The Love Hypothesis (Love Hypothesis #1)(45)

“What did you do?”

“Foster home until sixteen, then I emancipated.” She shrugged, hoping to brush off the memory. “If only they’d caught it earlier, even just by a few months—maybe she’d be here. Maybe surgery and chemo would have actually done something. And I . . . I was always good at science stuff, so I thought that the least I could do was . . .”

Adam dug into his pockets for a few moments and held out a crumpled paper napkin. Olive stared at it, confused, until she realized that her cheeks had somehow grown wet.

Oh.

“Adam, did you just offer me a used tissue?”

“I . . . maybe.” He pressed his lips together. “I panicked.”

She chuckled wetly, accepting his gross tissue and using it to blow her nose. They’d kissed twice, after all. Why not share a bit of snot? “I’m sorry. I’m usually not like this.”

“Like what?”

“Weepy. I . . . I shouldn’t talk about this.”

“Why?”

“Because.” It was hard to explain, the mix of pain and affection that always resurfaced when she talked about her mother. It was the reason she almost never did it, and the reason she hated cancer so much. Not only had it robbed her of the person she loved the most, but it had also turned the happiest memories of her life into something bittersweet. “It makes me weepy.”

He smiled. “Olive, you can talk about it. And you should let yourself be weepy.”

She had a sense that he really meant it. That she could have talked about her mom for however long she liked, and he would have listened intently to every second of it. She wasn’t sure she was ready for it, though. So she shrugged, changing the topic. “Anyway, now here I am. Loving lab work and barely dealing with the rest—abstracts, conferences, networking. Teaching. Rejected grants.” Olive gestured in Adam’s direction. “Failed dissertation proposals.”

“Is your lab mate still giving you a hard time?”

Olive waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not his favorite person, but it’s fine. He’ll get over it.” She bit into her lip. “I’m sorry about the other night. I was rude. You have every right to be mad.”

Adam shook his head. “It’s okay. I understand where you were coming from.”

“I do get what you’re saying. About not wanting to form a new generation of crappy millennial scientists.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever used the expression ‘crappy millennial scientists.’?”

“But FYI, I still think that you don’t need to be that harsh when you give feedback. We get the gist of what you’re saying, even if you give criticism more nicely.”

He looked at her for a long time. Then he nodded, once. “Noted.”

“Are you going to be less harsh, then?”

“Unlikely.”

She sighed. “You know, when I have no more friends and everyone hates me because of this fake-dating thing, I’ll be super lonely and you are going to have to hang out with me every day. I’ll annoy you all the time. Is it really worth being mean to every grad in the program?”

“Absolutely.”

She sighed again, this time with a smile, and let the side of her head rest on his shoulder. It might have been a bit forward, but it felt natural—maybe because they seemed to have a knack for getting themselves in situations that required PDA of some sort, maybe because of everything they’d been talking about, maybe because of the hour of the night. Adam . . . well, he didn’t act as if he minded. He was just there, quiet, relaxed, warm and solid through the cotton of his black shirt under her temple. It felt like a long time before he broke the silence.

“I’m not sorry for asking Greg to revise his proposal. But I am sorry that I created a situation that led him to take it out on you. That as long as this continues, it might happen again.”

“Well, I am sorry about the texts I sent,” she said again. “And you’re fine. Even if you’re antagonistic and unapproachable.”

“Good to hear.”

“I should go back to the lab.” She sat up, one hand coming to massage the base of her neck. “My disastrous blotting is not going to fix itself.”

Adam blinked, and there was a gleam in his eyes, as if he hadn’t thought she’d leave so soon. As if he’d have liked for her to stay. “Why disastrous?”

She groaned. “It’s just . . .” She reached for her phone and tapped on the home button, pulling up a picture of her last Western blot. “See?” She pointed at the target protein. “This—it shouldn’t . . .”

He nodded, thoughtful. “You’re sure the starting sample was good? And the gel?”

“Yep, not runny, or dried out.”

“It looks like the antibody might be the problem.”

She looked up at him. “You think so?”

“Yep. I’d check the dilution and the buffer. If not that, it might also be a wonky secondary antibody. Come by my lab if it still doesn’t work; you can borrow ours. Same for other pieces of equipment or supplies. If there’s anything you need, just ask my lab manager.”

“Oh, wow. Thank you.” She smiled. “Now I’m actually a bit sorry that I can’t have you on my dissertation committee. Perhaps rumors of your cruelty have been greatly exaggerated.”