Page 222 - The Love Hypothesis

“You know,” he told her, eyeing a seaweed salad passing by his

shoulder, “we could go to a real Japanese restaurant. I am very happy to pay
for however much sushi you want to eat.”
“But will it move around me?”

He shook his head. “I take it back: you are a disturbingly cheap date.”
She ignored him and lifted the glass door, grabbing a roll and a

chocolate doughnut. Adam muttered something that sounded a lot like
“very authentic,” and when the waitress stopped by he ordered them both a

beer.
“What do you think this is?” Olive dipped a piece of sushi in her soy

sauce. “Tuna or salmon?”
“Probably spider meat.”
She popped it into her mouth. “Delicious.”

“Really.” He looked skeptical.
It wasn’t, in all truth. But it was okay. And this, well, this was so much

fun. Exactly what she needed to empty her mind of . . . everything.
Everything but here and now. With Adam.

“Yep.” She pushed the remaining piece toward him, silently daring him
to try it.

He broke apart his chopsticks with a long-suffering expression and
picked it up, chewing for a long time.
“It tastes like foot.”

“No way. Here.” She grabbed a bowl of edamame from the belt. “You
can have this. It’s basically broccoli.”

He brought one to his mouth, managing to look like he didn’t hate it.
“We don’t have to talk, by the way.”

Olive tilted her head.
“You said you didn’t want to talk to anyone back at the hotel. So we

don’t have to, if you’d rather eat this”—he glanced at the plates she had
accumulated with obvious distrust—“food in silence.”
You’re not just anyone, seemed like a dangerous thing to say, so she

smiled. “I bet you’re great at silences.”
“Is that a dare?”