Page 30 - The Love Hypothesis

“Olive.”

It was a bad sign. Anh never called her Olive—never, unless she was
reprimanding her for biting her nails to the quick or for having vitamin
gummies for dinner.

“Hey! How was your—”
“The other night.”

Dammit. “—weekend?”
“Dr. Carlsen.”

Dammit, dammit, dammit. “What about him?”
“I saw the two of you together.”

“Oh. Really?” Olive’s surprise sounded painfully playacted, even to her
own ears. Maybe she should have signed up for drama club in high school
instead of playing every single sport available.

“Yes. Here, in the department.”
“Oh. Cool. Um, I didn’t see you, or I’d have said hi.”

Anh frowned. “Ol. I saw you. I saw you with Carlsen. You know that I
saw you, and I know that you know that I saw you, because you’ve been

avoiding me.”
“I have not.”

Anh gave her one of her formidable no-bullshit looks. It was probably
the one she used as president of the student senate, as head of the Stanford
Women in Science Association, as director of outreach for the Organization

of BIPOC Scientists. There was no fight Anh couldn’t win. She was
fearsome and indomitable, and Olive loved this about her—but not right

now.
“You haven’t answered any of my messages for the past two days. We

usually text every hour.”
They did. Multiple times. Olive switched the mug to her left hand, for

no reason other than to buy some time. “I’ve been . . . busy?”
“Busy?” Anh’s eyebrow shot up. “Busy kissing Carlsen?”
“Oh. Oh, that. That was just . . .”

Anh nodded, as if to encourage her to finish the sentence. When it
became obvious that Olive couldn’t, Anh continued for her.