Page 138 - The Love Hypothesis

Oh.

“Adam, did you just offer me a used tissue?”
“I . . . maybe.” He pressed his lips together. “I panicked.”
She chuckled wetly, accepting his gross tissue and using it to blow her

nose. They’d kissed twice, after all. Why not share a bit of snot? “I’m sorry.
I’m usually not like this.”

“Like what?”
“Weepy. I . . . I shouldn’t talk about this.”

“Why?”
“Because.” It was hard to explain, the mix of pain and affection that

always resurfaced when she talked about her mother. It was the reason she
almost never did it, and the reason she hated cancer so much. Not only had
it robbed her of the person she loved the most, but it had also turned the

happiest memories of her life into something bittersweet. “It makes me
weepy.”

He smiled. “Olive, you can talk about it. And you should let yourself be
weepy.”

She had a sense that he really meant it. That she could have talked about
her mom for however long she liked, and he would have listened intently to

every second of it. She wasn’t sure she was ready for it, though. So she
shrugged, changing the topic. “Anyway, now here I am. Loving lab work
and barely dealing with the rest—abstracts, conferences, networking.

Teaching. Rejected grants.” Olive gestured in Adam’s direction. “Failed
dissertation proposals.”

“Is your lab mate still giving you a hard time?”
Olive waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not his favorite person, but it’s

fine. He’ll get over it.” She bit into her lip. “I’m sorry about the other night.
I was rude. You have every right to be mad.”

Adam shook his head. “It’s okay. I understand where you were coming
from.”
“I do get what you’re saying. About not wanting to form a new

generation of crappy millennial scientists.”