The Love Hypothesis

Malcolm was quiet for a long moment. “You have no idea, do you?” His tone was sad. “You’re great. You’re beautiful, and loving. You’re independent, and a genius scientist, and selfless, and loyal—hell, Ol, look at this ridiculous mess you created just so your friend could date the guy she likes without feeling guilty. There’s no way Carlsen hasn’t noticed.”

“No.” She was resolute. “Don’t get me wrong, I do think he likes me, but he thinks of me as a friend. And if I tell him and he doesn’t want to . . .”

“To what? Doesn’t want to fake-date you anymore? It’s not like you have much to lose.”

Maybe not. Maybe all the talking, and those looks Adam gave her, and him shaking his head when she ordered extra whipped cream; the way he let himself be teased out of his moods; the texts; how he seemed to be so at ease with her, so noticeably different from the Adam Carlsen she used to be half-scared of—maybe all of that was not much. But she and Adam were friends now, and they could remain friends even past September twenty-ninth. Olive’s heart sank at the thought of giving up the possibility of it. “I do, though.”

Malcolm sighed, once again enveloping her hand with his. “You have it bad, then.”

She pressed her lips together, blinking rapidly to push back the tears. “Maybe I do. I don’t know—I’ve never had it before. I’ve never wanted to have it.”

He smiled reassuringly, even though Olive felt anything but reassured. “Listen, I know it’s scary. But this is not necessarily a bad thing.”

One single tear was making its way down Olive’s cheek. She hastened to clean it with her sleeve. “It’s the worst.”

“You’ve finally found someone you’re into. And okay, it’s Carlsen, but this could still turn out to be great.”

“It couldn’t. It can’t.”

“Ol, I know where you’re coming from. I get it.” Malcolm’s hand tightened on hers. “I know it’s scary, being vulnerable, but you can allow yourself to care. You can want to be with people as more than just friends or casual acquaintances.”

“But I can’t.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Because all the people I’ve cared about are gone,” she snapped.

Somewhere in the coffee shop, the barista called for a caramel macchiato. Olive immediately regretted her harsh words.

“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . it’s the way it works. My mom. My grandparents. My father—one way or another, everyone is gone. If I let myself care, Adam will go, too.” There. She’d put it into words, said it out loud, and it sounded all the truer because of it.

Malcolm exhaled. “Oh, Ol.” He was one of the few people to whom Olive had opened up about her fears—the constant feeling of not belonging, the never-ending suspicions that since so much of her life had been spent alone, then it would end the same way. That she’d never be worthy of someone caring for her. His knowing expression, a combination of sorrow and understanding and pity, was unbearable to watch. She looked elsewhere—at the laughing students, at the coffee cup lids stacked next to the counter, at the stickers on a girl’s MacBook—and slid her hand away from under his palm.

“You should go.” She attempted a smile, but it felt wobbly. “Finish your surgeries.”

He didn’t break eye contact. “I care. Anh cares—Anh would have chosen you over Jeremy. And you care, too. We all care about one another, and I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s different.”

“How?”

Olive didn’t bother answering and used her sleeve to dry her cheek. Adam was different, and what Olive wanted from him was different, but she couldn’t—didn’t want to articulate it. Not now. “I won’t tell him.”

“Ol.”

“No,” she said, firm. With her tears gone, she felt marginally better. Maybe she was not who she had thought, but she could fake it. She could pretend, even to herself. “I’m not going to tell him. It’s a horrible idea.”

“Ol.”

“How would that conversation even work? How would I phrase it? What are the right words?”

“Actually you should probably—”

“Do I tell him that I’m into him? That I think about him all the time? That I have a huge crush on him? That—”

“Olive.”

In the end, what tipped her off was not Malcolm’s words, or his panicky expression, or the fact that he was clearly looking at a spot somewhere above her shoulders. In the end, Anh chose that exact moment to text her, which drew Olive’s eyes to the numbers on the screen.