The Love Hypothesis

Fuck my life, she thought, slipping past the busy hostess and walking toward Adam. She figured that her bright red duffle coat would attract his attention, then she’d gesticulate for him to check his phone, and text him to please, please, please give her five minutes of his time when dinner was over. She figured that telling him tonight was the best option—his interview would be over tomorrow, and he’d be able to make his decision with the truth at his disposal. She figured her plan might work.

She had not figured that Adam would notice her while in conversation with a young, beautiful faculty member. She had not figured that he’d suddenly stop speaking, eyes widening and lips parting; that he’d mutter “Excuse me” while staring at Olive and stand from the table, ignoring the curious looks in his direction; that he’d march to the entrance, where Olive was, with quick, long strides and a concerned expression.

“Olive, are you okay?” he asked her, and—

Oh. His voice. And his eyes. And the way his hands came up, as if to touch her, to make sure that she was intact and really there—though right before his fingers could close around her biceps he hesitated and let them fall back to his sides.

It broke her heart a little.

“I’m fine.” She attempted a smile. “I . . . I’m sorry to interrupt this. I know it’s important, that you want to move to Boston, and—this is inappropriate. But it’s now or never, and I wasn’t sure if I’d have the courage to . . .” She was rambling. So she took a deep breath and started again. “I need to tell you something. Something that happened. With—”

“Hey, Olive.”

Tom. But of course. “Hi, Tom.” Olive held Adam’s gaze and didn’t look at him. He did not deserve to be looked at. “Can you give us a minute of privacy?”

She could see his oily, fake smile with the corner of her eye. “Olive, I know you’re young and don’t know how these things work, but Adam’s here to interview for a very important position, and he can’t just—”

“Leave,” Adam ordered, voice low and cold.

Olive closed her eyes and nodded, taking a step back. Fine. It was fine. It was Adam’s right not to talk to her. “Okay. I’m sorry, I—”

“Not you. Tom, leave us.”

Oh. Oh. Well, then.

“Dude,” Tom said, sounding amused, “you can’t just get up from the table in the middle of an interview dinner and—”

“Leave,” Adam repeated.

Tom laughed, brazen. “No. Not unless you’re coming with me. We’re collaborators, and if you act like an asshole during a dinner with my department because of some student you’re screwing, it will reflect poorly on me. You need to come back to the table and—”

“A pretty girl like you should know the score by now. 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.”

Neither Adam nor Tom had seen Olive take out her phone, or press Play. They both struggled for a second, confused—they’d clearly heard the words but were unsure where they came from. Until the recording restarted.

“Olive. You don’t think I accepted you into my lab because you are good, do you? A girl like you. Who figured out so early in her academic career that fucking well-known, successful scholars is how to get ahead. You fucked Adam, didn’t you? We both know you’re going to fuck me for the same reason.”

“What the—” Tom took a step forward, hand extended to grab the phone from Olive. He didn’t get far, because Adam pushed him away with a palm on his chest, making him stumble several steps back.

He still wasn’t looking at Tom. And not at Olive, either. He was staring down at her phone, something dark and dangerous and frighteningly still in his expression. She should have probably been scared. Maybe she was, a little.

“—you’re telling me you thought your pitiful abstract was selected for a talk because of its quality and scientific importance? Someone here has a very high opinion of herself, considering that her research is useless and derivative and that she can barely put together two words without stuttering like an idiot—”

“It was him,” Adam whispered. His voice was low, barely a whisper, deceptively calm. His eyes, unreadable. “It was Tom. The reason you were crying.”

Olive could only nod. In the background, Tom’s recorded voice droned on and on. Talking about how mediocre she was. How Adam would never believe her. Calling her names.

“This is ridiculous.” Tom was coming closer again, reattempting to take the phone away. “I’m not sure what this bitch’s problem is, but she’s clearly—”

Adam exploded so fast, she didn’t even see him move. One moment he stood in front of her, and the next he was pinning Tom against the wall.

“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.”

“Adam—” Tom choked out.

“Actually, I will kill you anyway.”

People were running toward them. The hostess, a waiter, a few faculty members from Adam’s table. They were forming a crowd, yelling in confusion and trying to pull Adam off Tom—with no success. Olive’s mind went to Adam pushing Cherie’s truck, and she almost laughed in a moment of hysteria. Almost.