The Love Hypothesis

It had been Adam, after all. Olive had been right.

What she hadn’t been right about was whether he remembered her.

“Yes,” she said. She wasn’t smiling anymore. Adam was still holding her gaze. “I guess he has.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

HYPOTHESIS: When given a choice between A (telling a lie) and B (telling the truth), I will inevitably end up s

electing . . .

No. Not this time.

Olive had no doubt that Holden’s tales were highly embellished and the result of years of comedy workshopping, but she still couldn’t help laughing harder than ever before.

“And I’m awakened by this waterfall pouring down on me—”

Adam rolled his eyes. “It was a drop.”

“And I’m asking myself why it’s raining inside the cabin, when I realize that it’s coming from the top bunk and that Adam, who was, like, thirteen at the time—”

“Six. I was six, and you were seven.”

“Had pissed the bed, and the piss was seeping through the mattress and onto me.”

Olive’s hands flew up to cover her mouth, not quite succeeding at hiding her amusement—just like she’d failed when Holden had recounted that a dalmatian puppy had once bitten Adam’s ass through his jeans, or that he’d been voted “Most likely to make people cry” in his senior yearbook.

At least Adam didn’t act embarrassed, and not nearly as upset as he’d seemed after Holden had talked about him pining after her. Which explained . . . so many things.

Everything, maybe.

“Man. Six years old.” Malcolm shook his head and wiped his eyes.

“I was sick.”

“Still. Seems kind of old to have an accident?”

Adam simply stared at Malcolm until he lowered his gaze. “Uh, maybe not that old after all,” he muttered.

There was a large bowl of fortune cookies by the register. Olive noticed it on her way out of the restaurant, let out a delighted squeal, and dipped her hand in to fish out four plastic packages. She handed one each to Malcolm and Holden, and held out another for Adam with a mischievous smile. “You hate these, don’t you?”

“I don’t.” He accepted the cookie. “I just think they taste like Styrofoam.”

“Probably have similar nutritional values, too,” Malcolm muttered as they slipped out into the chilly humidity of the early night. Surprisingly, he and Adam were finding lots of common ground.

It wasn’t raining anymore, but the street was shiny in the light under a lamppost; a soft breeze made the leaves rustle and stray drops of water scatter to the ground. The air was fresh in Olive’s lungs, pleasantly so after the hours spent in the restaurant. She unrolled her sleeves, accidentally brushing her hand against Adam’s abs. She smiled up at him, playfully apologetic; he flushed and averted his eyes.

“?‘He who laughs at himself never runs out of things to laugh at.’?” Holden popped a bit of fortune cookie in his mouth, blinking at the message inside. “Is that shade?” He looked around, indignant. “Did this fortune cookie just throw shade at me?”

“Sounds like it,” Malcolm answered. “Mine says ‘Why not treat yourself to a good time instead of waiting for somebody else to do it?’ I think my cookie just shaded you, too, babe.”

“What’s wrong with this batch?” Holden pointed at Adam and Olive. “What do yours say?”

Olive was already opening hers, nibbling on a corner as she pulled the paper out. It was very banal, and yet her heart skipped beat. “Mine’s normal,” she informed Holden.

“You’re lying.”

“Nope.”