“Is that a dare?”
She shook her head. “I want to talk. Just, can we not talk about the conference? Or science? Or the fact that the world is full of assholes?” And that some of them are your close friends and collaborators?
His hand closed into a fist on the table, jaw clenched tight as he nodded.
“Awesome. We could chat about how nice this place is—”
“It’s appalling.”
“—or the taste of the sushi—”
“Foot.”
“—or the best movie in the Fast and Furious franchise—”
“Fast Five. Though I have a feeling you’re going to say—”
“Tokyo Drift.”
“Right.” He sighed, and they exchanged a small smile. And then, then the smile faded and they just stared at each other, something thick and sweet coloring the air between them, magnetic and just the right side of bearable. Olive had to rip her gaze from his, because—no. No.
She turned away, and her eyes fell on a couple at a table a few feet to their right. They were the mirror image of Adam and Olive, sitting on each side of their booth, all warm glances and tentative smiles. “Do you think they’re on a fake date?” she asked, leaning back against her seat.
Adam followed her gaze to the couple. “I thought those mostly involved coffee shops and sunscreen applications?”
“Nah. Only the best ones.”
He laughed silently. “Well.” He focused on the table, and on angling his chopsticks so that they were parallel to each other. “I can definitely recommend it.”
Olive dipped her chin to hide a smile and then leaned forward to steal one edamame.
* * *
—
IN THE ELEVATOR she held on to his biceps and took off her heels, failing disastrously at being graceful as he studied her and shook his head. “I thought you said they didn’t hurt?” He sounded curious. Amused? Fond?
“That was ages ago.” Olive picked them up and let them dangle from her fingers. When she straightened, Adam was again impossibly tall. “Now I am very ready to chop off my feet.”
The elevator pinged, and the doors opened. “That seems counterproductive.”
“Oh, you have no idea— Hey, what are you—?”
Her heart skipped what felt like a dozen beats when Adam swept her up into a full bridal carry. She yelped, and he carried her to their room, all because she had a blister on her pinkie toe. Without much of a choice, she closed her arms around his neck and sank against him, trying to make sure she’d survive if he decided to drop her. His hands were warm around her back and knee, forearms tight and strong.
He smelled amazing. He felt even better.
“You know, the room’s only twenty meters away—”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Adam.”
“We Americans think in feet, Canada.”
“I’m too heavy.”
“You really are.” The ease with which he shifted her in his arms to slide the key card belied his words. “You should cut pumpkin-flavored drinks from your diet.”
She pulled his hair and smiled into his shoulder. “Never.”
Their name tags were still on the TV table, exactly where they’d left them, and there was a conference program half-open on Adam’s bed, not to mention tote bags and a mountain of useless flyers. Olive noticed them immediately, and it was like having a thousand little splinters pressed deep into a fresh wound. It brought back every single word Tom had said to her, all his lies and his truths and his mocking insults, and . . .
Adam must have known. As soon as he put her down, he gathered everything that was conference related and stuck it on a chair facing the windows, where it was hidden from their sight, and Olive . . . She could have hugged him. She wasn’t going to—she already had, twice today—but she really could have. Instead she resolutely pushed all those little splinters out of her mind, plopped herself down on her bed belly up, and stared at the ceiling.
She’d thought it would be awkward, being with him in such a small space for a whole night. And it was a little bit, or at least it had been when she’d first arrived earlier today, but now she felt calm and safe. Like her world, constantly hectic and messy and demanding, was slowing down. Easing up, just a bit.
The bedcover rustled under her head when she turned to look at Adam. He seemed relaxed, too, as he draped his jacket against the back of a chair, then took off his watch and set it neatly on the desk. The casual domesticity of it—the thought that his day and hers would end in the same place, at the same time—soothed her like a slow caress down her spine.
“Thank you. For buying me food.”
He glanced at her, crinkling his nose. “I don’t know that there was any food involved.”
She smiled, rolling to her side. “You’re not going out again?”
“Out?”
“Yeah. To meet other very important science people? Eat another seven pounds of edamame?”
“I think I’ve had enough networking and edamame for this decade.” He took off his shoes and socks, and set them neatly by the bed.
“You’re staying in, then?”
He paused and looked at her. “Unless you’d rather be alone?”
No, I would not. She propped herself up on her elbow. “Let’s watch a movie.”
Adam blinked at her. “Sure.” He sounded surprised but not displeased. “But if your taste in movies is anything like your taste in restaurants, it’ll probably—”
He didn’t see the pillow coming at him. It bounced off his face and then fell to the floor, making Olive giggle and spring off the bed. “You mind if I shower, before?”
“You smart-ass.”
She started rummaging through her suitcase. “You can pick the movie! I don’t care which one, as long as there are no scenes in which horses are killed, because it— Crap.”
“What?”
“I forgot my pajamas.” She looked for her phone in the pockets of her coat. It wasn’t there, and she realized that she hadn’t brought it with her to the restaurant. “Have you seen my— Oh, there it is.”
The battery was almost dead, probably because she had forgotten to turn off the recording after her talk. She hadn’t checked her messages in a few hours, and found several unread texts—mostly from Anh and Malcolm, asking her where she was and if she still planned to come to the social, telling her to get her ass there ASAP because “the booze is flowing like a river,” and then, finally, just informing her that they were all going downtown to a bar. Anh must have been well on her way to wasted by that point, because her last message read: Clallif u want tp join ♥ us, Olvie
“I forgot my pajamas and wanted to see if I could borrow something from my friends, but I don’t think they’ll be back for hours. Though maybe Jess didn’t go with them, let me text and see if—”
“Here.” Adam set something black and neatly folded on her bed. “You can use this if you want.”
She studied it skeptically. “What is it?”
“A T-shirt. I slept in it yesterday, but it’s probably better than the dress you’re wearing. To sleep in, I mean,” he added, a faint flush on his cheeks.
“Oh.” She picked it up, and the T-shirt unfolded. She immediately noticed three things: it was large, so large that it would hit her mid-thigh or even lower; it smelled heavenly, a mix of Adam’s skin and laundry detergent that had her wanting to bury her face in it and inhale for weeks; and on the front, it said in big, white letters . . .
“ ‘Biology Ninja’?”
Adam scratched the back of his neck. “I didn’t buy it.”
“Did you . . . steal it?”
“It was a present.”
“Well.” She grinned. “This is one hell of a present. Doctor ninja.”
He stared at her flatly. “If yo
u tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”
She chuckled. “Are you sure it’s okay? What will you wear?”
“Nothing.”
She must have been gaping at him a little too much, because he gave her an amused look and shook his head.
“I’m kidding. I have a tee under my shirt.”
She nodded and hurried into the bathroom, making a point not to meet his eyes.
Alone under the hot jet of the shower it was much harder to concentrate on stale sushi and Adam’s uneven smile, and to forget why he’d ended up allowing her to cling to him for three whole hours. What Tom had done to her today was despicable, and she was going to have to report him. She was going to have to tell Adam. She was going to have to do something. But every time she tried to think about it rationally, she could hear his voice in her head—mediocre and nice legs and useless and derivative and little sob story—so loud that she was afraid her skull would shatter into pieces.
So she kept her shower as quick as possible, distracting herself by reading the labels of Adam’s shampoo and body wash (something hypoallergenic and pH-balanced that had her rolling her eyes) and drying herself as fast as humanly possible. She took out her contacts, then stole a bit of his toothpaste. Her gaze fell on his toothbrush; it was charcoal black, down to the bristles, and she couldn’t help but giggle.
When she stepped out of the bathroom, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing plaid pajama pants and a white T-shirt. He was holding the TV remote in one hand and his phone in the other, looking between the two screens with a frown.
“You would.”
“Would what?” he asked absentmindedly.
“Have a black toothbrush.”
His mouth twitched. “You will be shocked to hear that there is no Netflix category for movies in which horses don’t die.”
“An obscenity, isn’t it? It’s much needed.” She crumpled her too-short dress into a ball and stuffed it inside her bag, fantasizing that she was stuffing Tom’s throat. “If I were American, I’d totally run for Congress on that platform.”
“Should we fake-marry, so you can get citizenship?”
Her heart stumbled. “Oh, yes. I think it’s time we fake-move-to-the-next-level.”
“So”—he tapped at his phone—“I’m just googling ‘dead horse,’ plus the title of whatever movie sounds good.”
“That’s what I usually do.” She padded across the room until she was standing next to him. “What do you have?”
“This one’s about a linguistics professor who’s asked to help decipher an alien—”
He glanced up from his phone, and immediately fell silent. His mouth opened and then shut, and his eyes skittered to her thighs, her feet, her unicorn knee socks, and quickly back to her face. No, not her face: some point above her shoulder. He cleared his throat before saying, “Glad it . . . fits.” He was looking at his phone again. His grip on the remote had tightened.
It was a long beat before she realized that he was referring to his T-shirt. “Oh, yeah.” She grinned. “Exactly my size, right?” It was so large that it covered pretty much the same amount of skin her dress had, but was soft and comfortable like an old shoe. “Maybe I won’t give it back.”
“It’s all yours.”
She rocked on her heels, and wondered if it would be okay if she sat next to him now. It was only convenient, since they had to choose a movie together. “Can I really sleep in it this week?”
“Of course. I’ll be gone tomorrow, anyway.”
“Oh.” She knew that, of course. She’d known the first time he’d told her, a couple of weeks ago; she’d known this morning when she’d boarded the plane in San Francisco, and she’d known mere hours ago, when she’d used that precise piece of information to comfort herself that no matter how awkward and stressful, her stay with Adam would at least be short-lived. Except that it wasn’t awkward now. And it wasn’t stressful. Not nearly as much as the idea of being apart from him for several days. Of being here, of all places, without him. “How big is your suitcase?”
“Hm?”
“Can I come with you?”
He looked up at her, still smiling, but he must’ve noticed something in her eyes, behind the joke and the attempt at humor. Something vulnerable and imploring that she’d failed to adequately bury within herself.
“Olive.” He dropped his phone and the remote on the bed. “Don’t let them.”
She just tilted her head. She was not going to cry again. There was no point in it. And she was not like this—this fragile, defenseless creature who second-guessed herself at every turn. At least, she didn’t use to be. God, she hated Tom Benton.
“Let them?”
“Don’t let them ruin this conference for you. Or science. Or make you feel any less proud of your accomplishments.”
She looked down, studying the yellow of her socks as she buried her toes in the soft carpet. And then up to him again.
“You know what’s really sad about this?”
He shook his head, and Olive continued.
“For a moment there, during the talk . . . I really enjoyed myself. I was panicky. Close to puking, for sure. But while I was talking to this huge group of people about my work and my hypotheses and my ideas, and explaining my reasoning and the trials and errors and why what I research is so important, I . . . I felt confident. I felt good at it. It all felt right and fun. Like science is supposed to be when you share it.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Like maybe I could be an academic, down the road. A real one. And maybe make a difference.”
He nodded as though he knew exactly what she meant. “I wish I had been there, Olive.”
She could tell he really did. That he regretted not being with her. But even Adam—indomitable, decisive, ever-competent Adam—couldn’t be in two places at once, and the fact remained that he had not seen her talk.
I have no idea if you’re good enough, but that’s not what you should be asking yourself. What matters is whether your reason to be in academia is good enough. That’s what he’d told her years ago in the bathroom. What she’d been repeating to herself for years whenever she’d hit a wall. But what if he’d been wrong all along? What if there was such a thing as good enough? What if that was what mattered the most?
“What if it’s true? What if I really am mediocre?”
He didn’t reply for a long moment. He just stared, a hint of frustration in his expression, a thoughtful line to his lips. And then, low and even, he said, “When I was in my second year of grad school, my adviser told me that I was a failure who would never amount to anything.”
“What?” Whatever she’d expected, that wasn’t it. “Why?”
“Because of an incorrect primer design. But it wasn’t the first time, nor the last. And it wasn’t the most trivial reason he used to berate me. Sometimes he’d publicly humiliate his grads for no reason. But that specific time stuck with me, because I remember thinking . . .” He swallowed, and his throat worked. “I remember being sure that he was right. That I would never amount to anything.”
“But you . . .” Have published articles in the Lancet. Have tenure and millions of dollars in research grants. Were keynote speaker at a major conference. Olive wasn’t even sure what to bring up, so she settled for, “You were a MacArthur Fellow.”
“I was.” He exhaled a laugh. “And five years before the MacArthur grant, in the second year of my Ph.D., I spent an entire week preparing law school applications because I was sure that I’d never become a scientist.”
“Wait—so what Holden said was true?” She couldn’t quite believe it. “Why law school?”
He shrugged. “My parents would have loved it. And if I couldn’t be a scientist, I didn’t care what I’d become.”
“What stopped you, then?”
He sighed. “Holden. And Tom.”
“T
om,” she repeated. Her stomach twisted, leaden.
“I would have dropped out of my Ph.D. program if it hadn’t been for them. Our adviser was well-known in the field for being a sadist. Like I am, I suppose.” His mouth curled into a bitter smile. “I was aware of his reputation before starting my Ph.D. Thing is, he was also brilliant. The very best. And I thought . . . I thought that I could take it, whatever he’d dish out at me, and that it would be worth it. I thought it would be a matter of sacrifice and discipline and hard work.” There was a strain to Adam’s voice, as though the topic was not one he was used to discussing.
Olive tried to be gentle when she asked, “And it wasn’t?”
He shook his head. “The opposite, in a way.”
“The opposite of discipline and hard work?”
“We worked hard, all right. But discipline . . . discipline would presume specifically laid-out expectations. Ideal codes of behavior are defined, and a failure to adhere to them is addressed in a productive way. That’s what I thought, at least. What I still think. You said that I’m brutal with my grads, and maybe you’re right—”
“Adam, I—”
“But what I try to do is set goals for them and help them achieve them. If I realize that they’re not doing what we have mutually agreed needs to be done, I tell them what’s wrong and what they must change. I don’t baby them, I don’t hide criticism in praises, I don’t believe in that Oreo cookie feedback crap, and if they find me terrifying or antagonizing because of it, so be it.” He took a deep breath. “But I also don’t ever make it about them. It’s always about the work. Sometimes it’s well done, other times it’s not, and if it’s not . . . work can be redone. It can improve. I don’t want them to tie their self-worth to what they produce.” He paused, and he looked—no, he felt faraway. Like these were things he gave a great deal of thought to, like he wanted this for his students. “I hate how self-important this all sounds, but science is serious business, and . . . it’s my duty as a scientist, I believe.”
“I . . .” All of a sudden, the air in the hotel room was cold. I’m the one who told him, she thought, feeling her stomach flip. I’m the one who told him repeatedly that he’s terrifying and antagonizing, and that all his students hate him. “And your adviser didn’t?”
The Love Hypothesis Page 23