The Love Hypothesis

by Ali Hazelwood

  “Quick question. Who do you think Adam will believe, Olive?”

  She halted abruptly, just a few feet from the door.

  “Some bitch he’s been fucking for about two weeks, or someone who’s been a close friend for years? Someone who helped him get the most important grant of his career? Someone who’s had his back since he was younger than you are? Someone who’s actually a good scientist?”

  She spun around, shaking with rage. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I can.” Tom shrugged again. “Because as advantageous as my collaboration with Adam has been, sometimes it’s a bit annoying how he needs to be best at everything, and I like the idea of taking something away from him for once. Because you are very pretty, and I look forward to spending more time with you next year. Who would have guessed that Adam had such good taste?”

  “You are crazy. If you think that I’ll work in your lab, you are—”

  “Oh, Olive. But you will. Because you see—while your work is not particularly brilliant, it does complement nicely the ongoing projects in my lab.”

  She let out a single, bitter laugh. “Are you really so deluded that you think I would ever collaborate with you after this?”

  “Mmm. It’s more that you don’t have a choice. Because if you want to finish your project, my lab is your only opportunity. And if you don’t . . . well. You sent me information on all your protocols, which means that I can easily replicate them. But don’t worry. Maybe I’ll mention you in the acknowledgment section.”

  She felt the ground flip under her feet. “You wouldn’t,” she whispered. “It’s research misconduct.”

  “Listen, Olive. My friendly advice is: suck it up. Keep Adam happy and interested as long as possible, and then come to my lab to finally do some decent work. If you keep me happy, I’ll make sure you can save the world from pancreatic cancer. Your nice little sob story about your mom or your aunt or your stupid kindergarten teacher dying from it is only going to get you so far. You’re mediocre.”

  Olive turned around and ran from the room.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN SHE HEARD the beep of the key card, she immediately wiped her face with the sleeves of her dress. It didn’t quite do the trick: she’d been crying for a solid twenty minutes, and even an entire paper towel roll wouldn’t have been enough to hide what she’d been up to. Really, though, it wasn’t Olive’s fault. She’d been sure Adam had to attend the opening ceremony, or at least the department social after his talk. Wasn’t he on the social-and-networking committee? He should have been elsewhere. Socializing. Networking. Committeeing.

  But here he was. Olive heard steps as he walked inside, then him stopping at the entrance of the bedroom, and . . .

  She couldn’t convince her eyes to meet his. She was a mess after all, a miserable, disastrous mess. But she should at least attempt to divert Adam’s attention. Maybe by saying something. Anything.

  “Hey.” She tried a smile, but continued to stare down at her own hands. “How did your address go?”

  “What happened?” His voice was calm, pitched low.

  “Did you only just finish?” Her smile was holding. Good. Good, that was good. “How was the Q and A—”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. I . . .”

  She didn’t manage to finish the sentence. And the smile—which, if she was honest with herself, hadn’t been much of a smile to begin with—was crumbling. Olive heard Adam come closer but didn’t look at him. Her closed eyelids were all that was keeping the floodgates shut, and they weren’t doing a good job of it, either.

  She startled when she found him kneeling in front of her. Right by her chair, his head level with hers, studying her with a worried frown. She made to hide her face in her palms, but his hand came up to her chin and lifted it up, until she had no choice but to meet his eyes. Then his fingers slid up to her cheek, cupping it as he asked, yet again, “Olive. What happened?”

  “Nothing.” Her voice shook. It kept disappearing somewhere, melting in the tears.

  “Olive.”

  “Really. Nothing.”

  Adam stared at her, questioning, and didn’t let go. “Did someone buy the last bag of chips?”

  A laugh bubbled out of her, wet and not wholly under her control. “Yes. Was it you?”

  “Of course.” His thumb swiped across her cheekbone, stopping a falling tear. “I bought all of them.”

  This smile felt better than the one she’d cobbled together earlier. “I hope you have good health insurance, because you’re so getting type 2 diabetes.”

  “Worth it.”

  “You monster.” She must have been leaning into his hand, because his thumb was stroking her again. Ever so gently.

  “Is that how you talk to your fake boyfriend?” He looked so worried. His eyes, the line of his mouth. And yet—so patient. “What happened, Olive?”

  She shook her head. “I just . . .”

  She couldn’t tell him. And she couldn’t not tell him. But above all, she couldn’t tell him.

  Who do you think Adam will believe, Olive?

  She had to take a deep breath. Push Tom’s voice out of her head and calm herself before continuing. Come up with something to say, something that wouldn’t make the sky fall in this hotel room.

  “My talk. I thought it went okay. My friends said it did. But then I heard people talking about it, and they said . . .” Adam really should stop touching her. She must be getting his whole hand wet. The sleeve of his blazer, too.

  “What did they say?”

  “Nothing. That it was derivative. Boring. That I stammered. They knew that I’m your girlfriend and said that was the only reason I was chosen to give a talk.” She shook her head. She needed to let it go. To put it out of her head. To think carefully about what to do.

  “Who? Who were they?”

  Oh, Adam. “Someone. I’m not sure.”

  “Did you see their badges?”

  “I . . . didn’t pay attention.”

  “Were they on your panel?” There was something underneath his tone. Something pressing that hinted at violence and rage and broken bones. Adam’s hand was still gentle on her cheek, but his eyes narrowed. There was a new tension in his jaw, and Olive felt a shiver run down her spine.

  “No,” she lied. “It doesn’t matter. It’s okay.”

  His lips pressed into a straight line, his nostrils flared, so she added, “I don’t care what people think of me, anyway.”

  “Right,” he scoffed.

  This Adam, right here, was the moody, irascible Adam who grads in her program complained about. Olive shouldn’t have been surprised to see him this angry, but he’d never been like this with her before.

  “No, really, I don’t care what people say—”

  “I know you don’t. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He stared at her, and he was so close. She could see how the yellows and greens mixed into the clear brown of his eyes. “It’s not what they say. It’s what you think. It’s that you think they’re right. Don’t you?”

  Her mouth was full of cotton. “I . . .”

  “Olive. You are a great scientist. And you will become an even better one.” The way he was looking at her, so earnest and serious—it was going to break her. “Whatever this asshole said, it speaks nothing of you and a whole lot of them.” His fingers shifted on her skin to weave through the hair behind her ear. “Your work is brilliant.”

  She didn’t even think it through. And even if she had, she probably couldn’t have stopped herself. She just leaned forward and hid her face in his neck, hugging him tight. A terrible idea, stupid and inappropriate, and Adam was surely going to push her away, any minute now, except that . . .

  His palm slid to her nape, almost as if to press her into him, and Olive just stayed there for
long minutes, crying warm tears into the flesh of his throat, feeling how grounding, how warm, how solid he was—under her fingers and in her life.

  You just had to go and make me fall for you, she thought, blinking against his skin. You absolute ass.

  He didn’t let her go. Not until she pulled back and wiped her cheeks again, feeling like maybe this time around she’d be able to hold it together. She sniffled, and he leaned over to grab a box of tissues from the TV table. “I really am fine.”

  He sighed.

  “Okay, maybe . . . maybe I’m not fine right now, but I will be.” She accepted the tissue that he plucked for her and blew her nose. “I just need a while to . . .”

  He studied her and nodded, his eyes unreadable again.

  “Thank you. For what you said. For letting me snot all over your hotel room.”

  He smiled. “Anytime.”

  “And your jacket, too. Are you . . . Are you going to the department social?” she asked, dreading the moment she would have to get out of this chair. Of this room. Be honest, that sensible, ever-knowing voice inside her whispered. It’s his presence that you don’t want to be out of.

  “Are you?”

  She shrugged. “I said I would. But I don’t feel like talking to anyone right now.” She dried her cheeks once more, but miraculously the flow had stopped. Adam Carlsen, responsible for 90 percent of the department’s tears, had actually managed to make someone stop crying. Who would’ve thought? “Though I feel like the free alcohol could really help.”

  He stared at her pensively for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. Then he nodded, seeming to reach some sort of decision, and stood with his hand held out to her. “Come on.”

  “Oh.” She had to crane her neck to look up at him. “I think I’m going to wait a bit before I—”

  “We’re not going to the social.”

  We? “What?”

  “Come on,” he repeated, and this time Olive took his hand and didn’t let go. She couldn’t, with the way his fingers were closing around hers. Adam looked pointedly at her shoes, until she got the hint and slipped them on, using his arm to keep her balance.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To get some free alcohol. Well”—he amended—“free for you.”

  She almost gasped when she realized what he meant. “No, I—Adam, no. You have to go to the department social. And to the opening ceremony. You’re the keynote speaker!”

  “And I keynote-spoke.” He grabbed her red duffle coat from the bed and pulled her toward the entrance. “Can you walk in those shoes?”

  “I—yes, but—”

  “I have my key card; we don’t need yours.”

  “Adam.” She grabbed his wrist, and he immediately turned to look at her. “Adam, you can’t skip those events. People will say that you—”

  His smile was lopsided. “That I want to spend time with my girlfriend?”

  Olive’s brain stopped. Just like that. And then it started again, and—

  The world was a little different.

  When he tugged her hand again, she smiled and simply followed him out of the room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  HYPOTHESIS: There is no moment in life that cannot be improved by food delivered by conveyor belt.

  Everyone saw them.

  People whom Olive had never met before, people whom she recognized from blog posts and science Twitter, people from her department who’d been her teachers in previous years. People who smiled at Adam, who addressed him by his first name or as Dr. Carlsen, who told him “Great talk” or “See you around.” People who completely ignored Olive, and people who studied her curiously—her, and Adam, and the place where their hands were joined.

  Adam mostly nodded back, only stopping to chat with Holden.

  “You guys skipping the boring shit?” he asked with a knowing smile.

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll make sure to drink your booze, then. And to extend your apologies.”

  “No need.”

  “I’ll just say you had a family emergency.” Holden winked. “Perhaps future-family emergency, how does that sound?”

  Adam rolled his eyes and pulled Olive outside. She had to hurry to keep up with him, not because he was walking particularly fast, but because his legs were so long, one of his strides was worth about three of hers.

  “Um . . . I’m wearing heels, here.”

  He turned to her, his eyes traveling down her legs and then rapidly moving away. “I know. You’re less vertically challenged than usual.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Hey, I’m five-eight. That’s actually pretty tall.”

  “Hm.” Adam’s expression was noncommittal.

  “What’s that face?”

  “What face?”

  “Your face.”

  “Just my regular face?”

  “No, that’s your ‘you’re not tall’ face.”

  He smiled, just a smidge. “Are the shoes okay for walking? Should we go back?”

  “They’re fine, but can we slow down?”

  He feigned a sigh, but he did. His hand let go of hers and pushed against her lower back to steer her to the right. She had to hide a small shiver.

  “So . . .” She stuffed her fists in the pockets of her coat, trying to ignore how the tips of her fingers were still tingling. “Those free drinks you mentioned? Do they come with food?”

  “I’ll get you dinner.” Adam’s lips curved a little more. “You’re not a cheap date, though.”

  She leaned into his side and bumped her shoulder against his biceps. It was hard not to notice that there was no give. “I really am not. I fully plan to eat and drink my feelings.”

  His smile was more uneven than ever. “Where do you want to go, smart-ass?”

  “Let’s see . . . What do you like? Aside from tap water and hard-boiled spinach?”

  He gave her a dirty side-look. “How about burgers?”

  “Meh.” She shrugged. “I guess. If there’s nothing else.”

  “What’s wrong with burgers?”

  “I don’t know. They taste like foot.”

  “They what?”

  “What about Mexican? Do you like Mexican?”

  “Burgers don’t taste like—”

  “Or Italian? Pizza would be great. And maybe there’s something celery-based that you could order.”

  “Burgers it is.”

  Olive laughed. “What about Chinese?”

  “Had it for lunch.”

  “Well, people in China have Chinese food multiple times a day, so you shouldn’t let that stop you from— Oh.”

  It took Adam two whole steps to realize that Olive had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He whirled around to look at her. “What?”

  “There.” She pointed to the red-and-white sign across the road.

  Adam’s gaze followed, and for a long moment he simply stared, blinking several times. And then: “No.”

  “There,” she repeated, feeling her cheeks widen into a grin.

  “Olive.” There was a deep vertical line between his eyebrows. “No. There are way better restaurants we can—”

  “But I want to go to that one.”

  “Why? There’s—”

  She moved closer to him and grasped the sleeve of his blazer. “Please. Please?”

  Adam pinched his nose, sighed, and pursed his lips. But not five seconds later he put his hand between her shoulder blades to guide her across the street.

  * * *

  —

  THE PROBLEM, HE explained in hushed tones as they waited to be seated, was not the sushi train, but the all-you-can-eat for twenty dollars.

  “It’s never a good sign,” he told her, but his voice sounded more resigned than combative, and when the server ushered the
m inside, he followed her meekly to the booth. Olive marveled at the plates traveling on the conveyor belt weaving across the restaurant, unable to stop her openmouthed grin. When she remembered Adam’s presence and turned her attention back to him, he was staring at her with an expression halfway between exasperated and indulgent.

  “You know,” he told her, eyeing a seaweed salad passing by his shoulder, “we could go to a real Japanese restaurant. I am very happy to pay for however much sushi you want to eat.”

  “But will it move around me?”

  He shook his head. “I take it back: you are a disturbingly cheap date.”

  She ignored him and lifted the glass door, grabbing a roll and a chocolate doughnut. Adam muttered something that sounded a lot like “very authentic,” and when the waitress stopped by he ordered them both a beer.

  “What do you think this is?” Olive dipped a piece of sushi in her soy sauce. “Tuna or salmon?”

  “Probably spider meat.”

  She popped it into her mouth. “Delicious.”

  “Really.” He looked skeptical.

  It wasn’t, in all truth. But it was okay. And this, well, this was so much fun. Exactly what she needed to empty her mind of . . . everything. Everything but here and now. With Adam.

  “Yep.” She pushed the remaining piece toward him, silently daring him to try it.

  He broke apart his chopsticks with a long-suffering expression and picked it up, chewing for a long time.

  “It tastes like foot.”

  “No way. Here.” She grabbed a bowl of edamame from the belt. “You can have this. It’s basically broccoli.”

  He brought one to his mouth, managing to look like he didn’t hate it. “We don’t have to talk, by the way.”

  Olive tilted her head.

  “You said you didn’t want to talk to anyone back at the hotel. So we don’t have to, if you’d rather eat this”—he glanced at the plates she had accumulated with obvious distrust—“food in silence.”

  You’re not just anyone, seemed like a dangerous thing to say, so she smiled. “I bet you’re great at silences.”