The Love Hypothesis

by Ali Hazelwood

  “Why?”

  “Because.” Because my throat will dry up and my brain will shut down and I will be so bad that someone from the audience will take out a crossbow and shoot me in the kneecap. “I’m not ready. To speak. In public.”

  “Of course you are. You’re a good public speaker.”

  “I’m not. I stammer. I blush. I meander. A lot. Especially in front of large crowds, and—”

  “Olive,” Dr. Aslan interrupted her with a stern tone. “What do I always tell you?”

  “Um . . . ‘Don’t misplace the multichannel pipette’?”

  “The other thing.”

  She sighed. “ ‘Carry yourself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.’ ”

  “More than that, if possible. Since there is absolutely nothing mediocre about you.”

  Olive closed her eyes and took enough deep breaths to pull back from the verge of a panic attack. When she opened them, her adviser was smiling encouragingly.

  “Dr. Aslan.” Olive grimaced. “I really don’t think I can do this.”

  “I know you don’t.” There was some sadness in her expression. “But you can. And we’ll work together until you feel up to the task.” This time, she put both her hands on Olive’s shoulders. Olive was still hugging her laptop to her chest, like she would a life buoy in the open sea, but the touch was oddly comforting. “Don’t worry. We have a couple of weeks to get you ready.”

  You say that. You say “we,” but I’ll be the one to speak in front of hundreds of people, and when someone asks a three-minute-long question meant to get me to admit that deep down my work is poorly structured and useless, I’ll be the one to crap her pants. “Right.” Olive had to force her head into an up-and-down motion and take a deep breath. She exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

  “Why don’t you put together a draft? You could practice during the next lab meeting.” Another reassuring smile, and Olive was nodding again, not feeling reassured in the least. “And if you have any questions, I’m always here. Oh, I am so disappointed that I won’t get to see your talk. You must promise to record it for me. It will be just as if I was there.”

  Except that you won’t be there, and I’ll be alone, she thought bitterly while closing the door of Dr. Aslan’s office behind her. She slumped against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to quiet the agitated mess of thoughts fluttering inside her head. And then she opened them again when she heard her name in Malcolm’s voice. He was standing in front of her with Anh, studying her with a half-amused, half-worried expression. They were holding Starbucks cups. The smell of caramel and peppermint wafted over, making her stomach churn.

  “Hey.”

  Anh took a sip of her drink. “Why are you taking a standing nap next to your adviser’s office?”

  “I . . .” Olive pushed away from the wall and walked a few steps away from Dr. Aslan’s door, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. “My abstract got accepted. The SBD one.”

  “Congrats!” Anh smiled. “But that was pretty much a given, right?”

  “It was accepted as a talk.”

  For a few seconds, two pairs of eyes just stared at her in silence. Olive thought that Malcolm might be wincing, but when she turned to check, there was just a vague smile pasted on his face. “That’s . . . awesome?”

  “Yeah.” Anh’s eyes darted to Malcolm and back to Olive. “That’s, um, great.”

  “It’s a disaster of epic proportions.”

  Anh and Malcolm exchanged a worried glance. They knew very well how Olive felt about public speaking.

  “What is Dr. Aslan saying about it?”

  “The usual.” She rubbed her eyes. “That it will be fine. That we’ll work on it together.”

  “I think she’s right,” Anh said. “I’ll help you practice. We’ll make sure you know it by heart. And it will be fine.”

  “Yeah.” Or it won’t. “Also, the conference is in less than two weeks. We should book the hotel—or are we doing Airbnb?”

  Something odd happened the moment she asked the question. Not with Anh—she was still peacefully sipping on her coffee—but Malcolm’s cup froze halfway to his mouth, and he bit his lip while studying the sleeve of his sweater.

  “About that . . . ,” he began.

  Olive frowned. “What?”

  “Well.” Malcolm shuffled his feet a little, and maybe it was accidental, the way he seemed to be drifting away from Olive—but she didn’t think so. “We already have.”

  “You already booked something?”

  Anh nodded cheerfully. “Yes.” She didn’t appear to notice that Malcolm was about to have a stroke. “The conference hotel.”

  “Oh. Okay. Let me know what I owe you then, since—”

  “The thing is . . .” Malcolm seemed to move even farther away.

  “What thing?”

  “Well.” He fidgeted with the cardboard holder of his cup, and his eyes darted to Anh, who seemed blissfully oblivious to his discomfort. “Jeremy’s hotel room is paid for because of that fellowship he’s on, and he asked Anh to stay with him. And then Jess, Cole, and Hikaru offered for me to stay with them.”

  “What?” Olive glanced at Anh. “Seriously?”

  “It will save all of us a lot of money. And it will be my first trip with Jeremy,” Anh interjected distractedly. She was typing something on her phone. “Oh my God, guys, I think I found it! A location for the Boston event for BIPOC women in STEM! I think I’ve got it!”

  “That’s great,” Olive said weakly. “But I thought . . . I thought we’d room together.”

  Anh glanced up, looking contrite. “Yeah, I know. That’s what I told Jeremy, but he pointed out that you . . . you know.” Olive tilted her head, confused, and Anh continued, “I mean, why would you want to spend money on a room when you could stay with Carlsen?”

  Oh. “Because.” Because. Because, because, because. “I . . .”

  “I’ll miss you, but it’s not as if we’ll be in the rooms for anything other than sleeping.”

  “Right. . . .” She pressed her lips together, and added, “Sure.”

  Anh’s grin made her want to groan. “Awesome. We’ll get meals together and hang out for poster sessions. And at night, of course.”

  “Of course.” It was all Olive could do not to sound bitter. “I look forward to it,” she added with as good a smile as she could muster.

  “Okay. Great. I gotta go—the Women in Science outreach committee is meeting in five. But let’s get together this weekend to plan fun activities for Boston. Jeremy said something about a ghost tour!”

  Olive waited until Anh was out of earshot before turning to face Malcolm. He was already raising his hands defensively.

  “First of all, Anh came up with this plan while I was monitoring that twenty-four-hour experiment—worst day of my life, I cannot graduate soon enough. And after that—what was I supposed to do? Inform her that you’re not going to stay with Carlsen because you’re fake-dating? Oh, but wait—now that you’ve got a huge crush on him maybe it’s sort of real—”

  “Okay, I get it.” Her stomach was starting to ache. “You still could have told me.”

  “I was going to. And then I dumped Neuro Jude and he went crazy and egged my car. And after that my dad called me to say hi and asked me about how my projects are going, which devolved into him grilling me on why I’m not using a C. elegans model, and, Ol, you know how incredibly nosy and micromanaging he can be, which led to us having an argument and my mom got involved and—” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Well, you were there. You heard the screams. Bottom line is, it totally slipped my mind, and I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” She scratched her temple. “I’m going to have to find someplace to stay.”

  “I’ll help you,” Malcolm told her eagerly. “We can look online tonight.”


  “Thanks, but don’t worry about it. I’ll manage.” Or not. Probably. Likely. Since the conference was in less than two weeks, and everything was likely already booked up. What was left was undoubtedly so out of her price range, she’d have to sell a kidney to be able to afford it. Which could be an option—she did have two.

  “You’re not mad, right?”

  “I . . .” Yes. No. Maybe a little. “No. It’s not your fault.” She hugged Malcolm back when he leaned into her, reassuring him with a few awkward pats on the shoulder. As much as she’d have liked to blame him for this, she only had to look at herself. The crux of her problems—most of them, at least—was her moronic, harebrained decision to lie to Anh in the first place. To begin this fake-dating sham. Now she was giving a talk at this stupid conference, probably after sleeping at a bus station and eating moss for breakfast, and despite all of this she couldn’t stop thinking about Adam. Just perfect.

  Laptop under her arm, Olive headed back to the lab, the prospect of getting her slides in order for her talk simultaneously daunting and depressing. There was something leaden and unpleasant weighing on her stomach, and on impulse she made a detour to the restroom and entered the stall farthest from the door, leaning against the wall until the back of her head hit the cold tile surface.

  When the weight in her belly began to feel too heavy, her knees gave out on her and her back slid down until she sat on the floor. Olive stayed like that for a long time, trying to pretend that this wasn’t her life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  HYPOTHESIS: Approximately two out of three fake-dating situations will eventually involve room-sharing; 50 percent of room-sharing situations will be further complicated by the presence of only one bed.

  There was an Airbnb twenty-five minutes from the conference center, but it was an inflatable mattress on the floor of a storage room, charging 180 bucks per night, and even if she could have afforded it, one of the reviews reported that the host had a penchant for role-playing Viking with the guests, so . . . No, thank you. She found a more affordable one forty-five minutes away by subway, but when she went to reserve the room, she discovered that someone had beaten her to it by mere seconds, and she was tempted to hurl her laptop across the coffee shop. She was trying to decide between a seedy motel and a cheap couch in the suburbs when a shadow cast over her. She looked up with a frown, expecting an undergrad wanting to use the outlet she’d been hoarding, and instead found . . .

  “Oh.”

  Adam was standing in front of her, the late-afternoon sunlight haloing his hair and shoulders, fingers closed around an iPad as he looked down at her with a somber expression. It had been less than a week since she’d last seen him—six days to be precise, which was just a handful of hours and minutes. Nothing, considering that she’d barely known him a month. And yet it was as if the space she was in, the whole campus, the entire city was transformed by knowing that he was back.

  Possibilities. That’s what Adam’s presence felt like. Of what, she was not certain.

  “You’re . . .” Her mouth was dry. An event of great scientific interest, considering that she’d taken a sip from her water bottle maybe ten seconds ago. “You’re back.”

  “I am.”

  She hadn’t forgotten his voice. Or his height. Or the way his stupid clothes fit him. She couldn’t have—she had two medial temporal lobes, fully functioning and tucked nicely inside her skull, which meant that she was perfectly able to encode and store memories. She hadn’t forgotten anything, and she wasn’t sure why right now it felt as if she had. “I thought . . . I didn’t—” Yes, Olive. Wonderful. Very eloquent. “I didn’t know that you were back.”

  His face was a little closed off, but he nodded. “I flew in last night.”

  “Oh.” She should have probably prepared something to say, but she hadn’t expected to see him until Wednesday. If she had, maybe she wouldn’t have been wearing her oldest leggings and most tattered T-shirt, and her hair wouldn’t have been a mess. Not that she was under any illusion that Adam would have noticed her if she’d been wearing a swimsuit or a gala dress. But still. “Do you want to sit?” She leaned forward to gather her phone and notebook, making room on the other side of the small table. It was only when he hesitated before taking a seat that it occurred to her that maybe he had no intention of staying, that now he might feel forced to do so. He folded himself into the chair gracefully, like a big cat.

  Great job, Olive. Who doesn’t love a needy person who hounds them for attention?

  “You don’t have to. I know you’re busy. MacArthur grants to win and grads to brutalize and broccoli to eat.” He’d probably rather be anywhere else. She bit her thumbnail, feeling guilty, starting to panic, and—

  And then he smiled. And suddenly there were grooves around his mouth and dimples in his cheeks and his face was completely altered by them. The air at the table thinned. Olive couldn’t quite breathe.

  “You know, there’s a middle ground between living off brownies and exclusively eating broccoli.”

  She grinned, for no reason other than—Adam was here, with her. And he was smiling. “That’s a lie.”

  He shook his head, mouth still curved. “How are you?”

  Better now. “Good. How was Boston?”

  “Good.”

  “I’m glad you’re back. I’m pretty sure the biology dropout rates have seen a steep reduction. We can’t have that.”

  He gave her a patient, put-upon look. “You look tired, smart-ass.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I . . .” She rubbed her cheek with her hand, ordering herself not to feel self-conscious about her looks, just like she’d always made a point not to. It would be an equally stupid idea to wonder what the woman Holden mentioned the other day looked like. Probably stunning. Probably feminine, with curves; someone who actually needed to wear a bra, someone who was not half covered in freckles, who had mastered the art of applying liquid eyeliner without making a mess of herself.

  “I’m fine. It’s been a week, though.” She massaged her temple.

  He cocked his head. “What happened?”

  “Nothing . . . My friends are stupid, and I hate them.” She felt instantly guilty and made a face. “Actually, I don’t hate them. I do hate that I love them, though.”

  “Is this the sunscreen friend? Anh?”

  “The one and only. And my roommate, too, who really should know better.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They . . .” Olive pressed into both eyes with her fingers. “It’s a long story. They found alternative accommodations for SBD. Which means that now I have to find a place on my own.”

  “Why did they do that?”

  “Because . . .” She briefly closed her eyes and sighed. “Because they assumed that I’d want to stay with you. Since you’re my . . . you know. ‘Boyfriend.’ ”

  He went still for a couple of seconds. And then: “I see.”

  “Yep. A pretty bold assumption, but . . .” She spread her arms and shrugged.

  He bit the inside of his cheek, looking pensive. “I’m sorry you won’t get to room with them.”

  She waved her hand. “Oh, that’s not it. That would have been fun, but it’s just that now I need to find something else nearby, and there are no affordable options.” Her eyes fell on the screen of her laptop. “I’m thinking of booking this motel that’s an hour away and—”

  “Won’t they know?”

  She looked up from the grainy, shady-looking picture of the place. “Mm?”

  “Won’t Anh know that you’re not staying with me?”

  Oh. “Where are you staying?”

  “The conference hotel.”

  Of course. “Well.” She scratched her nose. “I wouldn’t tell her. I don’t think she’ll pay too much attention.”

  “But she’ll notice if you’re staying one hour away.” />
  “I . . .” Yes. They would notice, and ask questions, and Olive would have to come up with a bunch of excuses and even more half-truths to deal with it. Add a few blocks to this Jenga tower of lies she’d been building for weeks. “I’ll figure it out.”

  He nodded slowly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, it’s not your fault.”

  “One could argue that it is, in fact, my fault.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I would offer to pay for your hotel room, but I doubt there’s anything left in a ten-mile radius.”

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head emphatically. “And I wouldn’t accept it. It’s not a cup of coffee. And a scone. And a cookie. And a pumpkin Frappuccino.” She batted her eyes at him and leaned forward, trying to change the topic. “Which, by the way, is new on the menu. You could totally buy it for me, and that would make my day.”

  “Sure.” He looked slightly nauseous.

  “Awesome.” She grinned. “I think it’s cheaper today, some kind of Tuesday sale, so—”

  “But you could room with me.”

  The way he put it forward, calm and sensible, almost made it sound like it was no big deal. And Olive almost fell for it, until her ears and brain seemed to finally connect with each other and she was able to process the meaning of what he’d just said.

  That she.

  Could room.

  With him.

  Olive knew full well what sharing quarters with someone entailed, even for a very short period. Sleeping in the same room meant seeing embarrassing pajamas, taking turns to use the bathroom, hearing the swish of someone trying to find a comfortable position under the sheets loud and clear in the dark. Sleeping in the same room meant— No. Nope. It was a terrible idea. And Olive was starting to think that maybe she had maxed those out for a while. So she cleared her throat.

  “I could not, actually.”

  He nodded calmly. But then, then he asked equally calmly, “Why?” and she wanted to bang her head against the table.