The Love Hypothesis Ali Quotes

carry yourself with the confidence of a mediocre white man

I wish you could see yourself the way I see you" - Adam

I’m going to kill you,” he gritted out, little more than a growl. “If you say another word about the woman I love, if you look at her, if you even think about her - I’m going to fucking kill you.

I'm starting to wonder if this is what being in love is. Being okay with ripping yourself to shreds, so the other person can stay whole.

Ik hou van jou, Adam.

You can fall in love: someone will catch you.

And then I'll come find you, and I'll take care of you." - Adam

Expiration dates are for the weak.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when she was sitting on her bed staring at the Boston skyline and chewing on her lunch, that Olive realized that the protein bar Adam had given her was covered in chocolate.

You kiss him and next thing you know he's saving your ass and he's buying you scones and calling you a smart-ass in a weirdly affectionate tone

This might be inappropriate but... Olive. You are really... You are extraordinary

He’d clearly never seen a rom-com or read a romance novel in his life.

I know it’s scary, being vulnerable, but you can allow yourself to care. You can want to be with people as more than just friends or casual acquaintances.

Olive had felt that he was on her side. Over & over, & in ways that could never have anticipated, he had made her feel unjudged. Less alone.

I wish you could see yourself the way I see you

Ssh.” His arm slid around her waist, his hand coming to rest on her hip in a gesture that should have been unpleasant but just felt reassuring. His voice was low when he added, “It’s fine.” The words vibrated in her ear, rich and warm. “More material for my Title IX complaint.

Olive,” Dr. Aslan interrupted her with a stern tone. “What do I always tell you?” “Um . . . ‘Don’t misplace the multichannel pipette’?” “The other thing.” She sighed. “ ‘Carry yourself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.’ 

Did you… Did you just kiss me?” He sounded puzzled, and maybe a little out of breath. His lips were full and plump and… God. Kissed. There was simply no way Olive could get away with denying what she had just done. Still, it was worth a try. “Nope.” Surprisingly, it seemed to work. “Ah. Okay, then.” Carlsen nodded and turned around, looking vaguely disoriented. He took a couple of steps down the hallway, reached the water fountain - maybe where he’d headed in the first place. Olive was starting to believe that she might actually be off the hook when he halted and turned back with a skeptical expression. “Are you sure?

Everyone likes tall, broody, sullen hunks with genius IQs.

She sighed. “ ‘Carry yourself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.’ ” “More than that, if possible. Since there is absolutely nothing mediocre about you.

HYPOTHESIS: When given a choice between A (a slightly inconveniencing situation) and B (a colossal shitshow with devastating consequences), I will inevitably end up selecting B.

Because I’m starting to wonder if this is what being in love is. Being okay with ripping yourself to shreds, so the other person can stay whole.

You mean you’ve done this before?” She frowned. “Done what?” “Put in expired contacts.” “Of course. Contacts are not cheap.” “Neither are eyes.” Humph. Good point.

It never occurred to Olive that Dr. Adam Carlsen—known ass—had called her by her name.

What did Adam's fortune cookie say?" "Mmm." Olive made a show to look at the strip. "Not much. Just 'Holden Rodrigues, Ph.D., is a loser.'" Malcolm sped up just as Holden flipped her off, making her burst into laughter. "What does it really say?" Adam asked when they were finally alone. Olive handed him the crumpled paper and remained silent as he angled it to read it in the lamplight. She wasn't surprised when she saw a muscle jump in his jaw, or when he slid the fortune into the pocket of his jeans. She knew what it said, after all. You can fall in love: someone will catch you.

... she loved him even more for it. For looking at her like she was the beginning and end of his every thought.

How are you?" "Good. Fine. I mean I wish I were dead. But aside from that.

Pretty fucking tragic twist of fate, but you don’t seem to remember that we first met years ago. An issue, since I remember a little too well. I like no one, absolutely no one, but I liked you from the start. I liked you when I didn’t know you, and now that I do know you it’s only gotten worse. Sometimes, often, always, I think about you before falling asleep. Then I dream of you, and when I wake up my head’s still there, stuck on something funny, beautiful, filthy, intelligent that’s all about you. It’s been going on for a while, longer than you think, longer than you can imagine, and I should have told you, but I have this impression, this certainty that you’re half a second from running away, that I should give you enough reasons to stay. Is there anything I can do for you? I’ll take you grocery shopping and fill your fridge when we’re back home. Buy you a new bike and a case of decent reagent and that sludge you drink. Kill the people who made you cry. Is there something you need? Name it. It’s yours. If I have it, it’s yours.

You put in expired contacts?” He sounded personally offended “Just a little expired.” “What’s ‘a little’?” “I don’t know. A few years?” “What?” His consonants were sharp and precise. Crisp. Pleasant. “Only a couple, I think.” “Just a couple of years?” “It’s okay. Expiration dates are for the weak.” A sharp sound - some kind of snort. “Expiration dates are so I don’t find you weeping in the corner of my bathroom.” Unless this dude was Mr. Stanford himself, he really needed to stop calling it his bathroom.

But a good kiss will do that: make a girl forget herself for a while.

Her heart may be broken, but her brain was doing just fine.

She frowned. “I asked if I could kiss you, and you said yes.” “Incorrect. You asked if you could kiss me and I snorted.” “I’m pretty sure I heard you said yes.” He lifted one eyebrow, and for a minute Olive let herself daydream of drowning someone. Dr. Carlsen. Herself. Both sounded like great options.

Yep. I’m so glad he finally scrounged up the courage to ask you out. He’d been going on and on about this ‘amazing girl’ for years, but he was concerned about being in the same department, and you know how he is . . .” He shrugged and waved his hand. “I’m glad he finally managed to pull his head out of his ass.

People who date, they-they talk. A lot. More than just greetings in the hallway. They know each other’s favorite colors, and where they were born, and they… they hold hands. They kiss.” Adam pressed his lips together as if to suppress a smile. “We could never do that.

Or, you could stay mad, and we could go to your lab and throw test tubes full of toxic reagents at each other until the pain of third-degree burns overrides your shitty mood? Sounds like fun, no?

I am going to take care of this,” he told her. There was something determined, earnest in his eyes. Olive had never felt safer, or more loved. “And then I’ll come find you, and I’ll take care of you.

She would have loved to run to the edge of campus and scream into the void until modern civilization collapsed, but that wasn’t exactly a pressing matter.

I've never been surer of anything. Except maybe cell theory.

She had not figured that Adam would notice her while in conversation with a young, beautiful faculty member. She had not figured that he’d suddenly stop speaking, eyes widening and lips parting; that he’d mutter “Excuse me” while staring at Olive and stand from the table, ignoring the curious looks in his directions that he’d march to the entrance, where Olive was, with quick, long strides and a concerned expression. “Olive, are you okay?” he asked her.

HYPOTHESIS: The more I mention an attachment in an email, the less likely I will be to actually include said attachment.

I think that somewhere along the way I forgot that I was something. I forgot myself.

Adam smiles, too, and thinks, This is it. He thinks, I love you. He thinks, Maybe, one day, you’ll even let me tell you. And he says, “Hey.

He'd been going on and on about this amazing girl for years

False Negatives are bad, too." - Adam

Academia takes alot from you a gives back very little. It's hard to stick around without a good reason to do so

I have no idea if you’re good enough, but that’s not what you should be asking yourself. What matters is whether your reason to be in academia is good enough.

More material for my Title IX complaint." - Adam Carlsen

It will be fine Olive" His smile softened. "And if not, at least it will be over

God, she had forced a married man, a father, to kiss her. Now people thought that he was having an affair. His wife was probably crying into her pillow. His kids would grow up with horrible daddy issues and become serial killers.

That for years she’d wondered whether she was asexual and she had realized only recently that she might be able to experience sexual attraction, but only with people she trusted deeply?

He gave her a brief nod, and then—Olive, or at least Olive’s body, was stepping toward Adam and gingerly sitting on his thigh, her knees tucked between his spread legs. It was happening. It had happened already. Olive was here. Sitting. On. Adam. This. Yep, this. This was her life now.

A heart will break even more easily than the weakest of hydrogen bonds.

All she could see was a watery outline - someone tall, dark haired, dressed in black, and . . . yeah. That was it.

Picture this, Olive. Early two thousands. Preppy, ridiculously expensive all-male DC school. Two gay students in grade twelve. Well, two of us that were out, anyway. Richie Muller and I date for the entirety of senior year - and then he dumps me three days before prom for some guy he’d been having a thing with for months.” “He was a prick,” Adam muttered. “I have three choices. Not go to the dance and mope at home. Go alone and mope at school. Or, have my best friend - who was planning on staying home and moping over gamma-aminobutyric acids - come as my date. Guess which?” Olive gasped. “How did you convince him?” “That’s the thing, I didn’t. When I told him about what Richie did, he offered!

Is everything okay?” He said it looking into her eyes, in a low, intimate tone. Like they were alone. Like Anh was not there. He said it in a way that should have made Olive uncomfortable but didn't. For some inexplicable reason his presence in the room soothed her, even though until a second ago she had been freaking out. Perhaps two different types of unease neutralized each other?

I do reserve the right to comment on your abysmal taste in men

Not having a life came in handy, sometimes.

He opened his mouth, and then closed it. And then opened it again. You kissed that mouth, Olive. And it was a good kiss.

They should just give him a cot and donate the money to worthy causes. Endangered whales. Psoriasis. Olive.

He tilted his head. “Standard protocol?” “Yup.” “How many times have you done this?” “Zero. But I am familiar with the trope.

Oh my God, are you trying to get citizenship? Are they deporting you back to Canada because we’ve been sharing Malcolm’s Netflix password? Tell them we didn’t know it was a federal crime. No, wait, don’t tell them anything until we get you a lawyer. And, Ol, I will marry you. I’ll get you a green card and you won’t have to—

I like no one, absolutely no one, but I liked you from the start.

I must say, the line between excellent career choice and critical life screwup is getting a bit blury.

Adam Carlsen was handsome. Adam Carlsen, with his long nose and wavy hair, with his full lips and angular face that shouldn’t have fit together but somehow did, was really, really, really handsome.

It hit her then what was so special about Adam. That no matter his reputation, or how rocky their first meeting, since the very beginning, Olive had felt that he was on her side. Over and over, and in ways that she could never have anticipated, he had made her feel unjudged. Less alone. [...]She might never have what she wanted from Adam, but for now at least, he was in her life. That was going to have to be enough.

I like no one, absolutely no one, but I liked you from the start. I liked you when I didn’t know you, and now that I do know you it’s only gotten worse. Sometimes, often, always, I think about you before falling asleep. Then I dream of you, and when I wake up my head’s still there, stuck on something funny, beautiful, filthy, intelligent that’s all about you. It’s been going on for a while, longer than you think, longer than you can imagine, and I should have told you, but I have this impression, this certainty that you’re half a second from running away, that I should give you enough reasons to stay. Is there anything I can do for you? I’ll take you grocery shopping and fill your fridge when we’re back home. Buy you a new bike and a case of decent reagent and that sludge you drink. Kill the people who made you cry. Is there something you need? Name it. It’s yours. If I have it, it’s yours.

He said it - "with you"- like Olive was something special, uniquely precious to him. His most beloved treasure. It made her want to shiver, and laugh, and weep at the same time. It made her happy and confused.

You’re so big.” He groaned into her neck. His entire body was vibrating with tension. “You can take it.

She pressed her lips together and nodded. "I'll just do what Dr. Aslan always says." "And what's that?" "Carry myself with the confidence of a mediocre white man." He grinned, and there they were. The heart-stopping dimples. "It will be fine, Olive." His smile softened. "And if not, at least it will be over.

Pumpkin spice is Satan’s dandruff, harbinger of the apocalypse, and it tastes like ass—not in the good way.

I need more . . .” Guidance. Support. Some practical advice, instead of blind encouragement

Nuh-uh. This is a Hallmark movie. Or a poorly written young adult novel. That will not sell well. Olive, tell Malcolm to keep his day job, he’ll never make it as a writer.

You just had to go and make me fall for you, she thought, blinking against his skin. You absolute ass.

To be fair, I don’t like people in general.

How old were you-” “Tom,” Adam interrupted, tone sharp. He set his tea down with more force than necessary. “Stop harassing my girlfriend.” It was less of a warning and more of a threat. “Right. Yes I’m an insensitive ass.” Tom smiled, apologetic. Olive noticed that he was looking at her shoulder. When she followed his gaze, she realized that Adam had placed his arm on the back of her chair. He wasn’t touching her, but there was something… protective about his position.

She sighed. “You know, when I have no more friends and everyone hates me because of this fake-dating thing, I’ll be super lonely and you are going to have to hang out with me every day. I’ll annoy you all the time. Is it really worth being mean to every grad in the program?” “Absolutely.

My favourite colour must be green, after all.

Because I’m starting to wonder if this is what being in love is. Being okay with ripping yourself to shreds, so the other person stay whole.

HYPOTHESIS: If I fall in love, things will invariably end poorly.

How much do you hate this, on a scale from one to ‘correlation equals causation’?

It’s okay. Expiration dates are for the weak.

I have access to your Google Calendar, asshole. You're not busy. If you don't want to hang out with me, you can just be honest.

There's nothing bad about taking more than five years to graduate," he offered in a conciliatory tone.

You know,” he told her, eyeing a seaweed salad passing by his shoulder, “we could go to a real Japanese restaurant. I am very happy to pay for however much sushi you want to eat.” “But will it move around me?

She thought about it, and thought, and thought even more. And then she spoke carefully. “I have a question. A specific research question. Something that I want to find out.” There. Done. This was the answer. “Something I’m afraid no one else will discover if I don’t.” “A question?” She felt the air shift and realized that he was now leaning against the sink. “Yes.” Her mouth felt dry. “Something that’s important to me. And—I don’t trust anyone else to do it. Because they haven’t so far...

Well, we should go get our flu shots.” “I’m good.” “You got one already?” “No.” “I’m pretty sure it’s mandatory for everyone.” The set of Adam’s shoulders clearly broadcasted that he was, in fact, not everyone. “I never get sick.” “I doubt it.” “You shouldn’t.” “Hey, the flu is more serious than you might think.” “It’s not that bad.” “It is, especially for people like you.” “Like me?” “You know . . . people of a certain age.

Sweetheart," he murmured. "What is the second thing?" She was still crying, but she'd never been happier. So she said it, probably in the worst accent he'd ever heard. "Ik hou van jou, Adam.

Pay attention, sweetheart.

Standard protocol?" "Yup." "How many times have you done this?" "Zero. But I'm familiar with the trope." "The...what?" He blinked at her confused.

He cradled her head with both hands, fingers sliding through her hair and holding her tight as he lowered his forehead to hers. He was warm, and smelled like himself, like safe and home.

What kind of question was that?” Adam interjected. When she glanced at him, he was scowling at Tom, who just shrugged. “What’s cool about your project?” Adam repeated back. “Yeah. Cool. You know what I mean.” “I don’t think I do, and maybe neither does Olive.” Tom huffed. “Fine, what would you ask?” Adam turned to Olive. His knee brushed her leg, warm and oddly reassuring through her jeans. “What issues does your project target? Why do you think it’s significant? What gaps in the literature does it fill? What techniques are you using? What challenges do you foresee?” Tom huffed. “Right, sure. Consider all those long, boring questions asked, Olive.

Olive,” Dr. Aslan interrupted her with a stern tone. “What do I always tell you?” “Um . . . ‘Don’t misplace the multichannel pipette’?” “The other thing.” She sighed. “ ‘Carry yourself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.’ ” “More than that, if possible. Since there is absolutely nothing mediocre about you.

She grinned. "Oh, yes. I mean, if you want to." "I'd rather buy you anything else." "Too bad." Olive jumped to her feet and headed for the counter, tugging at his sleeve and forcing him to stand with her. Adam followed meekly, mumbling something about black coffee that Olive chose to ignore. Enough, she repeated to herself. What you have now, it will have to be enough.

Likely. Actually, scratch that, you probably don’t like ice cream anyway, because you don’t enjoy anything that’s good in life.” She kept on walking, pensively chewing on her lower lip. “Maybe the cafeteria has some raw broccoli?” “I don’t deserve this verbal abuse on top of the flu shot.” She beamed. “You’re such a trooper. Even though the big bad needle is out to get you.

Adam." She rubbed her forehead with her fingers. "There will be only one bed." He frowned. "No, as I said it's a double-" "It's not. It won't be. There will be only one bed, for sure."He gave her a puzzled look. "I got the booking confirmation the other day. I can forward it to you if you want; it says that-" "It doesn't matter what it says. It's always one bed." He stared at her, perplexed, and she sighed and leaned helplessly against the back of her chair. He'd clearly never seen a rom-com or read a romance novel in his life.

She would have loved to have someone in her life, but she doubted it was in store for her. Maybe she was unlovable. Maybe spending so many years alone had warped her in some fundamental way and that was why she seemed to be unable to develop a true romantic connection, or even the type of attraction she often heard others talk about. In the end, it didn’t really matter. Grad school and dating went poorly together, anyway, which was probably why Dr. Adam Carlsen, MacArthur Fellow and genius extraordinaire, was standing here at thirtysomething years old, asking Olive what people did on dates. Academics, ladies and gentlemen.

Is it the public-speaking thing?" He'd remembered. Of course he had. "Yeah. It will be awful." Adam stared at her and said nothing. Not that it would be fine, not that the talk would go smoothly, not that she was overreacting and underselling a fantastic opportunity. His calm acceptance of her anxiety had the exact opposite effect of Dr. Aslan's enthusiasm: it relaxed her. "When I was in my third year of grad school," he said quietly, “my adviser sent me to give a faculty symposium in his stead. He told me only two days before, without any slides or a script. Just the title of the talk." "Wow." Olive tried to imagine what that would have felt like,

Frankly, Olive was a bit on the fence about this whole grad school thing. Not because she didn’t like science. (She did. She loved science. Science was her thing.) And not because of the truckload of obvious red flags. She was well aware that committing to years of unappreciated, underpaid eighty-hour workweeks might not be good for her mental health. That nights spent toiling away in front of a Bunsen burner to uncover a trivial slice of knowledge might not be the key to happiness. That devoting her mind and body to academic pursuits with only infrequent breaks to steal unattended bagels might not be a wise choice. She was well aware, and yet none of it worried her.

She was just going to pretend nothing had happened, nod at him politely, and tiptoe her way out of here. Yes, solid plan. "Did you . . . Did you just kiss me?" He sounded puzzled, and maybe a little out of breath. His lips were full and plump and . . . God. Kissed. There was simply no way Olive could get away with denying what she had just done. Still, it was worth a try. "Nope." Surprisingly, it seemed to work. "Ah. Okay, then." Carlsen nodded and turned around, looking vaguely disoriented. He took a couple of steps down the hallway, reached the water fountain—maybe where he'd been headed in the first place. Olive was starting to believe that she might actually be off the hook when he halted and turned back with a skeptical expression. "Are you sure?

Oh, wow. Thank you.” She smiled. “Now I’m actually a bit sorry that I can’t have you on my dissertation committee. Perhaps rumors of your cruelty have been greatly exaggerated.” His mouth twitched. “Maybe you just pull out the best in me?” She grinned. “Then maybe I should stick around. Just, you know, to save the department from your terrible moods?” He glanced at the picture of the failed Western blot in her hand. “Well, it doesn’t look like you’re going to graduate anytime soon.” She half laughed, half gasped. “Oh my God. Did you just—?” “Objectively—” “This is the rudest, meanest thing—” She was laughing. Holding her stomach as she waved her finger at him. “—based on your blotting—” “—that anyone could ever say to a Ph.D. student. Ever.” “I think I can find meaner things. If I really put myself to it.” “We’re done.” She wished she weren’t smiling. Then maybe he’d take her seriously instead of just looking at her with that patient, amused expression. “Seriously. It was nice while it lasted.” She made to stand and leave indignantly, but he grabbed the sleeve of her shirt and gently tugged at it until she was sitting down again, next to him on the narrow couch—maybe even a little closer than before. She continued glaring, but he regarded her blandly, clearly unperturbed. “There’s nothing bad about taking more than five years to graduate,” he offered in a conciliatory tone. Olive huffed. “You just want me to stay around forever. Until you have the biggest, fattest, strongest Title IX case to ever exist.