The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood

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?”
Olive shook her head.