The Love Hypothesis

by Laura Steven

  Still, I don’t want to break the nightly ritual, so I grab an onion, a knife and a chopping board and start peeling while Dad asks me inane questions about school. Then, while he’s off on a diatribe about molarity calculations, I blurt out, ‘I have a boyfriend.’

  Without missing a beat, Dad asks, ‘Has he been recently tested for sexually transmitted infections? It is acceptable to demand paperwork in these situations, Caro. You would be amazed how many individuals feel no qualms in lying about their genital wellbeing.’

  ‘Your obsession with venereal disease is profoundly disturbing,’ I mutter. I usually don’t mind Dad’s matter-of-fact manner. Hell, I love him for it. But I’m starting to wish I’d told Vati first, enthusiastic madman that he is. ‘Is that all you have to say?’ I mumble. ‘Are you happy for me at least?’

  ‘If you are happy, I am happy.’ The way he says it is so heartfelt that my irritation melts away. I squeeze his forearm as he chops next to me, and give him his due, he doesn’t flinch at the onion juice I’ve just smeared all over his sweater.

  His words remind me of the conversation I overheard between him and Vati. About how he’s going back to work instead of finishing his book just because of me, because he wants to set aside a pot of money for me going to college.

  If you are happy, I am happy.

  Works both ways, Dad.

  Extremely subtly, I clear my throat and say, ‘How’s the book going?’

  His knife slows on the carrot for a moment. ‘Actually, I shall be returning to work next week.’ He picks up speed again, annihilating Vati’s carrot. ‘My sabbatical has come to an end, and I am not where I wanted to be with the book.’

  I dab my eyes, streaming with hot tears from the son-of-a-bitch onion I’m dicing. I now understand why Vati wears swimming goggles while cooking. ‘So take some more time off. Finish it. Get to where you want to be.’

  A wistful chuckle. ‘Oh, to be young and idealistic. You always were like that.’

  ‘I can’t tell if that’s a compliment,’ I say.

  ‘It is merely a statement. It is up to you to assign value to it.’

  He is impossible sometimes. Scraping my onion cubes into a pan with some vegetable oil, I say, ‘I still think you should finish your book.’

  This time he doesn’t even dignify my youthfully naïve statement with a response. ‘Will you go and ask Felix to pick some herbs from the garden?’

  ‘Fine.’ I leave him to stir the spitting pan and mosey into the living room. ‘Vati!’ I call over the too-loud salsa music. ‘Herbs!’

  That’s when I realize what he’s doing. He’s crashed into the coffee table and face-planted the floral lampshade, which he is now wearing like a hat.

  ‘Do you know what I love about Zumba, Bärchen ?’ he wheezes, voice echoing inside the lampshade. ‘There are no wrong moves.’

  After dinner, I plow through my homework, take a shower, then curl up in my bed to watch What Happens In Vegas. Dad is still awake, trying to get as much finished as possible on his book before he returns to work, so I can’t sneak downstairs for a cheeky vino lest he immediately drag me to rehab.

  As Cameron Diaz and Ashton Kutcher get drunk and irresponsible on my screen, I try to unpack everything that unfolded over the last twenty-four hours. I replay the riverwalk with Haruki in my mind, the soft Earl Grey kiss, the earnest question: will you be my girlfriend? But no matter how many times I force myself to recall every single detail, it feels like I’m watching it through a stranger’s eyes. Like that was never my story, and I just forced my way into it.

  The thing that really keeps prodding at me, though, is my fight with Keiko. I was justified in calling her out, I know I was, but guilt still churns in my stomach. The sight of her standing dejectedly on the sidewalk, a rock in the river of freshmen flowing around her and not even glancing at her wild outfit . . . it makes me sad to my core.

  Keiko is my best friend. And my accusations hurt her, no matter how true they were.

  You never want to be the person hurting your best friend. You’re supposed to be the one protecting them from hurt in the first place. In the last few days, I’ve done damage to both Gabriela and Keiko, whether directly or indirectly, and it feels awful. I’m normally the safe friend, the steady constant, the emotional support and the provider of awesome science facts. How quickly things change.

  The light of the TV screen flickering in my face, I find myself burning to message Keiko. I pick up my phone and put it down again dozens of times, not sure what to write, not sure whether to apologize or not. I don’t even necessarily want to talk about the fight. I just want to talk to her. About band practice, the river walk, Vati’s collision with the lampshade, Momo’s new adventures in mermaid obsession.

  Gabriela texts the group chat a picture of the movie night she’s having with Ryan, and to ask how it went with Haruki. I tell her we’re official now, and she’s happy for me. She really is. But it’s not the same as Keiko being happy for me. It’s terrible to admit, but a friendship trio is never entirely equal. Keiko and I simply have too much history for Gabriela to fully match up. Sweet, earnest Gabriela. It’s a betrayal even to think it.

  Maybe that’s why my relationship with Haruki feels a little flat. I so desperately want Keiko’s approval, for her to be happy for me – for her to just be happy, generally – that not having that feels like a key component of this is missing.

  Halfway into the movie, I realize I haven’t been paying the slightest attention. I turn it off and roll over on to my side in an attempt to fall asleep.

  It’s useless.

  For some reason, I wind up thinking about my dads, and how blessed I am to have them, and how gut-wrenching it was when Keiko lost hers.

  She didn’t literally lose him, of course. She knew exactly where he was. That was worse, maybe.

  We were fourteen, maybe fifteen, that day Keiko called me. Her words were drowned by wracking sobs, and I genuinely, genuinely thought either someone else had died or she was about to do so. My heart ripped out, then, listening to her pain but not understanding it yet, not being able to do anything about it.

  ‘My dad’s gone,’ she finally choked out.

  There it was, I thought. Her dad died. I knew he was out of the country – he often was – and a million awful possibilities flashed through my mind. ‘Oh my god. Kiks, I’m sorry. What happened?’

  ‘He’s leaving M-mom. Staying in Japan.’

  ‘He’s with . . . someone?’ I asked. ‘Else?’

  A fresh wave of tears. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. Oh g-god, I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m coming, Kiks,’ I said, kicking my feet into my beat-up Chucks. ‘I’m walking over. Stay on the line with me, okay? I’m here. Always, always.’

  When I got there, Keiko’s mom had gone out with Momo to get ice cream, but Keiko had stayed behind so she could call me. It was me she needed, more than anything.

  Late into the night, we talked through it all. She shared memories of him, like he really was dead. She felt about him the way I feel about my dads. A deep, pure love for who he was, and how he made her feel. Until that night, anyway. I distinctly remember wishing I could give her one of mine, or at least share them with her. If I thought it would’ve taken her pain away, I would’ve.

  We fell asleep hugging on her bed, and I woke up with her hair – still deep brown, back then – in my mouth. She leapt away from me as though I were a carrier of the bubonic plague. From that moment on, we never really talked about her dad again. I tried, but she never wanted to.

  When I first heard the news about him, I remember feeling relieved. At least he wasn’t dead. This was better. This was easier; survivable. Now I know it was, in many ways, so much worse. If someone dies, you don’t feel abandoned, or unloved, or unwanted. You don’t feel like you’re just not enough to get the people you love to stay with you.

  It was around then Keiko started dressing and acting the way she does, always trying to prove herself l
oveworthy. She got louder, bought new clothes, dyed and shaved her hair. An act of defiance, of desperation. Of needing to be seen.

  So, I understand why she is the way she is. I understand why it stings to have the attention she’s worked so hard for stolen by her best friend. It’s addictive, being seen, being adored, so when it’s suddenly taken away or altered, it’s like going cold turkey on a drug. No wonder she’s acting out. She’s in withdrawal.

  But I wish she understood that I still see her; have always seen her. Just as she is.

  16

  Over the next few days, Keiko all but ignores me. No quirky group chat messages, no walking me to chess club, no improvising new song lyrics during lunch. No science articles or YouTube videos she excitedly finds and shares, just because they reminded her of me. No brownie sludge or vagina jokes. My life doesn’t really feel like my life without her.

  Gabriela is caught in the middle, but I quickly realize that my fierce friendship with Keiko is the glue that holds the trio together. Without that, everything just kind of falls apart. Gabriela doesn’t have the sway or conviction to get us talking to each other again, let alone to take the reins and instigate some Fun Times. Part of me thinks she could if she really wanted to, but after a few hours of half-heartedly trying to get us to kiss and make up, she abandons the situation and hangs out with Ryan and her cheerleading friends instead. Maybe she’s grateful for the excuse to spend time with them instead of us. No unicorn mutilation jokes in sight.

  I guess in a lot of ways, it’s simpler like this. The less I see of Gabriela, the less I see of Ryan, and the more their relationship has the chance to mend after the damage I caused on the double date.

  I spend most of the time between classes and at lunch with Haruki. Now that we’re official, things are escalating quickly – we kiss a lot, everywhere, and he asks when he can meet my dads. I shudder at the thought of Vati forcing poor defenceless Haruki to endure a carroty condom demonstration, but how can you really tell your new boyfriend this? I had hoped Vati’s tumble into the lampshade might have knocked some sense into him, but he’s more nuts than ever. A veritable cashew of insanity.

  Despite the underlying sense of guilt and weirdness, I am genuinely enjoying spending time with Haruki. He’s funny and smart and sweet, even if he does turn into your basic jock bro when his friends are around. And he makes me feel so . . . wanted.

  It’s hard to explain how intoxicating it is to go from a nobody to a somebody. It’s hard to really convey how good it feels to walk down the hallway with your head held high, hundreds of eyes on you as though you’re a contestant on America’s Next Top Model, not some rando physics nerd with a penchant for overalls. (Space-time continuum, but make it fashion.)

  The feeling of power, of desirability, is a drug more potent than any pheromone pill.

  On Thursday, Haruki and I are eating mac and cheese in the cafeteria. A couple of his track and field friends are sitting with us, including Samira and her new boyfriend, Khalil. He’s the guy who practically hung out of his car window panting at me when I was on the sidewalk arguing with Keiko, and he doesn’t let up today.

  Dressed in a blue tracksuit, Samira isn’t trying desperately to get his attention back, instead just flicking through her phone and picking at her pasta. I like that about her. I like Samira a lot, actually, her cool confidence, and I’m not the only one. Keiko sits across the room with Gabriela and the cheerleaders, flicking her jealous gaze over to us whenever she thinks we’re not looking.

  I wish Samira was gay, I think. So Keiko would have a chance with her. But the thought sends a funny twist of jealousy roiling through my chest.

  I hate the idea of her hanging out with Samira instead of me, of having her passionate attention redirected toward someone else. It makes me sick with jealousy. An ugly emotion, but I cannot shake it off no matter how gross I feel.

  So this is how Keiko feels about having to share me. Suddenly I get it. Truly get it.

  I make a decision, then.

  Turning to Haruki, I lower my voice and say, ‘Hey, what are you doing this weekend?’

  He smiles lazily, crunching down on a carrot stick. He’s way more health-focused than most other teenage boys, despite being recently converted to the church of vanilla milkshakes. ‘You mean what are we doing.’

  ‘I was hoping you would say that,’ I say, as Khalil mimes gagging. Haruki rolls his eyes in return, like, I know, man, but what can I do? I ignore it as best I can and push forward with my pitch. ‘Keiko has a gig in the city on Saturday night. A small, intimate one, but it’s at a venue where big bookers and record-label scouts sometimes hang out. I know she’s nervous, and it’d be cool to go support her.’

  He frowns. ‘I thought you guys weren’t talking?’

  ‘We aren’t. But she’s still my person.’

  He prods me playfully with a carrot stick. ‘Wait, aren’t I your person?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s just different.’

  Unfortunately, Vati volunteers his services as cab driver into the city. I am already mortified by the prospect, but I guess it could be worse. Dad could be ferrying us while simultaneously interrogating Haruki about his venereal history. So I should really count my blessings.

  Things don’t start too well when Haruki rings my front doorbell, and Vati places one of the garden gnomes on the inside door mat, opens the door and hides behind it. Then, I shit you not, in a high-pitched voice, he says, ‘Greetings, human. Welcome to my humble gnome.’

  As he guffaws wildly from his hiding spot, I have to ask: why did child services ever grant custody of me to such an overgrown toddler?

  Give Haruki his due, he joins in with the banter as best he can. ‘Hello, sir. I have only honorable intentions with your daughter, regardless of my Y chromognomes.’

  Vati laughs so hard at this I actually worry he might rupture his spleen.

  After that, Haruki comes in to meet Dad over a glass of iced tea. Thankfully Vati refrains from a) cupcake aprons and b) Mean Girls references, for which I am eternally grateful. Haruki talks about his aspirations to study marine biology, and eventually go into reef restoration. This makes Dad positively giddy, if he were capable of such a thing. But he does do a funny little skip on his way to the freezer.

  Hearing Haruki say he plans to move to Madagascar and save the reefs should rattle me. I’m an overthinker, right? And this throws a spanner in the works of my grand plan for how our life together will unfold. How could I take Volta and Galilei away from their grandfathers? What if Schrödinger hates the heat?

  But I find myself apathetic to the idea of my boyfriend (still weird) moving to the other side of the world.

  Maybe I’m just nervous. All I can think about is tonight. Not only am I scared Keiko will be pissed at us showing up unannounced, but also I really, really want it to go well for her. What if our presence there throws her off ? On a night when it really matters that she’s on her game?

  But I want to be there. God, I want to be there. It feels like forever since I’ve heard her husky voice sing about love and heritage and identity. I crave it now, when we’re not talking, more than ever. Up until very recently, my life had a constant Keiko soundtrack, and having it suddenly shut off feels like a form of sensory deprivation.

  Vowing to stand right at the back, where she won’t see me and be distracted, I text Gabriela to make sure she’s still up for meeting us outside the venue five minutes before doors open.

  oh crap, i lost track of time! been hanging with the cheer squad. you guys go in and i’ll get there soon as i can??

  The fact this gig isn’t as important to her as it is to Keiko – or to me – shouldn’t annoy me, but it does. I’m used to being blown off so she can hang out with Ryan, but being blown off in lieu of other friends feels somehow worse.

  The drive into the city with Vati is a literal hellride. For one thing, he decides to play the Pitch Perfect soundtrack from beginning to end, performing every single
acappella part all at once. Weirdly, though, I don’t find myself embarrassed or anxious that Haruki will think my family is odd. We are odd. That’s what makes us great. And deep down, I think that’s what Haruki likes about me. I’m not like every other jock he hangs out with. As I watch him actually join in with the tenor parts in the riff-off, I think maybe being around me gives him permission to be his full weird self too.

  Traffic is light, so we get to the venue ten minutes before doors, and my heart swells with pride when I see dozens and dozens of people queuing already. A group of sophomores from our school wear matching purple tees with Keiko’s first album cover printed on the front, and there’s a whole bunch of girls in their late twenties chatting excitedly about the show. There are a few guys, mostly on the arms of their girlfriends, but it’s mostly women. Women who feel empowered by Keiko’s music.

  My cheeks almost split from smiling. Keiko has fans. How fucking cool is that?

  Vati stops us as we’re climbing out of the car. ‘Now, I have some bad news for you. In your iced tea earlier, I put miniscule tracking devices. Almost invisible to the naked eye. So if you break your curfew – well, ladies, the FBI will be after you faster than you can say Karotteschwanz.’

  Haruki frowns. ‘What’s –’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ I say hurriedly, not in any rush to explain. ‘Vati, du machst sich zum Affen.’

  You’re making an ape of yourself. A German idiom I learned just for him.

  Haruki looks impressed, while Vati is apoplectic with excitement. He thumps the steering wheel with his fist and roars with laughter. ‘Bärchen, ich liebe dich! ’

  He revs the engine, and we finally escape on to the sidewalk. The windows are down, and as he drives away, I can hear him singing the Austrian national anthem. ‘Land der Berge! Land am Strome! La la la la la! ’