The Love Hypothesis (Love Hypothesis #1)(62)
“You’re not mad, right?”
“I . . .” Yes. No. Maybe a little. “No. It’s not your fault.” She hugged Malcolm back when he leaned into her, reassuring him with a few awkward pats on the shoulder. As much as she’d have liked to blame him for this, she only had to look at herself. The crux of her problems—most of them, at least—was her moronic, harebrained decision to lie to Anh in the first place. To begin this fake-dating sham. Now she was giving a talk at this stupid conference, probably after sleeping at a bus station and eating moss for breakfast, and despite all of this she couldn’t stop thinking about Adam. Just perfect.
Laptop under her arm, Olive headed back to the lab, the prospect of getting her slides in order for her talk simultaneously daunting and depressing. There was something leaden and unpleasant weighing on her stomach, and on impulse she made a detour to the restroom and entered the stall farthest from the door, leaning against the wall until the back of her head hit the cold tile surface.
When the weight in her belly began to feel too heavy, her knees gave out on her and her back slid down until she sat on the floor. Olive stayed like that for a long time, trying to pretend that this wasn’t her life.
Chapter Thirteen
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.
There was an Airbnb twenty-five minutes from the conference center, but it was an inflatable mattress on the floor of a storage room, charging 180 bucks per night, and even if she could have afforded it, one of the reviews reported that the host had a penchant for role-playing Viking with the guests, so . . . No, thank you. She found a more affordable one forty-five minutes away by subway, but when she went to reserve the room, she discovered that someone had beaten her to it by mere seconds, and she was tempted to hurl her laptop across the coffee shop. She was trying to decide between a seedy motel and a cheap couch in the suburbs when a shadow cast over her. She looked up with a frown, expecting an undergrad wanting to use the outlet she’d been hoarding, and instead found . . .
“Oh.”
Adam was standing in front of her, the late-afternoon sunlight haloing his hair and shoulders, fingers closed around an iPad as he looked down at her with a somber expression. It had been less than a week since she’d last seen him—six days to be precise, which was just a handful of hours and minutes. Nothing, considering that she’d barely known him a month. And yet it was as if the space she was in, the whole campus, the entire city was transformed by knowing that he was back.
Possibilities. That’s what Adam’s presence felt like. Of what, she was not certain.
“You’re . . .” Her mouth was dry. An event of great scientific interest, considering that she’d taken a sip from her water bottle maybe ten seconds ago. “You’re back.”
“I am.”
She hadn’t forgotten his voice. Or his height. Or the way his stupid clothes fit him. She couldn’t have—she had two medial temporal lobes, fully functioning and tucked nicely inside her skull, which meant that she was perfectly able to encode and store memories. She hadn’t forgotten anything, and she wasn’t sure why right now it felt as if she had. “I thought . . . I didn’t—” Yes, Olive. Wonderful. Very eloquent. “I didn’t know that you were back.”
His face was a little closed off, but he nodded. “I flew in last night.”
“Oh.” She should have probably prepared something to say, but she hadn’t expected to see him until Wednesday. If she had, maybe she wouldn’t have been wearing her oldest leggings and most tattered T-shirt, and her hair wouldn’t have been a mess. Not that she was under any illusion that Adam would have noticed her if she’d been wearing a swimsuit or a gala dress. But still. “Do you want to sit?” She leaned forward to gather her phone and notebook, making room on the other side of the small table. It was only when he hesitated before taking a seat that it occurred to her that maybe he had no intention of staying, that now he might feel forced to do so. He folded himself into the chair gracefully, like a big cat.
Great job, Olive. Who doesn’t love a needy person who hounds them for attention?
“You don’t have to. I know you’re busy. MacArthur grants to win and grads to brutalize and broccoli to eat.” He’d probably rather be anywhere else. She bit her thumbnail, feeling guilty, starting to panic, and—
And then he smiled. And suddenly there were grooves around his mouth and dimples in his cheeks and his face was completely altered by them. The air at the table thinned. Olive couldn’t quite breathe.
“You know, there’s a middle ground between living off brownies and exclusively eating broccoli.”
She grinned, for no reason other than—Adam was here, with her. And he was smiling. “That’s a lie.”
He shook his head, mouth still curved. “How are you?”
Better now. “Good. How was Boston?”
“Good.”
“I’m glad you’re back. I’m pretty sure the biology dropout rates have seen a steep reduction. We can’t have that.”
He gave her a patient, put-upon look. “You look tired, smart-ass.”
“Oh. Yeah, I . . .” She rubbed her cheek with her hand, ordering herself not to feel self-conscious about her looks, just like she’d always made a point not to. It would be an equally stupid idea to wonder what the woman Holden mentioned the other day looked like. Probably stunning. Probably feminine, with curves; someone who actually needed to wear a bra, someone who was not half covered in freckles, who had mastered the art of applying liquid eyeliner without making a mess of herself.