surprised her by chuckling, though he still sounded strained. “I don’t hate it. And it’s not your fault.”

  “Because I know this is the worst possible thing, and—”

  “It isn’t. Olive.” He turned a bit to look her in the eyes, a mix of amusement and that odd tension. “These things are going to keep on happening.”

  “Right.”

  His fingers brushed softly against her left palm as he stole a bit of her sunscreen for his front. Which, all in all, was for the best. She really didn’t want to be massaging lotion into his chest in front of 70 percent of her Ph.D. program—not to mention her boss, since Dr. Aslan was probably watching them like a hawk. Or maybe she wasn’t. Olive had no intention of turning around to check. She’d rather live in less-than-blissful ignorance. “Mostly because you hang out with some really nosy people.”

  She burst out laughing. “I know. Believe me, I’m really regretting befriending Anh right now. Kind of contemplating assassinating her, to tell the truth.”

  She moved to his shoulder blades. He had a lot of small moles and freckles, and she wondered exactly how inappropriate it would be if she played connect the dots on them with her fingers. She could just imagine the amazing pictures it would reveal.

  “But hey, the long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proven by scientists. And you are pretty pale. Here, duck a bit more, so I can get your neck.”

  “Mmm.”

  She walked around him to get to the front part of his shoulders. He was so big, she was going to have to use all this stupid lotion. Might even need to ask Anh for more. “At least the department chair is getting a show. And you look like you’re having fun.”

  He glanced pointedly at the way her hand was spreading sunscreen on his collarbone. Olive’s cheeks burned. “No, I mean—not because I am . . . I meant, you look like you’re having a good time playing Frisbee. Or whatever.”

  He made a face. “Beats chitchatting, for sure.”

  She laughed. “That makes sense. I bet that’s why you’re so fit. You played lots of sports growing up because it got you out of talking with people. It also explains why now that you’re an adult your personality is so—” Olive stopped short.

  Adam lifted one eyebrow. “Antagonistic and unapproachable?”

  Crap. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You just typed it.”

  “I-I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to—” She pressed her lips together, flustered. Then she noticed that the corners of his eyes were crinkling. “Damn you.”

  She pinched him lightly on the underside of his arm. He yelped and smiled wider, which made her wonder what he would do if she retaliated by writing her name with sunscreen on his chest, just enough for him to only get a tan around it. She tried to imagine his face after taking off his T-shirt, finding the five letters printed on his flesh in the reflection of his bathroom mirror. The expression he’d make. Whether he’d touch them with his fingertips.

  Crazy, she told herself. This whole thing, it’s driving you crazy. So he’s handsome, and you find him attractive. Big deal. Who cares?

  She wiped her mostly lotion-free hands down the columns of his biceps and took a step back. “You’re good to go, Dr. Antagonistic.”

  He smelled of fresh sweat, himself, and coconut. Olive wasn’t going to get to talk with him again until Wednesday, and why the thought came with an odd pang in her chest, she had no clue.

  “Thanks. And thank Anh, I guess.”

  “Mm. What do you think she’ll have us do next time?”

  He shrugged. “Hold hands?”

  “Feed each other strawberries?”

  “Good one.”

  “Maybe she’ll up her game.”

  “Fake wedding?”

  “Fake-buy a house together?”

  “Fake-sign the mortgage paperwork?”

  Olive laughed, and the way he looked at her, kind and curious and patient . . . she must be hallucinating it. Her head was not right. She should have brought a sun hat.

  “Hey, Olive.”

  She tore her gaze from Adam’s and noticed Tom approaching. He, too, was shirtless, and clearly fit, and had a large number of abs that were defined enough to be easily counted. And yet, for some reason, it did absolutely nothing for Olive.

  “Hi, Tom.” She smiled, even though she was a little irritated by the interruption. “Loved your talk the other day.”

  “It was good, wasn’t it? Did Adam tell you about our change of plans?”

  She tilted her head. “Change of plans?”

  “We’ve been making great progress on the grant, so we’re going to Boston next week to finish setting up stuff on the Harvard side.”

  “Oh, that’s great.” She turned to Adam. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Just a few days.” His tone was quiet. Olive felt relief that it wasn’t going to be longer. For indiscernible reasons.

  “Would you be able to send me your report by Saturday, Olive?” Tom asked. “Then I’ll have the weekend to look it over, and we’ll discuss it while I’m still here.”

  Her brain exploded in a flurry of panic and bright red-alert signs, but she managed to keep her smile in place. “Yeah, of course. I’ll send it to you on Saturday.” Oh God. Oh God. She was going to have to work around the clock. She wasn’t going to get any sleep this week. She was going to have to bring her laptop to the toilet and write while she peed. “No problem at all,” she added, leaning even harder into her lie.

  “Perfect.” Tom winked at her, or maybe just squinted in the sun. “You going back to play?” he asked Adam, and when Adam nodded, Tom spun around and headed back into the game.

  Adam hesitated for just a second longer, then he nodded at Olive and left. She tried hard not to stare at his back as he rejoined his team, which seemed to be overjoyed to have him again. Clearly, sports were another thing Adam Carlsen excelled at—unfairly so.

  She didn’t even have to check to know that Anh and Jeremy and pretty much everyone else had been staring at them for the past five minutes. She fished a seltzer can out of the nearest cooler, reminding herself that this was exactly what they wanted from this arrangement, and then found a spot under an oak tree next to her friends—all this sunscreen fuss, and now they were sitting in the shade. Go figure.

  She wasn’t even that hungry anymore, a small miracle courtesy of having to apply sunscreen to her fake boyfriend very publicly.

  “So, what’s he like?” Anh asked. She was lying down with her head on Jeremy’s lap. Above her, Malcolm was staring at the Frisbee players, probably swooning over how pretty Holden Rodrigues looked in the sun.

  “Mm?”

  “Carlsen. Oh, actually”—Anh smirked—“I meant to say Adam. You call him Adam, right? Or do you prefer Dr. Carlsen? If you guys role-play with schoolgirl uniforms and rulers, I totally want to hear about it.”

  “Anh.”

  “Yeah, how is Carlsen?” Jeremy asked. “I’m assuming he’s different with you than with us. Or does he also tell you repeatedly that the font for the labels of your x- and y-axis is irritatingly small?”

  Olive smiled into her knees, because she could totally imagine Adam saying that. Could almost hear his voice in her head. “No. Not yet, at least.”

  “What’s he like, then?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, thinking it would be easy. Of course, it was everything but. “He’s just . . . you know.”

  “We don’t,” Anh said. “There must be more to him than meets the eye. He’s so moody and negative and angry and—”

  “He’s no
t,” Olive interrupted. And then regretted it a little, because it wasn’t entirely true. “He can be. But he can not be, too.”

  “If you say so.” Anh seemed unconvinced. “How did you even start dating? You never told me.”

  “Oh.” Olive looked away and let her gaze wander. Adam must have just done something noteworthy, because he and Dr. Rodrigues were exchanging a high five. She noticed Tom staring at her from the field and waved at him with a smile. “Um, we just talked. And then got coffee. And then . . .”

  “How does that even happen?” Jeremy interrupted, clearly skeptical. “How does one decide to say yes to a date with Carlsen? Before seeing him half-naked, anyway.”

  You kiss him. You kiss him, and then, next thing you know, he’s saving your ass and he’s buying you scones and calling you a smart-ass in a weirdly affectionate tone, and even when he’s being his moody asshole self, he doesn’t seem to be that bad. Or bad at all. And then you tell him to fuck off over the phone and possibly ruin everything.

  “He just asked me out. And I said yes.” Though it was obviously a lie. Someone with a Lancet publication and back muscles that defined would never ask someone like Olive out.

  “So you didn’t meet on Tinder?”

  “What? No.”

  “Because that’s what people are saying.”

  “I’m not on Tinder.”

  “Is Carlsen?”

  No. Maybe. Yes? Olive massaged her temples. “Who’s saying that we met on Tinder?”

  “Actually, rumor’s that they met on Craigslist,” Malcolm said distractedly, waving at someone. She followed his gaze and noticed that he was staring at Holden Rodrigues—who appeared to be smiling and waving back.

  Olive frowned. Then she parsed what Malcolm had just said. “Craigslist?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “Not saying that I believed it.”

  “Who are people? And why are they even talking about us?”

  Anh reached up to pat Olive on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, the gossip about you and Carlsen died down after Dr. Moss and Sloane had that very public argument about people disposing of blood samples in the ladies’ restroom. Well, for the most part. Hey.”

  She sat up and wrapped an arm around Olive, pulling her in for an embrace. She smelled like coconut. Stupid, stupid sunscreen.

  “Chill. I know some people have been weird about this, but Jeremy and Malcolm and I are just happy for you, Ol.” Anh smiled at her reassuringly, and Olive felt herself relax. “Mostly that you’re finally getting laid.”

  Chapter Eight

  HYPOTHESIS: On a Likert scale ranging from one to ten, Jeremy’s timing will be negative fifty, with a standard error of the mean of zero point two.

  Number thirty-seven—salt-and-vinegar potato chips—was sold out. It was frankly inexplicable: Olive had come in at 8:00 p.m., and there had been at least one bag left in the break room’s vending machine. She distinctly remembered patting the back pocket of her jeans for quarters, and the feeling of triumph at finding exactly four. She recalled looking forward to that moment, approximately two hours later, by which time she estimated that she’d have completed exactly a third of her work and would thus be able to reward herself with the indisputable best among the snacks that the fourth floor had to offer. Except that the moment had come, and there were no chips left. Which was a problem, because Olive had already inserted her precious quarters inside the coin slot, and she was very hungry.

  She selected number twenty-four (Twix)—which was okay, though not her favorite by a long shot—and listened to its dull, disappointing thud as it fell to the bottom shelf. Then she bent to pick it up, staring wistfully at the way the gold wrapper shined in her palm.

  “I wish you were salt-and-vinegar chips,” she whispered at it, a trace of resentment in her voice.

  “Here.”

  “Aaah!” She startled and instantly turned around, hands in front of her body and ready to defend—possibly even to attack. But the only person in the break room was Adam, sitting on one of the small couches in the middle, looking at her with a bland, slightly amused expression.

  She relaxed her pose and clutched her hands to her chest, willing her racing heartbeat to slow down. “When did you get here?!”

  “Five minutes ago?” He regarded her calmly. “I was here when you came in.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  He tilted his head. “I could ask the same.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to recover from the scare. “I didn’t see you. Why are you sitting in the dark like a creep?”

  “Light’s broken. As usual.” Adam lifted his drink—a bottle of Coke that hilariously read “Seraphina”—and Olive remembered Jess, one of his grads, complaining about how strict Adam was about bringing food and drinks into his lab. He grabbed something from the cushion and held it out to Olive. “Here. You can have the rest of the chips.”

  Olive narrowed her eyes. “You.”

  “Me?”

  “You stole my chips.”

  His mouth curved. “Sorry. You can have what’s left.” He peeked into the bag. “I didn’t have many, I don’t think.”

  She hesitated and then made her way to the couch. She distrustfully accepted the small bag and took a seat next to him. “Thanks, I guess.”

  He nodded, taking a sip of his drink. She tried not to stare at his throat as he tipped his head back, averting her eyes to her knees.

  “Should you be having caffeine at”—Olive glanced at the clock—“ten twenty-seven p.m.?” Come to think of it, he shouldn’t be having caffeine at all, given his baseline shiny personality. And yet the two of them got coffee together every Wednesday. Olive was nothing but an enabler.

  “I doubt I’ll be sleeping much, anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to run a set of last-minute analyses for a grant due on Sunday night.”

  “Oh.” She leaned back, finding a more comfortable position. “I thought you had minions for that.”

  “As it turns out, asking your grads to pull an all-nighter for you is frowned upon by HR.”

  “What a travesty.”

  “Truly. What about you?”

  “Tom’s report.” She sighed. “I’m supposed to send it to him tomorrow and there’s a section that I just don’t . . .” She sighed again. “I’m rerunning a few analyses, just to make sure that everything is perfect, but the equipment I’m working with is not exactly . . . ugh.”

  “Have you told Aysegul?”

  Aysegul, he’d said. Naturally. Because Adam was a colleague of Dr. Aslan, not her grad, and it made sense that he’d think of her as Aysegul. It wasn’t the first time he’d called her that; it wasn’t even the first time Olive had noticed. It was just hard to reconcile, when they were sitting alone and talking quietly, that Adam was faculty and Olive was very much not. Worlds apart, really.

  “I did, but there’s no money to get anything better. She’s a great mentor, but . . . last year her husband got sick and she decided to retire early, and sometimes it feels like she’s stopped caring.” Olive rubbed her temple. She could feel a headache coming up and had a long night ahead of her. “Are you going to tell her I told you that?”

  “Of course.”

  She groaned. “Don’t.”

  “Might also tell her about the kisses you’ve been extorting, and the fake-dating scheme you roped me into, and above all about the sunscreen—”

  “Oh God.” Olive hid her face in her knees, arms coming up to wrap around her head. “God. The sunscreen.”

  “Yeah.” His voice sounded muffled from down here. “Yeah, that was . . .”

  “Awkward?” she offered, sitting back straight with a grimace. Adam was looking elsewhere. She was probably imagining it, the way he was flushing.

  He cleared his throat. “Among other things.
”

  “Yep.” It had been other things, too. A lot of things that she was not going to mention, because her other things were sure to not be his other things. His other things were probably “terrible” and “harrowing” and “invasive.” While hers . . .

  “Is the sunscreen going in the Title IX complaint?”

  His mouth twitched. “Right on the first page. Nonconsensual sunblock application.”

  “Oh, come on. I saved you from basal cell carcinoma.”

  “Groped under SPF pretense.”

  She swatted him with her Twix, and he ducked a bit to avoid her, amused. “Hey, you want half of this? Since I fully plan to eat what’s left of your chips.”

  “Nah.”

  “You sure?”

  “Can’t stand chocolate.”

  Olive stared at him, shaking her head in disbelief. “You would, wouldn’t you? Hate everything that is delicious and lovely and comforting.”

  “Chocolate’s disgusting.”

  “You just want to live in your dark, bitter world made of black coffee and plain bagels with plain cream cheese. And occasionally salt-and-vinegar chips.”

  “They are clearly your favorite chips—”

  “Not the point.”

  “—and I am flattered that you’ve memorized my orders.”

  “It does help that they’re always the same.”

  “At least I’ve never ordered something called a unicorn Frappuccino.”

  “That was so good. It tasted like the rainbow.”

  “Like sugar and food coloring?”

  “My two favorite things in the universe. Thank you for buying it for me, by the way.” It had made for a nice fake-dating Wednesday treat this week, even though Olive had been so busy with Tom’s report that she hadn’t been able to exchange more than a couple of words with Adam. Which, she had to admit, had been a little disappointing.

  “Where’s Tom by the way, while you and I slave our Friday night away?”

  “Out. On a date, I think.”

  “On a date? Does his girlfriend live here?”

  “Tom has lots of girlfriends. In lots of places.”