The Love Hypothesis

She took a deep, shuddering breath. There was a tear, one single tear that she could feel sliding down her cheek. Adam saw it and mouthed her name.

“I think that somewhere along the way I forgot that I was something. I forgot myself.”

She was the one who stepped closer. The one who put her hand on the hem of his shirt, who tugged gently and held on to it, who started touching him and crying and smiling at the same time. “There are two things I want to tell you, Adam.”

“What can I—”

“Please. Just let me tell you.”

He wasn’t very good at it. At standing there and doing nothing while her eyes welled fuller and fuller. She could tell that he felt useless, his hands dangling in fists at his sides, and she . . . she loved him even more for it. For looking at her like she was the beginning and end of his every thought.

“The first thing is that I lied to you. And my lie was not just by omission.”

“Olive—”

“It was a real lie. A bad one. A stupid one. I let you—no, I made you think that I had feelings for someone else, when in truth . . . I didn’t. I never did.”

His hand came up to cup the side of her face. “What do you—”

“But that’s not very important.”

“Olive.” He pulled her closer, pressing his lips against her forehead. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is that you’re crying about, I will fix it. I will make it right. I—”

“Adam,” she interrupted him with a wet smile. “It’s not important, because the second thing, that’s what really matters.”

They were so close, now. She could smell his scent and his warmth, and his hands were cradling her face, thumbs swiping back and forth to dry her cheeks.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured. “What is the second thing?”

She was still crying, but she’d never been happier. So she said it, probably in the worst accent he’d ever heard.

“Ik hou van jou, Adam.”

Epilogue

RESULTS: Careful analyses of the data collected, accounting for potential confounds, statistical error, and experimenter’s bias, show that when I fall in love . . . things don’t actually turn out to be that bad.

Ten months later

“Stand there. You were standing right there.”

“Was I?”

He was humoring her. A little. That deliciously put-upon expression had become Olive’s favorite over the past yea

r. “A bit closer to the water fountain. Perfect.” She took a step back to admire her handiwork and then winked at him as she took out her phone to snap a quick picture. She briefly considered swapping it for her current screensaver—a selfie of the two of them in Joshua Tree a few weeks earlier, Adam squinting in the sun and Olive pressing her lips to his cheek—but then thought better of it.

Their summer had been full of hiking trips, and delicious ice cream, and late-night kisses on Adam’s balcony, laughing and sharing untold stories and looking up at the stars, so much brighter than the ones Olive had once climbed on a ladder to stick to the ceiling of her bedroom. She was going to start working at a cancer lab at Berkeley in less than a week, which would mean a busier, more stressful schedule and a bit of a commute. And yet, she couldn’t wait.

“Just stand there,” she ordered. “Look antagonistic and unapproachable. And say ‘pumpkin spice.’?”

He rolled his eyes. “What’s your plan if someone comes in?”

Olive glanced around the biology building. The hallway was silent and deserted, and the dim after-hours lights made Adam’s hair look almost blue. It was late, and summer, and the weekend to boot: no one was going to come in. Even if they did, Olive Smith and Adam Carlsen were old news by now. “Like who?”

“Anh might show up. To help you re-create the magic.”

“Pretty sure she’s out with Jeremy.”