Page 229 - The Love Hypothesis

much as the idea of being apart from him for several days. Of being here, of

all places, without him. “How big is your suitcase?”
“Hm?”
“Can I come with you?”

He looked up at her, still smiling, but he must’ve noticed something in
her eyes, behind the joke and the attempt at humor. Something vulnerable

and imploring that she’d failed to adequately bury within herself.
“Olive.” He dropped his phone and the remote on the bed. “Don’t let

them.”
She just tilted her head. She was not going to cry again. There was no

point in it. And she was not like this—this fragile, defenseless creature who
second-guessed herself at every turn. At least, she didn’t use to be. God, she
hated Tom Benton.

“Let them?”
“Don’t let them ruin this conference for you. Or science. Or make you

feel any less proud of your accomplishments.”
She looked down, studying the yellow of her socks as she buried her

toes in the soft carpet. And then up to him again.
“You know what’s really sad about this?”

He shook his head, and Olive continued.
“For a moment there, during the talk . . . I really enjoyed myself. I was
panicky. Close to puking, for sure. But while I was talking to this huge

group of people about my work and my hypotheses and my ideas, and
explaining my reasoning and the trials and errors and why what I research is

so important, I . . . I felt confident. I felt good at it. It all felt right and fun.
Like science is supposed to be when you share it.” She wrapped her arms

around herself. “Like maybe I could be an academic, down the road. A real
one. And maybe make a difference.”

He nodded as though he knew exactly what she meant. “I wish I had
been there, Olive.”
She could tell he really did. That he regretted not being with her. But

even Adam—indomitable, decisive, ever-competent Adam—couldn’t be in
two places at once, and the fact remained that he had not seen her talk.