Page 305 - The Love Hypothesis

And this sort-of-past they shared, their stupid inside jokes, the way they’d

teased each other in the late-summer sunlight.
“Perfect.” Holden clapped his hands, intrusively loud. “Egg rolls for
appetizer, yes?”

It was a good idea, this dinner. This night, this table, this moment.
Sitting next to Adam, smelling the petrichor, watching the dark splotches on

the gray cotton of his Henley from the storm that had started just as they’d
slipped inside the restaurant. They would have to talk, later, have a serious

conversation about Tom and many other things. But for now it was the way
it had always been between Adam and her: like slipping into a favorite

dress, one she’d thought lost inside her closet, and finding that it fit as
comfortably as it used to.
“I want egg rolls.” She glanced at Adam. His hair was starting to get

long again, so she did what felt natural: reached out and flattened his
cowlick. “I’m going to take a wild guess and assume that you hate egg rolls,

just like everything else that’s good in the world.”
He mouthed smart-ass right as the waiter brought their waters and set

the menus on the table. Three menus, to be precise. Holden and Malcolm
each took one, and Olive and Adam exchanged a loaded, amused look and

grabbed the remaining one to share. It worked perfectly: he angled it so that
the veggie section was on his side and all manner of fried entrées were on
hers. It was serendipitous enough that she let out a laugh.

Adam tapped his index finger on the drink section. “Look at this
abomination,” he murmured. His lips were close to her ear—a chuff of hot

air, intimate and pleasant in the blasting AC.
She grinned. “No way.”

“Appalling.”
“Amazing, you mean.”

“I do not.”
“This is my new favorite restaurant.”
“You haven’t even tried it yet.”

“It will be spectacular.”
“It will be horrific—”