“Were your parents busy?”
He sighed. “They were very committed to their jobs. Not very good at making time for anything else.”
She hummed softly, conjuring a mental image: five-year-old Adam showing a stick-figure drawing to tall, distracted parents in dark suits surrounded by secret agents speaking into their headsets. She knew nothing about diplomats. “Were you a happy child?”
“It’s . . . complicated. It was a bit of a textbook upbringing. Only child of financially rich but emotionally poor parents. I could do whatever I wanted but had no one to do it with.” It sounded sad. Olive and her mom had always had very little, but she’d never felt alone. Until the cancer.
“Except Holden?”
He smiled. “Except Holden, but that was later. I think I was already set in my ways by then. I’d learned to entertain myself with . . . things. Hobbies. Activities. School. And when I was supposed to be with people, I was . . . antagonistic and unapproachable.” She rolled her eyes and bit softly into his skin, making him chuckle. “I’ve become like my parents,” he mused. “Exclusively committed to my job.”
“That’s not true at all. You’re very good at making time for others. For me.” She smiled, but he looked away as if embarrassed, and she decided to change the topic. “The only thing I can say in Dutch is ‘ik hou van jou.’ ” Her pronunciation must have been poor, because for a long moment Adam couldn’t parse it. Then he did, and his eyes widened.
“My college roommate had a poster with ‘I love you’ written in every language,” Olive explained. “Right across from my bed. First thing I’d see every morning after waking up.”
“And at the end of year four you knew every language?”
“End of year one. She joined a sorority as a sophomore, which was for the best.” She lowered her gaze, nuzzled her face in his chest, and then looked back up at him. “It’s pretty stupid, if you think about it.”
“Stupid?”
“Who needs to know how to say ‘I love you’ in every language? People barely need it in one. Sometimes not even in one.” She smoothed his hair back with her fingers. “ ‘Where’s the restroom?’ on the other hand . . .”
He leaned into her touch, as if soothed by it. “Waar is de WC?”
Olive blinked.
“That would be ‘Where’s the restroom?’ ” he explained.
“Yeah, I figured. Just . . . your voice . . .” She cleared her throat. She’d been better off without knowing how attractive he sounded when speaking another language. “Anyway. That would be a useful poster.” She brushed her finger against his forehead. “What’s this from?”
“My face?”
“The little scar. The one above your eyebrow.”
“Ah. Just a stupid fight.”
“A fight?” She chuckled. “Did one of your grads try to kill you?”
“Nah, I was a kid. Though I could see my grads pouring acetonitrile in my coffee.”
“Oh, totally.” She nodded in agreement. “I have one, too.” She pulled her hair behind her shoulder and showed him the small, half-moon-shaped line right next to her temple.
“I know.”
“You know? About my scar?”
He nodded.
“When did you notice? It’s really faint.”
He shrugged and began tracing it with his thumb. “What’s it from?”
“I don’t remember. But my mom said that when I was four there was this huge snowstorm in Toronto. Inches upon inches of snow piling up, the most intense in five decades, you know the drill. And everyone knew it was coming, and she’d been preparing me for days, telling me that we might end up stuck at home for a few days. I was so excited about it that I ran outside and dove headfirst into the snow—except that I did it about half an hour after the storm had started, and ended up hitting my head on a stone.” She laughed softly, and so did Adam. It had been one of her mother’s favorite stories. And now Olive was the only person who could tell it. It lived in her, and no one else. “I miss the snow. California is beautiful, and I hate the cold. But I really miss the snow.”
He continued stroking her scar, a faint smile on his lips. And then, when the silence had settled around them, he said, “Boston will have snow. Next year.”
Her heart thudded. “Yeah.” Except that she wouldn’t be going to Boston, not anymore. She’d have to find another lab. Or not work in a lab at all.
Adam’s hand traveled up her neck, closing gently around her nape. “There are good trails for hiking, where Holden and I used to go in grad school.” He hesitated before adding, “I’d love to take you.”
She closed her eyes, and for a second she let herself imagine it. The black of Adam’s hair against the white snow and the deep greens of the trees. Her boots sinking into the soft ground. Cold air flowing inside her lungs, and a warm hand wrapping around her own. She could almost see the flakes, fluttering behind her eyelids. Bliss.
“You’ll be in California, though,” she said distractedly.
A pause. Too long.
Olive opened her eyes. “Adam?”
He rolled his tongue inside his cheek, as if thinking carefully about his words. “There is a chance that I’ll be moving to Boston.”
She blinked at him, confused. Moving? He’d be moving? “What?” No. What was he saying? Adam was not going to leave Stanford, right? He’d never been—the flight risk had never been real. Right?
Except he’d never said that. Olive thought back to their conversations, and—he’d complained about the department withholding his research funds, about them suspecting that he was going to leave, about the assumptions people had made because of his collaboration with Tom, but . . . he’d never said that they were wrong. He’d said that the frozen funds had been earmarked for research—for the current year. That’s why he’d wanted them released as soon as possible.
“Harvard,” she whispered, feeling incredibly stupid. “You’re moving to Harvard.”
“It’s not decided yet.” His hand was still wrapped around her neck, thumb swiping back and forth across the pulse at the base of her throat. “I’ve been asked to interview, but there’s no official offer.”
“When? When will you interview?” she asked, but didn’t really need his answer. It was all starting to make sense in her head. “Tomorrow. You’re not going home.” He’d never said he would. He’d only told her he’d be leaving the conference early. Oh God. Stupid, Olive. Stupid. “You’re going to Harvard. To interview for the rest of the week.”
“It was the only way to avoid making the department even more suspicious,” he explained. “The conference was a good cover.”
She nodded. It wasn’t good—it was perfect. And God, she felt nauseous. And weak-kneed, even lying down. “They’ll offer you the position,” she murmured, even though he must already know. He was Adam Carlsen, after all. And he’d been asked to interview. They were courting him.
“It’s not certain yet.”
It was. Of course it was. “Why Harvard?” she blurted. “Why—why do you want to leave Stanford?” Her voice shook a little, even though she did her best to sound calm.
“My parents live on the East Coast, and while I have my issues with them, they’re going to need me close sooner or later.” He paused, but Olive could tell that he wasn’t done. She braced herself. “The main reason is Tom. And the grant. I want to transition to doing more similar work, but that will only be possible if we show good results. Being in the same department as Tom would make us infinitely more productive. Professionally, moving’s a no-brainer.”
She’d braced herself, but it still felt like a punch in the sternum that left her void of air, caused her stomach to twist and her heart to drop. Tom. This was about Tom.
“Of course,” she whispered. It helped her voice sound firmer. “It makes sense.”
“And I co
uld help you acclimatize, too,” he offered, significantly more bashful. “If you want to. To Boston. To Tom’s lab. Show you around, if you . . . if you’re feeling lonely. Buy you that pumpkin stuff.”
She couldn’t answer that. She really—she could not answer that. So she hung her head for a few moments, ordered herself to buck the hell up, and lifted it again to smile at him.
She could do this. She would do this. “What time are you leaving tomorrow?” He was probably just moving to another hotel, closer to the Harvard campus.
“Early.”
“Okay.” She leaned forward and buried her face in his throat. They were not going to sleep, not one second. It would be such a waste. “You don’t have to wake me up, when you leave.”
“You’re not going to carry my bags downstairs?”
She laughed into his neck and burrowed deeper into him. This, she thought, this was going to be their perfect night. And their last.
Chapter Eighteen
HYPOTHESIS: A heart will break even more easily than the weakest of hydrogen bonds.
It wasn’t the sun high in the sky that woke her up, nor housekeeping—thanks to Adam, likely, and a Do Not Disturb sign on the door. What got Olive out of bed, even though she really, really didn’t want to face the day, was the frantic buzzing on the nightstand.
She buried her face in the pillow, extended her arm to grope her way to her phone, and then brought it to her ear.
“Yeah?” she bleated, only to find that it wasn’t a call but a very long string of notifications. It included one email from Dr. Aslan congratulating her on her talk and asking for the recording, two texts from Greg (Have u seen the multichannel pipette? Nvm found it.), one from Malcolm (call me when you see this), and . . .
One hundred and forty-three from Anh.
“What the . . . ?” She blinked at the screen, unlocked her phone, and started scrolling up. Could it be one hundred and forty-three reminders to wear sunscreen?
Anh: O
Anh: M
Anh: G
Anh: OMG
Anh: Omg omg OMFG
Anh: Where the hell are you
Anh: OLIVE
Anh: OLIVE LOUISE SMITH
Anh: (JK I know you don’t have a middle name)
Anh: (But if you did it would be Louise FIGHT ME you know im right)
Anh: Where ARE U?!?!?
Anh: Your missing so much YOU ARE MISSING SO
Anh: WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR ROOM I’M COMING TO YOU
Anh: OL we need to talk about this IN PERSON!!!!!1!!!!!!!!
Anh: Are you DEAD?
Anh: You better be IT’S THE ONLY WAY I’LL FORGIVE YOU FOR MISSING THIS OL
Anh: Ol is this real life is iT jUST FANTASY SJFGAJHSGFASF
Anh: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL
Olive groaned, rubbed her face, and decided to skip the other 125 messages and text Anh her room number. She went into the bathroom and reached for her toothbrush, trying not to notice that the spot where Adam’s had been was now empty. Whatever Anh was freaking out about, Olive was likely going to be underwhelmed. Jeremy had Irish step-danced at the department social, or Chase had tied a cherry stem with his tongue. Great entertainment value, for sure, but Olive would survive missing either.
She dried her face, thinking that she was doing a great job of not thinking of how sore she was; of how her body was buzzing, vibrating like it had no intention of stopping, not two, not three, not five hours from now; of the faint, comforting scent of Adam on her skin.
Yeah. A great job.
When she stepped out of the bathroom, someone was about to tear down the door. She opened it to find Anh and Malcolm, who hugged her and started talking so loudly and rapidly, she could barely make out the words—though she did catch the terms “paradigm-shifting,” “life-altering,” and “watershed moment in history.”
They chattered their way to Olive’s unused bed and sat down. After a few more moments of overlapping babbling, Olive decided to intervene and lifted her hands.
“Hold on.” She was already coming down with a headache. Today was going to be a nightmare, for so many reasons. “What happened?”
“The weirdest thing,” Anh said.
“Coolest,” Malcolm interrupted. “She means coolest.”
“Where were you, Ol? You said you were going to join us.”
“Here. I just, um, was tired after my talk, and fell asleep and—”
“Lame, Ol, very lame, but I have no time to berate you for your lameness because I need to catch you up with what happened last night—”
“I should tell her,” Malcolm gave Anh a scathing look. “Since it’s about me.”
“Fair enough,” she conceded with a flourishing gesture.
Malcolm smiled, pleased, and cleared his throat. “Ol, who have I been wanting to have sex with for the past several years?”
“Uh . . .” She scratched her temple. Off the top of her head, she could name about thirty people. “Victoria Beckham?”
“No. Well, yes. But no.”
“David Beckham?”
“Also yes. But no.”
“The other Spice Girl? The one in the Adidas tracksuit—”
“No. Okay, yes, but don’t focus on celebrities, focus on real life people—”
“Holden Rodrigues,” Anh blurted out impatiently. “He hooked up with Rodrigues at the department social. Ol, it is with utmost regret that I must inform you that you have been dethroned and are no longer the president of the Hot for Teacher club. Will you retire in shame or accept the treasurer position?”
Olive blinked. Several times. An inordinate amount of times. And then heard herself say, “Wow.”
“Isn’t it the weirdest—”
“Coolest, Anh,” Malcolm interjected. “Coolest.”
“Things can be weird in a cool way.”
“Right, but this is pure, one hundred percent cool, zero percent weird—”
“Hold up,” Olive interrupted. Her headache was growing a size or two. “Holden is not even in the department. Why was he at the social?”
“No idea, but you bring up an excellent point, which is that since he’s in pharmacology, we can do whatever we want without having to tell anyone.”
Anh tilted her head. “Is that so?”
“Yep. We checked Stanford’s socialization regulations on our way to CVS to get condoms. Basically foreplay.” He closed his eyes in bliss. “Will I ever step inside a pharmacy again without getting a boner?”
Olive cleared her throat. “I’m so happy for you.” She really was. Though this did feel a bit weird. “How did it happen?”
“I hit on him. It was glorious.”
“He was shameless, Ol. And glorious. I took some pictures.”
Malcolm gasped in outrage. “Okay, that’s illegal and I could sue you. But if I look good in them, do send them my way.”
“Will do, babe. Now tell us about the sex.”
The fact that Malcolm, usually very forward with the details of his sex life, just closed his eyes and smiled, spoke volumes. Anh and Olive exchanged a long, impressed glance.
“And that’s not even the best part. He wants to see me again. Today. A date. He used the word ‘date’ unprompted.” He fell back on the mattress. “He’s so hot. And funny. And nice. A sweet, filthy beast.”
Malcolm looked so happy, Olive couldn’t resist: she swallowed the lump that had taken residence in her throat sometime last night and jumped on the bed next to him, hugging him as tight as she could. Anh followed and did the same.
“I’m so happy for you, Malcolm.”
“Same.” Anh’s voice was muffled against his hair.
“I am happy for me, too. I hope he’s serious. You know when I said I was training for gold? Well, Holden’s platinum.”
&nbs
p; “You should ask Carlsen, Ol,” Anh suggested. “If he knows what Holden’s intentions are.”
She probably wasn’t going to have the opportunity anytime soon. “I will.”
Malcolm shifted a bit and turned to Olive. “Did you really fall asleep last night? Or were you and Carlsen celebrating in unmentionable ways?”
“Celebrating?”
“I told Holden that I was worried about you, and he said that you guys were probably celebrating. Something about Carlsen’s funds being released? By the way, you never told me Carlsen and Holden were best friends—it seems like a piece of information you’d want to share with your Holden-Rodrigues-fan-club-founder-and-most-vocal-member roommate—”
“Wait.” Olive sat up, wide-eyed. “The funds that were released, are they . . . the frozen ones? The ones Stanford was withholding?”
“Maybe? Holden said something about the department chair finally easing up. I tried to pay attention, but talking about Carlsen is a bit of a buzzkill—no offense. Plus, I kept getting lost in Holden’s eyes.”
“And his butt,” Anh added.
“And his butt.” Malcolm sighed happily. “Such a nice butt. He has little dimples on his lower back.”
“Oh my God, so does Jeremy! I want to bite them.”
“Aren’t they the cutest?”
Olive stopped listening and stood from the bed, grabbing her phone to read the date.
September twenty-ninth.
It was September twenty-ninth.
She had known, of course. She had known for over a month that today was coming, but in the past week she’d been too busy fretting about her talk to focus on anything else, and Adam hadn’t reminded her. With everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, it was no surprise that he’d forgotten to mention that his funds had been released. But still. The implications of it were . . .
She closed her eyes, shut tight, while Anh and Malcolm’s excited chattering kept rising in volume in the background. When she opened them, her phone lit up with a new notification. From Adam.
The Love Hypothesis Page 27
