The Love Hypothesis

by Ali Hazelwood

Plus, her GRE scores and GPA were almost perfect. Not having a life came in handy, sometimes.

Which are idiotic, Olive thought. “Which are idiotic,” Adam said, gesturing dismissively with those huge hands of his.

“Zero. But I am familiar with the trope.” “The . . . what?” He blinked at her, confused.

“I am organizing this outreach event for BIPOC women in STEM from all over the country—I’m going to get Ph.D. students like me to talk face-to-face with undergrads who are applying and reassure them that if they come to grad school they won’t be alone.”

“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.’ ”

“It will be fine, Olive.” His smile softened. “And if not, at least it will be over.”

It should have been overwhelming and anxiety inducing, but about halfway through she realized that it made her oddly giddy, knowing that someone else was passionate about the same research questions that had taken up most of the past two years of her life.

“You were a high-powered researcher, surrounded by students who hung on your every word. And you were answering a multiparagraph email with an uncapitalized no.” “Nice. Was I happy?” “Of course not.” Anh snorted. “It’s academia.”

You were not invited to speak because people think that you are my girlfriend—there is no such thing, since SBD’s abstracts go through a blind review process. I would know, because I’ve been roped into reviewing them in the past. And the work you presented is important, rigorous, and brilliant.” He took a deep breath. His shoulders rose and fell in time with the thudding of her heart. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

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.