Page 326 - The Love Hypothesis

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“By the way, you can get leprosy from armadillos.”

I peel my nose away from the airplane window and glance at Rocío, my
research assistant. “Really?”

“Yep. They got it from humans millennia ago, and now they’re giving it
back to us.” She shrugs. “Revenge and cold dishes and all that.”

I scrutinize her beautiful face for hints that she’s lying. Her large dark
eyes, heavily rimmed with eyeliner, are inscrutable. Her hair is so
Vantablack, it absorbs 99 percent of visible light. Her mouth is full, curved

downward in its typical pout.
Nope. I got nothing. “Is this for real?”

“Would I ever lie to you?”
“Last week you swore to me that Stephen King was writing a Winnie-

the-Pooh spin-off.” And I believed her. Like I believed that Lady Gaga is a
known satanist, or that badminton racquets are made from human bones and

intestines. Chaotic goth misanthropy and creepy deadpan sarcasm are her
brand, and I should know better than to take her seriously. Problem is, every
once in a while she’ll throw in a crazy-sounding story that upon further

inspection (i.e., a Google search) is revealed to be true. For instance, did
you know that the Texas Chainsaw Massacre was inspired by a true story?

Before Rocío, I didn’t. And I slept significantly better.