[fanfiction] - Adam Carlson's POV of the Love Hypothesis

revelations

"You're staring!" Holden sounds intrigued, almost fascinated. Never a good sign. 

I steel my facial features into a blank expressionless canvas. Usually a bad tactic with Holden, since he's the one who never bought it, but still. I don't want him to make a big deal out of it. 

Also, I wasn't staring. At least not that obvious. 

"Oh my god. You're still staring!" Now he sounds less like the fully grown, thirty-four year old man, he definitely is, and more like a giggling teenage girl, who mocks her friend over having a crush. 

I am said friend. Ogling my crush, if you so will. So, painfully aware that Holden will never let go of that topic ever again (he can be like an emotional pitbull, biting down and holding on to it for dear life), if I don't explain myself, I simply do. Explain myself. 

"It's her." I mumble under my breath, without taking my eyes from Olive Smith's very naked legs. She's in shorts and a shirt. Very loose fit. Very casual. Flip flops dangling on her toes. Not in any way an invite to heated glances that outfit. So, I should stop asap. 

But said shorts are covering less than 10% of her gorgeous limbs and yes. Holden's right. 

I. Can't. Stop. Staring. 

Maybe less because of the prominent display of naked legs and more because I havn't seen her for... already a long time. She's gotten even thinner but her smile is as bright as ever, her hair is as shiny as ever and in all those fragile, thin limbs, she still has enough power to play rowdily with Prof Hamilton's kids. It kind of racks me, that she's dismissing the food. Don't get me wrong, this is a barbecue and she's a poor Ph.D. student - she's most definitely here because of free food - but ever since Dr Hamilton's oldest boy (I'd guess he's about ten) has thrown a waterbazooka right into Olive's hands and yelled 'Splashwar!", this woman hasn't even touched one bite of anything. And she should. She should eat. 

"Her...?" Holden wispering into my ear while scanning the lawn in front of us. Interestingly, I assume, that he did caught me staring but is still unsure, who I was actually looking at. 

"You know. The girl from my restroom." I haven't told Holden her name, which was NOT a carelessness but a fully intended knowledge gap. I didn't want it at the time and I still don't want it now: I don't want Holden to know, who she is. 

"You mean expired-contact-lenses-girl?" Now, to say Holden sounds intrigued would be the understatement of the century. I can see his hands fluttering while wandering to his cheeks. His breath gets caught on so much excitement. I really bite my tongue to not say something mean. 

"Which one?" He begs, hands still in full-on-flutter-mode. Like a human-sized collibri. He hastily scans the lawn, watching about sixty people eat, drink and chitchat. About half of them are men. About half of them are well known professors. But there are still a few freshfaced students, gradschool and Ph.D. candidates, he's never seen. 

"Have your pick. I'm not going to tell you." It costs a lot of effort, but I rip my eyes away from Olive's lovely figure. Holden grunts, eyes still wandering. 

"Okay. That should be easy, actually. It has to be someone, who isn't wearing glasses. That already eliminates those two and all the women next to the lemonade stand." 

I shrug, blatantly portraying someone, who doesn't care. But I do. I do care and that's why I have to try my hardest, to scatter Holden's interest. Because he would instantly become a self-proclaimed wingman, harassing me and finally also her. Trying me to come out of my shell, trying to convince me, that I should ask the girl out, I couldn't stop thinking about for two years. 

Two years. 

That's a tragically long time - in Holden years. Because Holden is having crushes on people like other people are having a craving for pizza. Every once in two weeks, if not more often. 

So, me telling him about my first encounter with Olive, two years ago, in my lab restroom, was a moment of weakness I came to regret almost immediately. Not because I don't like to share my thoughts with Holden. Actually, he's my favorite person to do so (coincidently, he's also the only person I do so). 

No, I came to regret it, because, while I thought, telling him would be the end of it, in Holden's eyes it was the very start. He was relentless. I should go find her (I did, actually, but I didn't tell him that) and I should ask her out (I obviously didn't) and I should do this and say that and basically just stop being me and start being Holden. Eagerly charming, extrovert Holden. 

In none of the seven circles of Dante's hell will that ever become reality. 

"Is it the blonde, who's talking to Dominique Bergmann?" I shake my head ever so slightly. Holden sighs. 

I debate for a very brief second, if I should tell him the truth. The whole truth, which means, I have to include this time, that I met her again very soon after our very first encounter and that I was kind of dumbstruck, that she (i actually shouldn't have been this surprised) looked even more stunning and great, without redstained, pressed-shut eyes. Wouldn't have ever thought I have a type, but right the second I saw Olive Smith, future Ph.D. candidate in lab orientation 101, less than a week after we first met, I knew I was dead wrong. 

I had a type. My type was her. Exactly her. 

"Is it one of the two, who are talking to Xiaoke?" Again Pitbull-Holden, not ready to give up, ever. 

Instead of shaking my head, I lean down towards him and deadpan: 

"Yes. You got me." 

His gaze darts immediately to me and I see a very brief highlight of hope on his features, before the realization kicks in. 

"Okay. Give me one hint." See? That's what I'm talking about. Relentless down-biting pitbull. 

"She has no glasses." Holden huffs indignantly. 

"Yeah, must be a real hint, not something I already know or assumed." 

"Holden-" I sigh, but he's interupting me right the very next second. 

"You're such a killjoy!" 

And that's not only correct, that's probably how Olive sees me as well. Because, yeah, well, said second meeting didn't actually proceeded how I thought it would. 

Not only did she not recognize me. Like at all. Something, I kind of anticipated, but it still stang, leaving a weird feeling in my chest. But when she finally looked at me, after being praised by others as the infamous Dr. Adam Carlsen, all I could see in her face was 

restraint. 

caution. 

mild appreciation. 

It's not the fact, that all the others looked at me exactly the same. 

It was the fact that she looked at me like everybody else does. 

While I look at her like I never looked at another person before. 

Ever.