The Love Hypothesis

by Ali Hazelwood

The Guy she met after stumbling blindly into the first bathroom she could find. The Guy who asked her, “Out of curiosity, is there a specific reason you’re crying in my restroom?”

“Expiration dates are so I don’t find you weeping in the corner of my bathroom.”

HYPOTHESIS:

Adam Carlsen. Destroyer of research careers, Olive had once overheard her adviser say.

“Is there something wrong?” He sounded almost concerned. “What? No. No, there isn’t.” “Because,” he continued calmly, “kissing a stranger at midnight in a science lab might be a sign that there is.”

HYPOTHESIS: Any rumor regarding my love life will spread with a speed that is directly proportional to my desire to keep said rumor a secret.

“I’m done. I’m letting the cockroaches eat you. And I’m changing my Netflix password.” Oh no. “Malcolm. Hear what?” “That you are dating Adam Carlsen.”

“Fine. We can say that you broke up with me.” “Because that sounds credible,” he said drily, almost below his breath.

“Dr. Carlsen, this is not something you should joke—” “You really need to start calling me Adam. Since we’ve reportedly been dating for a while.”

“Yeah, but there are other computational modelers in the department. And I’d like to eventually graduate, ideally without sobbing in a bathroom stall after each committee meeting.”

I have no idea if you’re good enough, he’d told her. What matters is whether your reason to be in academia is good enough. He’d said that Olive’s reason was the best one, and therefore, she could do this. She needed to do this.

This was just…Seriously, this whole business, it was completely, utterly… Comfortable. Adam Carlsen’s lap was one of the most comfortable places on earth, as it turned out.

“Mostly because you hang out with some really nosy people.”

You kiss him. You kiss him, and then, next thing you know, he’s saving your ass and he’s buying you scones and calling you a smart-ass in a weirdly affectionate tone, and even when he’s being his moody asshole self, he doesn’t seem to be that bad. Or bad at all. And then you tell him to fuck off over the phone and possibly ruin everything.

“Might also tell her about the kisses you’ve been extorting, and the fake-dating scheme you roped me into, and above all about the sunscreen—” “Oh God.” Olive hid her face in her knees, arms coming up to wrap around her head. “God. The sunscreen.”

“Is the sunscreen going in the Title IX complaint?” His mouth twitched. “Right on the first page. Nonconsensual sunblock application.” “Oh, come on. I saved you from basal cell carcinoma.” “Groped under SPF pretense.”

“I don’t deserve this verbal abuse on top of the flu shot.”

“You have no idea, do you?” His tone was sad. “You’re great. You’re beautiful, and loving. You’re independent, and a genius scientist, and selfless, and loyal—hell, Ol, look at this ridiculous mess you created just so your friend could date the guy she likes without feeling guilty. There’s no way Carlsen hasn’t noticed.”

She pressed her lips together, blinking rapidly to push back the tears. “Maybe I do. I don’t know—I’ve never had it before. I’ve never wanted to have it.” He smiled reassuringly, even though Olive felt anything but reassured. “Listen, I know it’s scary. But this is not necessarily a bad thing.”

“And you have the very dubious pleasure of dating my oldest, most socially impaired friend.”

No. Of course not. Talking on the phone is the hardest, most stressful thing in the world, and I can’t do it with the nice lady who schedules my dental cleanings, let alone with Adam Carlsen.

“Yep. I’m so glad he finally scrounged up the courage to ask you out. He’d been going on and on about this ‘amazing girl’ for years, but he was concerned about being in the same department, and you know how he is…” He shrugged and waved his hand. “I’m glad he finally managed to pull his head out of his ass.”

“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.’ ”

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.

“It’s not. It won’t be. There will be only one bed, for sure.” He gave her a puzzled look. “I got the booking confirmation the other day. I can forward it to you if you want; it says that—” “It doesn’t matter what it says. It’s always one bed.”

“Because.” Because I don’t want to. Because I have it bad. Because I’d probably have it even worse, after that. Because it’s going to be the week of September twenty-ninth, and I’ve been trying hard not to think about it.

“Are you afraid that I’ll try to kiss you without your consent? To sit on your lap, or fondle you under the pretext of applying sunscreen? Because I would never—”

It hit her then what was so special about Adam. That no matter his reputation, or how rocky their first meeting, since the very beginning, Olive had felt that he was on her side. Over and over, and in ways that she could never have anticipated, he had made her feel unjudged. Less alone.

“I’ll just do what Dr. Aslan always says.” “And what’s that?” “Carry myself 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 wasn’t until a few minutes later, when she was sitting on her bed staring at the Boston skyline and chewing on her lunch, that Olive realized that the protein bar Adam had given her was covered in chocolate.

“A pretty girl like you should know the score by now.” He looked at her from head to toe, and the lewd gleam in his eyes made her feel disgusting. “Don’t lie to me and say you didn’t pick out a dress that short for my benefit. Nice legs, by the way. I can see why Adam’s wasting his time with you.”

“Quick question. Who do you think Adam will believe, Olive?” She halted abruptly, just a few feet from the door. “Some bitch he’s been fucking for about two weeks, or someone who’s been a close friend for years? Someone who helped him get the most important grant of his career? Someone who’s had his back since he was younger than you are? Someone who’s actually a good scientist?”

“I take it back: you are a disturbingly cheap date.”

“Do you think they’re on a fake date?” she asked, leaning back against her seat. Adam followed her gaze to the couple. “I thought those mostly involved coffee shops and sunscreen applications?” “Nah. Only the best ones.”

“I’ve never been surer of anything. Except maybe cell theory.”

“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.”

“He hasn’t shut up about it.” He rolled his eyes. “Did you know that Holden is secretly twelve?”

HYPOTHESIS: People who cross me will come to regret it.

“I’m going to kill you,” he gritted out, little more than a growl. “If you say another word about the woman I love, if you look at her, if you even think about her—I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“I am going to take care of this,” he told her. There was something determined, earnest in his eyes. Olive had never felt safer, or more loved. “And then I’ll come find you, and I’ll take care of you.”

Malcolm smiled and leaned his head against her shoulder. “My kalamata knows me well.”

“Well, if Adam knows, you should know about the pumpkin spice.” “Wasn’t Adam a dick until, like, twelve seconds ago?” “How the turntables,” Adam murmured.

“Yes, but you knew each other from earlier.” Holden was frowning. “You two met the year before you started your Ph.D. here, when you came for your interview, and he’s been pining after you ever since.”

Is mine a good enough reason to go to grad school? It’s the best one. All of a sudden, things had seemed simple enough. It had been Adam, after all. Olive had been right.

You can fall in love: someone will catch you.