The Love Hypothesis: Chapter 14

There were two beds in the hotel room.

Two double beds to be precise, and as she stared at them, Olive felt her shoulders sag with relief and had to resist the urge to fist-pump. Take that, you stupid rom-coms. She may have fallen for the dude she’d begun to fake-date like some born-yesterday fool, but at least she wouldn’t be sharing a bed with him any time soon. Given her disastrous past couple of weeks, she’d really, really needed the win.

There were a number of little clues that Adam had slept on the bed closest to the entrance—a book on the bedside table in a language that looked like German, a thumb drive and the same iPad she’d seen him carry around on several occasions, an iPhone charger dangling from the power outlet. A suitcase tucked by the foot of the bed, black and expensive-looking. Unlike Olive’s, it probably hadn’t been fished out of the Walmart bargain bin.

“I guess this is mine, then,” she murmured, sitting on the bed closest to the window and bouncing a few times to test the firmness of the mattress. It was a nice room. Not ridiculously fancy, but Olive was suddenly grateful for the way Adam had snorted and looked at her like she was crazy when she’d offered to pay for half of it. At least the place was wide enough that they weren’t going to have to brush up against each other every time they moved around. Staying in here with him wouldn’t feel like a singularly sadistic version of seven minutes in heaven.

Not that they’d be together much. She was going to give her talk in a couple of hours—ugh—then go to the department’s social and hang out with her friends until . . . well, as long as she feasibly could. Odds were that Adam already had tons of meetings scheduled, and maybe they wouldn’t even see each other. Olive would be asleep when he came back tonight, and tomorrow morning one of them would pretend not to wake up while the other got ready. It was going to be fine. Harmless. At the very least, not make things worse than they currently were.

Olive’s usual conference outfit was black jeans and her least-frayed cardigan, but a few days ago Anh had mentioned that the ensemble might be too casual for a talk. After sighing for hours Olive had decided to bring the black wrap dress she’d bought on sale before interviewing for grad school and black pumps borrowed from Anh’s sister. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but as soon as she slipped into the bathroom to put on the dress, she realized that it must have shrunk the last time she washed it. It didn’t quite hit her knees anymore, not by a couple of inches. She groaned and snapped a picture for Anh and Malcolm, who texted her, respectively, Still conference appropriate and a fire emoji. Olive prayed that Anh was right as she combed the waves in her hair and fought against dried-out mascara—her fault for buying makeup at the dollar store, clearly.

She had just got out of the bathroom, rehearsing her talk under her breath, when the door opened and someone—Adam, of course it was Adam—entered the room. He was holding his key card and typing something in his phone, but stopped as soon as he looked up and noticed Olive. His mouth opened, and—

That was it. It just stayed open.

“Hey.” Olive forced her face into a smile. Her heart was doing something weird in her chest. Beating a little too quickly. She should probably have it checked as soon as she got back home. One could never be too careful about cardiovascular health. “Hi.”

He snapped his mouth closed and cleared his throat. “You’re . . .” He swallowed and shifted on his feet. “Here.”

“Yep.” She nodded, still smiling. “Just arrived. My flight landed on time, surprisingly.”

Adam seemed a little slow. Maybe jet-lagged from his own flight, or perhaps last night he’d been out late with his famous scientist friends, or with the mysterious woman Holden had talked about. He just stared at Olive, silent for several moments, and when he spoke, it was only to say, “You look . . .”

She glanced down at her dress and heels, wondering if her eye makeup was already smudged. She’d put it on three whole minutes ago, so it was more than likely. “Professional?”

“That’s not what I . . .” Adam closed his eyes and shook his head, as if collecting himself. “But, yes. You do. How are you?”

“Good. Fine. I mean, I wish I were dead. But aside from that.”

He laughed silently and moved closer. “You’ll be okay.” She had thought sweaters were a good look for him, but only because she’d never seen him wear a blazer. He had a secret weapon all along, she thought, trying not to stare too hard. And now he’s unleashing it. Damn him.

“Agreed.” She pushed her hair back and smiled. “After I die.”

“You’re fine. You have a script. You memorized it. Your slides are good.”

“I think they were better before you made me change the PowerPoint background.”

“It was acid green.”

“I know. It made me happy.”

“It made me nauseous.”

“Mm. Anyway, thanks again for helping me figure it out.” And for answering the 139 questions I asked. Thank you for taking less than ten minutes to reply to my emails, every time, even when it was 5:30 a.m. and you misspelled “consensus,” which is unusual of you and makes me suspect that maybe you were still half asleep. “And for letting me crash with you.”

“No problem.”

She scratched the side of her nose. “I figured you were using that bed, so I put my stuff here, but if you . . .” She gestured confusedly at the room.

“No, that’s where I slept last night.”

“Okay.” She was not counting how many inches there were between the two beds. Definitely not. “So how’s the conference so far?”

“Same old. I was mostly at Harvard for a few meetings with Tom. I only got back for lunch.”

Olive’s stomach rumbled loudly at the mention of food.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I think I forgot to eat today.”

His eyebrows arched. “I didn’t think you capable.”

“Hey!” She glared at him. “The sustained levels of despair I’ve been engaging in for the past week require a staggering number of calories, in case you— What are you doing?”

Adam was leaning over his suitcase, rummaging for something that he held out to Olive.

“What is it?”

“Calories. To fuel your despair habits.”

“Oh.” She accepted it and then studied the protein bar in her hands, trying not to burst out crying. It was just food. Probably a snack he’d brought for the plane ride and ended up not eating. He didn’t need to despair, after all. He was Dr. Adam Carlsen. “Thanks. Are you . . .” The wrapping of the bar crinkled as she shifted it from one hand to another. “Are you still coming to my talk?”

“Of course. When is it exactly?”

“Today at four, room 278. Session three-b. The good news is that it partially overlaps with the keynote address, which means that hopefully only a handful of people will show up . . .”

His spine stiffened noticeably. Olive hesitated.

“Unless you were planning to go to the keynote address?”

Adam wet his lips. “I . . .”

Her eyes chose that precise moment to fall to the conference badge dangling from his neck.

Her jaw dropped.

“Oh my God.” She looked up at him, wide-eyed, and . . . Oh God. At least he had the grace to look sheepish. “How did you not tell me that you are the keynote speaker?”

Adam scratched his jaw, oozing discomfort. “I didn’t think of it.”

“Oh my God,” she repeated.

To be fair, it was on her. The name of the keynote speaker was likely printed in font size 300 in the program, and all the promotional material, not to mention the conference app and the emails. Olive must have had her head very much up her butt to fail to notice.

“Adam.” She made to rub her eyes with her fingers, and then thought better of it. Damn makeup. “I can’t be fake-dating SBD’s keynote speaker.”

“Well, there are technically three keynote speakers, and the other two are married women in their fifties who live in Europe and Japan, so—”

Olive crossed her arms on her chest and gave him a flat look until he quieted. She couldn’t help laughing. “How did this not come up?”

“It’s not a big deal.” He shrugged. “I doubt I was their first choice.”

“Right.” Sure. Because a person existed who’d refuse to be keynote speaker at SBD. She tilted her head. “Did you think I was an idiot, when I started complaining about my ten-minute talk that will be attended by fourteen and a half people?”

“Not at all. Your reaction was understandable.” He thought about it for a moment. “I do sometimes think you’re an idiot, mostly when I see you put ketchup and cream cheese on bagels.”

“It’s a great mix.”

He looked pained. “When are you presenting in your panel? Maybe I can still make it.”

“No. I’m exactly halfway through.” She waved a hand, hoping to seem unconcerned. “It’s fine, really.” And it was. “I’m going to have to record myself with my iPhone, anyway.” She rolled her eyes. “For Dr. Aslan. She couldn’t come to the conference, but she said she wants to listen to my first talk. I can send it to you, if you’re a fan of stammering and secondhand embarrassment.”

“I’d like that.”

Olive flushed and changed the topic. “Is that why you have a room for the entire length of the conference even though you’re not staying? Because you’re a big shot?”

He frowned. “I’m not.”

“Can I call you ‘big shot’ from now on?”

He sighed, walking to the bedside table and pocketing the USB she’d noticed earlier. “I have to take my slides downstairs, smart-ass.”

“Okay.” He could leave. It was fine. Totally fine. Olive didn’t let her smile falter. “I guess I’ll maybe see you after my talk, then?”

“Of course.”

“And after yours. Good luck. And congrats. It’s such a huge honor.”

Adam didn’t seem to be thinking about that, though. He lingered by the door, his hand on the knob as he looked back at Olive. Their eyes held for a few moments before he told her, “Don’t be nervous, okay?”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. “I’ll just do what Dr. Aslan always says.”

“And what’s that?”

“Carry myself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.”

He grinned, and—there they were. The heart-stopping dimples. “It will be fine, Olive.” His smile softened. “And if not, at least it will be over.”

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when she was sitting on her bed staring at the Boston skyline and chewing on her lunch, that Olive realized that the protein bar Adam had given her was covered in chocolate.

—

SHE CHECKED WHETHER she had the correct room for the third time—nothing like talking about pancreatic cancer to a crowd that expected a presentation on the Golgi apparatus to make an impression—and then felt a hand close around her shoulder. She spun around, noticed who it belonged to, and immediately grinned.

“Tom!”

He was wearing a charcoal suit. His blond hair was combed back, making him look older than he had in California, but also professional. He was a friendly face in a sea of unfamiliar ones, and his presence took the edge off her intense desire to puke in her own shoe.

“Hey, Olive.” He held the door open for her. “I thought I might see you here.”

“Oh?”

“From the conference program.” He looked at her oddly. “You didn’t notice we’re on the same panel?”

Oh, crap. “Uh—I . . . I didn’t even read who else was on the panel.” Because I was too busy panicking.

“No worries. It’s mostly boring people.” He winked, and his hand slid to her back, guiding her toward the podium. “Except for you and me, of course.”

Her talk didn’t go poorly.

It didn’t go perfectly, either. She stumbled on the word “channelrhodopsin” twice, and by some weird trick of the projector her staining looked more like a black blob than a slice. “It looks different on my computer,” Olive told the audience with a strained smile. “Just trust me on this one.”

People chuckled, and she relaxed marginally, grateful that she’d spent hours upon hours memorizing everything she was supposed to say. The room was not as full as she’d feared, and there were a handful of people—likely working on similar projects at other institutions—who took notes and listened raptly to her every word. It should have been overwhelming and anxiety inducing, but about halfway through she realized that it made her oddly giddy, knowing that someone else was passionate about the same research questions that had taken up most of the past two years of her life.

In the second row, Malcolm faked a fascinated expression, while Anh, Jeremy, and a bunch of other grads from Stanford nodded enthusiastically whenever Olive happened to look in their direction. Tom alternated between staring intensely at her and checking his phone with a bored expression—fair, since he’d already read her report. The session was running late, and the moderator ended up giving her time for only one question—an easy one. At the end, two of the other panelists—well-known cancer researchers whom Olive had to restrain herself not to fangirl over—shook her hand and asked her several questions about her work. She was simultaneously flustered and overjoyed.

“You were so amazing,” Anh told her when it was over, pushing up to hug her. “Also, you look hot and professional, and while you were talking, I had a vision of your future in academia.”

Olive wrapped her arms around Anh. “What vision?”

“You were a high-powered researcher, surrounded by students who hung on your every word. And you were answering a multiparagraph email with an uncapitalized no.”

“Nice. Was I happy?”

“Of course not.” Anh snorted. “It’s academia.”

“Ladies, the department social starts in half an hour.” Malcolm leaned in to kiss Olive on the cheek and squeeze her waist. When she was wearing heels, he was just a tiny bit shorter than her. She definitely wanted a picture of the two of them side by side. “We should go celebrate the single time Olive managed to pronounce ‘channelrhodopsin’ right with some free booze.”

“You dick.”

He pulled her in for a tight hug and whispered in her ear, “You did amazing, Kalamata.” And then, louder: “Let’s go get wasted!”

“Why don’t you guys go ahead? I’ll get my USB and put my stuff back in the hotel.”

Olive made her way through the now-empty room to the podium, feeling like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She was relaxed and relieved. Professionally, things were starting to look up: as it turned out, with adequate preparation she could actually string together several coherent sentences in front of other scientists. She also had the means to carry out her research next year, and two big names in her field had just complimented her work. She smiled, letting her mind wander to whether she should text Adam to tell him that he was right, she did make it out alive; she should probably ask how his keynote address had gone, too. If his PowerPoint had acted up and he’d mispronounced words like “microarrays” or “karyotyping,” whether he planned to go to the department social. He was probably meeting up with friends, but maybe she could buy him a thank-you drink for all his help. She would even pay, for once.

“It went well,” someone said.

Olive turned to find Tom standing behind her, arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the table. He looked as though he’d been staring at her for a while. “Thank you. Yours, too.” His talk had been a more condensed repeat of the one he’d given at Stanford, and Olive had to admit that she’d spaced out a bit.

“Where’s Adam?” he asked.

“Still giving his keynote, I think.”

“Right.” Tom rolled his eyes. Probably with fondness, though Olive didn’t quite catch it in his expression. “He does that, doesn’t he?”

“Does what?”

“Outdoes you.” He pushed away from the table, ambling closer. “Well, outdoes everyone. It’s not personal.” She frowned, confused, wanting to ask Tom what he meant by that, but he continued, “I think you and I will get along great next year.”

The reminder that Tom believed in her work enough to take her in his lab quashed her discomfort. “We will.” She smiled. “Thank you so much for giving me and my project a chance. I can’t wait to start working with you.”

“You’re welcome.” He was smiling, too. “I think there are a lot of things we can gain from each other. Wouldn’t you agree?”

It seemed to Olive like she had much more to gain from it than he did, but she nodded anyway. “I hope so. I think imaging and blood biomarkers complement each other perfectly, and only by combining them can we—”

“And I have what you need, don’t I? The research funds. The lab space. The time and ability to mentor you properly.”

“Yes. You do. I . . .”

All of a sudden, she could pick out the gray rim of his cornea. Had he gotten closer? He was tall, but not that much taller than her. He didn’t usually feel this imposing.

“I’m grateful. So grateful. I’m sure that—”

She felt his unfamiliar smell in her nostrils, and his breath, hot and unpleasant against the corner of her mouth, and—fingers, a vise-tight grip around her upper arm, and why was he—what was he—

“What—” Heart in her throat, Olive freed her arm and took several steps back. “What are you doing?” Her hand came up to her biceps and—it hurt, where he’d clasped her.

God—had he really done that? Tried to kiss her? No, she must have imagined it. She must be going crazy, because Tom would never—

“A preview, I think.”

She just stared at him, too stunned and numb to react, until he moved closer and bent once more toward her. Then it was happening all over again.

She pushed him away. As forcefully as she could, she pushed him away with both her hands on his chest, until he stumbled back with a cruel, condescending laugh. Abruptly, her lungs seized and she couldn’t breathe.

“A preview of—what? Are you out of your mind?”

“Come on.”

Why was he smiling? Why was that oily, hateful expression on his face? Why was he looking at her like—

“A pretty girl like you should know the score by now.” He looked at her from head to toe, and the lewd gleam in his eyes made her feel disgusting. “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.”

“The— What are you—”

“Olive.” He sighed, putting his hands in his pockets. He should have looked nonthreatening, lounging like that. But he felt like anything but. “You don’t think I accepted you into my lab because you are good, do you?”

Slack-jawed, she took one more step back. One of her heels almost caught in the carpet, and she had to hold on to the table to avoid falling.

“A girl like you. Who figured out so early in her academic career that fucking well-known, successful scholars is how to get ahead.” He was still smiling. The same smile Olive had once thought kind. Reassuring. “You fucked Adam, didn’t you? We both know you’re going to fuck me for the same reason.”

She was going to vomit. She was going to vomit in this room, after all, and it had nothing to do with her talk. “You are disgusting.”

“Am I?” He shrugged, unperturbed. “That makes two of us. You used Adam to get to me and to my lab. To this conference, too.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t even know Adam when I submitted—”

“Oh, please. You’re telling me you thought your pitiful abstract was selected for a talk because of its quality and scientific importance?” He made a disbelieving face. “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.”

She froze. Her stomach sank and twisted, her feet cemented to the ground. “It’s not true,” she whispered.

“No? You think it’s not true that scientists in the field want to impress the great Adam Carlsen enough to kiss the ass of whoever he’s fucking at the moment? I certainly did when I told his very mediocre girlfriend that she could come work for me. But maybe you’re right,” he said, all mocking affability. “Maybe you know STEM academia better than I do.”

“I’m going to tell Adam about this. I’m going to—”

“By all means.” Tom widened his arms. “Go ahead. Be my guest. Do you need to borrow my phone?”

“No.” Her nostrils flared. A wave of icy anger swept over her. “No.” She turned around and marched to the entrance, fighting the nausea and bile climbing up her throat. She was going to find Adam. She was going to find the conference organizers and report Tom. She was never going to see his face again.

“Quick question. Who do you think Adam will believe, Olive?”

She halted abruptly, just a few feet from the door.

“Some bitch he’s been fucking for about two weeks, or someone who’s been a close friend for years? Someone who helped him get the most important grant of his career? Someone who’s had his back since he was younger than you are? Someone who’s actually a good scientist?”

She spun around, shaking with rage. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I can.” Tom shrugged again. “Because as advantageous as my collaboration with Adam has been, sometimes it’s a bit annoying how he needs to be best at everything, and I like the idea of taking something away from him for once. Because you are very pretty, and I look forward to spending more time with you next year. Who would have guessed that Adam had such good taste?”

“You are crazy. If you think that I’ll work in your lab, you are—”

“Oh, Olive. But you will. Because you see—while your work is not particularly brilliant, it does complement nicely the ongoing projects in my lab.”

She let out a single, bitter laugh. “Are you really so deluded that you think I would ever collaborate with you after this?”

“Mmm. It’s more that you don’t have a choice. Because if you want to finish your project, my lab is your only opportunity. And if you don’t . . . well. You sent me information on all your protocols, which means that I can easily replicate them. But don’t worry. Maybe I’ll mention you in the acknowledgment section.”

She felt the ground flip under her feet. “You wouldn’t,” she whispered. “It’s research misconduct.”

“Listen, Olive. My friendly advice is: suck it up. Keep Adam happy and interested as long as possible, and then come to my lab to finally do some decent work. If you keep me happy, I’ll make sure you can save the world from pancreatic cancer. Your nice little sob story about your mom or your aunt or your stupid kindergarten teacher dying from it is only going to get you so far. You’re mediocre.”

Olive turned around and ran from the room.

—

WHEN SHE HEARD the beep of the key card, she immediately wiped her face with the sleeves of her dress. It didn’t quite do the trick: she’d been crying for a solid twenty minutes, and even an entire paper towel roll wouldn’t have been enough to hide what she’d been up to. Really, though, it wasn’t Olive’s fault. She’d been sure Adam had to attend the opening ceremony, or at least the department social after his talk. Wasn’t he on the social-and-networking committee? He should have been elsewhere. Socializing. Networking. Committeeing.

But here he was. Olive heard steps as he walked inside, then him stopping at the entrance of the bedroom, and . . .

She couldn’t convince her eyes to meet his. She was a mess after all, a miserable, disastrous mess. But she should at least attempt to divert Adam’s attention. Maybe by saying something. Anything.

“Hey.” She tried a smile, but continued to stare down at her own hands. “How did your address go?”

“What happened?” His voice was calm, pitched low.

“Did you only just finish?” Her smile was holding. Good. Good, that was good. “How was the Q and A—”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I . . .”

She didn’t manage to finish the sentence. And the smile—which, if she was honest with herself, hadn’t been much of a smile to begin with—was crumbling. Olive heard Adam come closer but didn’t look at him. Her closed eyelids were all that was keeping the floodgates shut, and they weren’t doing a good job of it, either.

She startled when she found him kneeling in front of her. Right by her chair, his head level with hers, studying her with a worried frown. She made to hide her face in her palms, but his hand came up to her chin and lifted it up, until she had no choice but to meet his eyes. Then his fingers slid up to her cheek, cupping it as he asked, yet again, “Olive. What happened?”

“Nothing.” Her voice shook. It kept disappearing somewhere, melting in the tears.

“Olive.”

“Really. Nothing.”

Adam stared at her, questioning, and didn’t let go. “Did someone buy the last bag of chips?”

A laugh bubbled out of her, wet and not wholly under her control. “Yes. Was it you?”

“Of course.” His thumb swiped across her cheekbone, stopping a falling tear. “I bought all of them.”

This smile felt better than the one she’d cobbled together earlier. “I hope you have good health insurance, because you’re so getting type 2 diabetes.”

“Worth it.”

“You monster.” She must have been leaning into his hand, because his thumb was stroking her again. Ever so gently.

“Is that how you talk to your fake boyfriend?” He looked so worried. His eyes, the line of his mouth. And yet—so patient. “What happened, Olive?”

She shook her head. “I just . . .”

She couldn’t tell him. And she couldn’t not tell him. But above all, she couldn’t tell him.

Who do you think Adam will believe, Olive?

She had to take a deep breath. Push Tom’s voice out of her head and calm herself before continuing. Come up with something to say, something that wouldn’t make the sky fall in this hotel room.

“My talk. I thought it went okay. My friends said it did. But then I heard people talking about it, and they said . . .” Adam really should stop touching her. She must be getting his whole hand wet. The sleeve of his blazer, too.

“What did they say?”

“Nothing. That it was derivative. Boring. That I stammered. They knew that I’m your girlfriend and said that was the only reason I was chosen to give a talk.” She shook her head. She needed to let it go. To put it out of her head. To think carefully about what to do.

“Who? Who were they?”

Oh, Adam. “Someone. I’m not sure.”

“Did you see their badges?”

“I . . . didn’t pay attention.”

“Were they on your panel?” There was something underneath his tone. Something pressing that hinted at violence and rage and broken bones. Adam’s hand was still gentle on her cheek, but his eyes narrowed. There was a new tension in his jaw, and Olive felt a shiver run down her spine.

“No,” she lied. “It doesn’t matter. It’s okay.”

His lips pressed into a straight line, his nostrils flared, so she added, “I don’t care what people think of me, anyway.”

“Right,” he scoffed.

This Adam, right here, was the moody, irascible Adam who grads in her program complained about. Olive shouldn’t have been surprised to see him this angry, but he’d never been like this with her before.

“No, really, I don’t care what people say—”

“I know you don’t. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He stared at her, and he was so close. She could see how the yellows and greens mixed into the clear brown of his eyes. “It’s not what they say. It’s what you think. It’s that you think they’re right. Don’t you?”

Her mouth was full of cotton. “I . . .”

“Olive. You are a great scientist. And you will become an even better one.” The way he was looking at her, so earnest and serious—it was going to break her. “Whatever this asshole said, it speaks nothing of you and a whole lot of them.” His fingers shifted on her skin to weave through the hair behind her ear. “Your work is brilliant.”

She didn’t even think it through. And even if she had, she probably couldn’t have stopped herself. She just leaned forward and hid her face in his neck, hugging him tight. A terrible idea, stupid and inappropriate, and Adam was surely going to push her away, any minute now, except that . . .

His palm slid to her nape, almost as if to press her into him, and Olive just stayed there for long minutes, crying warm tears into the flesh of his throat, feeling how grounding, how warm, how solid he was—under her fingers and in her life.

You just had to go and make me fall for you, she thought, blinking against his skin. You absolute ass.

He didn’t let her go. Not until she pulled back and wiped her cheeks again, feeling like maybe this time around she’d be able to hold it together. She sniffled, and he leaned over to grab a box of tissues from the TV table. “I really am fine.”

He sighed.

“Okay, maybe . . . maybe I’m not fine right now, but I will be.” She accepted the tissue that he plucked for her and blew her nose. “I just need a while to . . .”

He studied her and nodded, his eyes unreadable again.

“Thank you. For what you said. For letting me snot all over your hotel room.”

He smiled. “Anytime.”

“And your jacket, too. Are you . . . Are you going to the department social?” she asked, dreading the moment she would have to get out of this chair. Of this room. Be honest, that sensible, ever-knowing voice inside her whispered. It’s his presence that you don’t want to be out of.

“Are you?”

She shrugged. “I said I would. But I don’t feel like talking to anyone right now.” She dried her cheeks once more, but miraculously the flow had stopped. Adam Carlsen, responsible for 90 percent of the department’s tears, had actually managed to make someone stop crying. Who would’ve thought? “Though I feel like the free alcohol could really help.”

He stared at her pensively for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. Then he nodded, seeming to reach some sort of decision, and stood with his hand held out to her. “Come on.”

“Oh.” She had to crane her neck to look up at him. “I think I’m going to wait a bit before I—”

“We’re not going to the social.”

We? “What?”

“Come on,” he repeated, and this time Olive took his hand and didn’t let go. She couldn’t, with the way his fingers were closing around hers. Adam looked pointedly at her shoes, until she got the hint and slipped them on, using his arm to keep her balance.

“Where are we going?”

“To get some free alcohol. Well”—he amended—“free for you.”

She almost gasped when she realized what he meant. “No, I—Adam, no. You have to go to the department social. And to the opening ceremony. You’re the keynote speaker!”

“And I keynote-spoke.” He grabbed her red duffle coat from the bed and pulled her toward the entrance. “Can you walk in those shoes?”

“I—yes, but—”

“I have my key card; we don’t need yours.”

“Adam.” She grabbed his wrist, and he immediately turned to look at her. “Adam, you can’t skip those events. People will say that you—”

His smile was lopsided. “That I want to spend time with my girlfriend?”

Olive’s brain stopped. Just like that. And then it started again, and—

The world was a little different.

When he tugged her hand again, she smiled and simply followed him out of the room.