The Love Hypothesis

by Laura Steven

  ‘WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP TALKING NONSENSE FOR ONCE IN YOUR RIDICULOUS LIFE.’ Yes, he actually talks like he’s speaking in caps lock. It is quite the thing to behold.

  Vati retorts, ‘That is highly racist and xenophobic, and frankly I expect better from a published author.’

  This takes the wind from Dad’s caps-lock sails. Even quieter, he asks, ‘A published author?’

  ‘Yes, Michael, if you would let an innocent husband finish, you would know that this literary agent wants to sign you as a client, because they already have interest from three of the major non-fiction editors to whom they have mentioned the book. Two are preparing offers as we speak, just based on this proposal and sample alone. So you see –’

  ‘Do you actually mean to say that this book might sell after all?’ Dad’s voice is choked with emotion.

  Goosepimples chasing up and down my arms, I shiver and peer around the corner as Vati unfolds his arms. ‘It certainly appears that way, you cynical, cynical man.’

  And then Dad screams. Actually screams with joy like a small child. He and Vati immediately start leaping around the kitchen, hands flapping like excitable geese.

  ‘Caro will have some money for college!’

  ‘She will, Michael, it is true!’

  ‘I’m going to be a published author!’

  ‘Michael! You just used a contraction! Forget it, the book deal is cancelled, there is no way New York wants you now. Honestly, such feeble grasp of the English lang—’

  For once in his ridiculous life, Vati actually shuts up. He kind of has to, since Dad has started smooching him with such force that he loses his footing and almost collapses into Sirius’s disgusting bed.

  Maybe I’ll save the whole coming-out thing for another day.

  Instead of ruining their moment, I tiptoe quietly upstairs. It’s not that I don’t want to share their joy with them – it’s just that I want Dad to have two euphoric moments. One right now, smooching his husband as his one-eyed cockapoo watches from the sidelines, and the other when he gets to sit me down and tell me he’s going to be a published author. That I’ll be able to wander into my favorite Barnes & Noble’s science section and see Dr Michael Murphy’s groundbreaking book staring back at me. I tear up at the thought, content in my decision to let them be.

  Besides. I have a gig to get ready for.

  Tonight’s venue – an old warehouse come street market come pop-up theatre come whatever hell else the owner comes up with – is around four times the size of the intimate bar I last saw Keiko perform in, and the tickets are double the price. As soon as I walk in, my stomach cramps with nerves. Not for what I’m about to do, but for Keiko. I want her to kill it up there. And I believe she will. But still, the second-hand fear is real. There are so. Many. People.

  I arrive late, for me, because I actually gave my outfit a little thought. Turns out I don’t possess any clothes that could conceivably be thought fashionable, so I end up raiding Vati’s slightly eccentric closet. I find a pink-and-green tropical print button-down with short sleeves, which is hideous but sort of in that purposefully hideous way. I think. I can never really tell. Then I take some old black skinny jeans and tear holes in them up and down the front in that Hipster Manner. Keiko loves a distressed denim.

  It’s not like I’m dressing for her, though. I’m just finally having a little fun with what I wear, now that I have the confidence not to give a fuck what other people think. I throw on Dad’s old Casio wristwatch, some beat-up Birkenstocks I usually wear to ‘garden’ with Vati, and a half-dried-up purple lipstick Gabriela gifted me last Christmas.

  When I check my reflection in the mirror by the front door, I grin. I look completely ridiculous, but completely Caro. Maybe this is the way I can have fun with clothes, by wearing second-hand stuff that’s meaningful to me. Stuff that sums me up – a weird mix of pragmatism and eccentricity.

  I don’t even worry about whether Keiko will like it. She’ll just be glad it’s not a plain white tank top and jean shorts.

  Anyway, because I’m not as early as usual, by the time I grab a Cherry Coke, Keiko’s band have already taken the stage.

  The taiko drums kick in, then the gongs and the flutes and the guitars, and the crowd is really feeling it. It’s a different clientele tonight. Whereas the last gig was made up almost entirely of pre-existing Keiko fans, this audience seems more like a bunch of college students looking for somewhere new to get wasted and/or high. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing – it’s a chance for her to win over a whole new set and build her fanbase full of people who’ll be able to say ‘I saw her back when.’

  But there’s a more frantic energy than before, and a lot of people on a lot of drugs, and I start to panic that I’ve done the wrong thing in coming. I told Dad and Vati it would be safe, and also a little white lie that I’d be backstage the whole time. Did I make the wrong call? What if I get caught up in something nasty here?

  The second Keiko walks on stage, though, all of my worries disappear. The frenetic crowd melts into a haze.

  She’s absolutely slaying in a crisp white jumpsuit with cutout sections around her waist, exposing strips of soft, pale brown skin. The postbox-red lipstick perfectly matches her enormous crimson platform shoes, and her lilac hair is coiffed into an elaborate fifties updo.

  She is so beautiful.

  As the taiko drums suddenly die down, the air is thick with anticipation. She leaves it for a perfect beat, then opens her mouth and launches straight into Upside Downside.

  This time there are no fan-girl screams, but people are really into it. They dance wildly to the up-tempo beat, swinging warm beer around in the air, marching on the spot to the beat of the drums.

  I push to the front right as Keiko finishes her opener and yells, ‘Whaddup, Charleston? How are we doin’ tonight?’

  Lingering a few rows deep so she doesn’t spot me too soon, I settle into the set, losing myself in the words and the melodies and the incredible composition. Keiko’s confidence is astounding. She performs like every single last person in this room is already a convert, like she knows she’s going to be the next Beyoncé and they’re just lucky to witness her coming up.

  And it works. Slowly but surely, almost everyone goes from dancing in a circle with their friends to turning to face Keiko, watching her own the stage. They’re still dancing, but now they’re really focused on what they’re dancing to.  Who they’re dancing to.

  Then comes the moment I came here for. The opening bars of Bones and Stardust kick in. And I move right to the front.

  She doesn’t see me yet. She just starts singing, eyes closed, feeling every word.

  Why are you so afraid?

  Why are you so afraid of your own reflection

  When your reflection is the stars you love

  The sky above

  Is in you

  Why are you so afraid when you are the universe

  And the universe is you?

  Why are you so afraid?

  Why are you so afraid of your own dimensions

  When your dimensions are your history

  There’s eternity

  Within you

  Why are you so afraid when you are the universe

  And the universe is you?

  Right before she launches into the chorus, she opens her eyes. And she sees me.

  It does not go as planned.

  ‘Fuck!’ she whispers into the mic.

  I grin so hard I have to bite down on my bottom lip to stop a laugh from escaping.

  Keiko being Keiko, she styles the ‘fuck’ into the song, repeating the word until it goes from breathy and ethereal to passionate and fiery.

  Fuck

  Fuck

  Fuck

  You are bones and you are stardust

  And you must, you must not betray

  Your reflection, your dimensions

  Not to mention

  The love that burns inside you

  Like bones and stardus
t

  And honestly I’m not just saying this because it’s my fault, but I really think the cursing adds something.

  After she finishes the set, I push through the throngs of newly converted Keiko stans and find the entry to what I assume must be backstage. A burly bouncer holds out his forearm to prevent me going through.

  I show him my own forearm, of the fresh tattoo inspired by Bones and Stardust. ‘That song was about me, sir.’

  He raises an intimidating eyebrow. ‘Y’all know how many crazy fans get tattoos of their idol’s lyrics?’

  ‘No! Really. I’m Keiko’s . . . best friend. Maybe more. That’s actually why I’m here.’

  I hold up my phone and show him the background of me, Keiko and Gabriela.

  He barely looks. ‘A’ight, I don’t need the PBS special of y’all’s drama. Talent!’ he yells through the back. ‘Yo, talent. Over here. There’s someone to see you. Come check she’s cool so a dude can smoke.’

  He’s barely finished the sentence before Keiko arrives breathlessly by his side and says, ‘Yeah. Yeah, she’s cool.’

  Some strands of her updo have come loose, and the strap of her jumpsuit has slid down her shoulder. Her eyes are wild with adrenaline.

  Wordlessly, I follow her down a corridor and into a semiprivate corner of the backstage area, by a dressing table laden with eyeshadow palettes, hairspray, and half-finished bottles of water. She looks like she’s about to flump down into the chair, but then decides against it and hovers awkwardly by the edge of the table instead. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her look a little nervous around me, and it does funny things to my insides.

  Not knowing how to start, I say, ‘You were amazing, Kiks.’

  She smiles, but it’s a little stiff. ‘You never get tired of saying that?’

  ‘You never get tired of being it?’

  A sharp bark of laughter. ‘Fuck no.’

  ‘Then fuck no also.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I can’t believe you made me swear on stage.’

  ‘Yeah. Was it the shirt?’

  She looks at it as though seeing it for the first time. ‘It is . . . a lot. You know, visually. In a good way, though.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s Vati’s.’

  ‘That makes sense.’

  There’s an awkward pause. Another band starts up on stage, and they sound extremely dull compared to Keiko’s whirlwind set.

  Okay. Here goes.

  ‘Listen. The reason I came here is because . . . I wanted to say all the things I should’ve said to you on the carousel. You know, before I nearly snapped my neck.’

  She arranges the water bottles in a line. ‘Honestly, Caro, we’re cool. You don’t have to –’

  ‘Will you shut up and listen to me for once in your life?’ I interrupt, for once in my life.

  That gets her attention. She looks up at me, half-bemused, half-impressed. ‘Alright.’

  I had a whole spiel prepared. A whole spiel about how my feelings for her have changed and evolved, about how I think about her all the time, about how there’s nobody else I would rather be around, nobody who makes me happier. A whole spiel about how nobody makes me like myself more. A whole spiel about how I want to kiss her, and only her. A whole spiel about how the way I feel about her is dark energy in action. All love is. And at some point, we just have to stop analyzing it, and trust that it will only continue to grow.

  But all that comes out is this:

  ‘I love you. I’m in love with you.’

  She freezes in shock. A smile is playing around the corners of her red lips, but she holds it back, as though she won’t let herself believe what she just heard. ‘Wait. What?’ I don’t notice how badly her hands are shaking until I see her clasp them together.

  ‘I’m in love with you, Keiko.’ I’m surprised how calm and clear my voice is. ‘I just wanted to be sure that the way I felt wasn’t because of the pills. That the way you felt wasn’t because of the pills. My heart couldn’t take losing you like that. Now the pills are gone, and I know what I’m feeling is real. But I’m done trying to manipulate how other people feel about me. So I’m asking you, right now . . . how do you feel about me? Please know that any answer is okay. You could literally be like, I want to assassinate you with a longsword and I’d be like, I respect that.’

  She bursts out laughing. ‘You’re such a nerd.’

  ‘What on earth is nerdy about a longsword?’ I ask sincerely.

  ‘I love you too,’ she breathes. ‘I’m in love with you too.’

  I soak in every inch of the moment; the alt-rock in the background, the scent of hairspray and jojoba, the lilac hair and red lips and the absolutely remarkable girl they belong to.

  The girl who loves me like I love her.

  The girl I finally feel like I’m good enough to be with.

  ‘Can we kiss now?’ I ask, and now I’m the one who’s shaking, because Keiko has kissed many girls and I have kissed precisely none, and sure it’s probably the same as kissing boys but also it’s really, really not.

  She responds by pushing off the dressing table and closing the distance between us. For a few moments before our lips touch, she just lingers there, no more than an inch away, and it’s so strange to have my best friend so close to me, so strange to want her like this.

  When we finally kiss, it feels entirely different to any kiss I’ve ever had before. It’s softer and deeper, and terrifying and life-affirming, like a piece of my heart is finally clicking into place. Like all the dark energy finally has a place to go.

  Wait. Maybe this dark energy – the mysterious matter that caused my feelings for Keiko to expand – maybe it was self-love all along. Maybe it was the belief that I actually deserved someone like her.

  There are a lot of maybes in that paragraph. If I pursue a career in astrophysics, and if I keep falling in love with Keiko in new and mysterious ways, there will be many more maybes to come.

  And that’s okay. That’s fucking great, in fact. Because if there’s anything I’ve realized in the last few months, it’s that guarantees suck the fun out of life, and love, and everything in between.

  I’m done chasing guarantees. And I’m done living like love is a science problem to be solved.

  There’s science involved, of course. There’s science in everything. Estrogen and testosterone, adrenaline and dopamine and serotonin. Oxytocin and vasopressin. Sex pheromones. Dark energy.

  But what I have learned is that some things shouldn’t be put under a microscope and dissected. The more we analyze and unravel and reduce love, the more we break it, like we do to the universe every time we try too hard to understand it.

  That’s it. That’s the Love Hypothesis.

  It was right in front of me all along.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  This is my sixth published book, and it’ll never fail to amaze me just how much hard work – from so, so many people – goes into making the story in my head a real thing the world can read. An enormous shout out to everyone at Egmont for believing in me, and working so hard on this book: Liz Bankes (and her extraordinary editorial eye), Ali Dougal, Sarah Levison, Lucy Courtenay, Laura Bird, Hilary Bell and Siobhan McDermott. And to Lauren James, for offering editorial guidance on the sciencey bits!

  As ever, a huge thank you to my incredible agent, Suzie Townsend, for her never-ending support, advice and hard work on my behalf. I say this in every acknowledgments section, but I wouldn’t be doing this job if you hadn’t taken a chance on 22-year-old me, and I’m so grateful. Also a massive thank you to everyone at New Leaf, particularly Pouya Shahbazian for fighting so hard to get this book to the screen, Maíra Roman, Veronica Grijalva, Dani Segelbaum and Mariah Chappell. What a dream team.

  My writing pals! Seriously, what would I do without you? There are far, far too many to name and I’m grateful to all of you, but a special shout out to my agency siblings Francina Simone, Sasha Alsberg, Margot Wood, Victoria Aveyard, Claribel Ort
ega and Emma Theriault.

  I’m just realizing how many people I’m listing are women. Who run the world? (Sorry, Pouya.)

  Speaking of which, ten thousand thank yous to Helen Lederer and the Comedy Women In Print Prize judges for crowning The Exact Opposite Of Okay the inaugural winner. It came at a time when I so badly needed the boost, and it bolstered me to keep writing my funny, flawed characters.

  Permanent shout out to my friends and family for putting up with my nonsense, including my dog Obi, whose beautiful furry head is currently resting very unhelpfully on my laptop keyboard. Mum, Dad, Jack, Gran, the rest of my bonkers family, Toria, Nic, Lucy, Hilary, Hannah, Lauren, Amy, Spike, Steve, Heather. Oh, and the Mslexia crew – thank you for welcoming me back with open(ish) arms.

  And to Louis – my husband, best friend, soul mate, and by the time this book hits shelves, father to our tiny baby son. I love you both more than any hypothesis can explain.

  ALSO BY LAURA STEVEN

  The Exact Opposite of Okay

  A Girl Called Shameless

  AS LAURA KIRKPATRICK

  And Then I Turned Into a Mermaid

  Don’t Tell Him I’m a Mermaid