Page 283 - The Love Hypothesis

“Ol?” Anh’s tentative voice reminded her that she was not alone in the

room. She looked up and found that her friends had sat up. They were
staring at her, wide-eyed with concern and shock.
Olive shook her head. She didn’t want to—no, she didn’t have the

strength to explain. “Nothing. Just . . .”
“I recognize it,” Anh said, coming to sit next to her. “I recognize the

voice. From that talk we went to.” She paused, searching Olive’s eyes.
“That was Tom Benton, wasn’t it?”

“What the—” Malcolm stood. There was real alarm blooming in his
voice. Anger, too. “Ol, why do you have a recording of Tom Benton saying

shit like that? What happened?”
Olive looked up at him, then at Anh, then at him again. They were
studying her with worried, incredulous expressions. Anh must have taken

Olive’s hand at some point. She told herself that she needed to be strong, to
be pragmatic, to be numb, but . . .

“I just . . .”
She tried. She really did try. But her face crumpled, and the last few

days crashed and burned into her. Olive leaned forward, buried her head in
Anh’s lap, and let herself burst into tears.

—

OLIVE HAD NO intention of hearing Tom spout his poison again, so she gave

her friends her headphones, went to the bathroom, and let the faucet run
until they’d finished listening. It took less than ten minutes, but she sobbed

throughout. When Malcolm and Anh came in, they sat next to her on the
floor. Anh was crying, too, fat, angry drops sliding down her cheeks.
At least there’s a bathtub we can flood, Olive thought while handing her

the toilet paper roll she’d been hoarding.
“He’s the most disgusting, detestable, shameful, disgraceful human

being,” Malcolm said. “I hope he has explosive diarrhea as we speak. I
hope he gets genital warts. I hope he has to live saddled by the largest, most

painful hemorrhoid in the universe. I hope he—”
Anh interrupted him. “Does Adam know?”