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

deductions

"Funny thing." Holden chews on his springroll, as usual completely unbothered by my bothered mimcs upon his inability to separate chewing from speaking as any adult with at least some dignity would. 

"When you asked me out to lunch at Cheng's, I thought you wanted me to distract you from something." The springroll gets another too-hefty dump in the Hoisin-sauce. 

"But-" a bite mid-sentence. Clearly he's messing with me. 

"Turns out, you're too distracted to fully appreciate my attempt of distraction in the first place." 

His eyes almost gleam with satisfaction, when he licks his greasy fingers and sees my involuntary shudder. I square my shoulders. Pick another load of Edamame and chew. BEFORE I answer. 

As always Holden is correct, therefore:

"I'm sorry."

"Is it because of Hammerstein?" The question gives me pause. Well, that WOULD in fact be the most obvious reason to be distracted. It threatens my current research. My future research. My whole future at Stanford, to be honest. And yet - it's not what my desperate mind wanders to, everytime I let got for even a millisec. 

A very convenient thing about conversations with Holden is, that a lot of the times, he doesn't actually needs me as a sparring partner in said conversations. So, I say nothing and still - he proceeds. 

"It's because of fear, you know." His freshly licked hand grabs the next springroll. I shudder again. It's absolutely impossible not to. 

"They fear, that you'll leave. I told you before. You don't bond with them, they will not trust you. They will always - correctly, I might add - assume, that your research is not properly attached to Stanford as an entity. An Alma mater. Heritage. Provenience..."

"Enough with the big words." I jump in. 

"It's absolutely ridiculous. Hammerstein should know that there is no reason for me to leave Stanford. Not even for Harvard. He just uses this as the proverbial sword of Damokles to hold over my head. Because I don't work under his pressed-down-thumb of ass-kissing the donors, how he wishes, I would. It's a punishment."

To my surprise, Holden shakes his head with vigor. 

"No, Adam. That's not the reason. That was maybe the reason two years ago. But things have changed. They lost Fisher to John Hopkins and Elvira Barts to Zurich. Hammerstein has only four more years before retiring as emeritus. And I know, he will not leave and be remembered as 'the dean who lost all MVP's." 

He says it so matter of factly, that I pause. Two chopsticks of Edamame right in front of my mouth, yet, my stomach turns and my throat becomes achy this very second. I put the food down. 

"I already told him." I mumble. More to myself, than to Holden, but he hears it anyway - which is a miracle, since he's chewing loud enough for the whole restaurant to listen to. 

"And you can tell him another twenty times. The thing is: He won't believe you, if you don't follow up with action." 

My head jerks up, catching Holdens view. I squint. 

"Actions?"

"Yes. Like growing roots." 

We've talked about this already. In another context, but inevitably with the same outcome: I don't attach myself. To people. To places. 

To anything except my work. 

And Holden. But he emphasized again and again, that this doesn't count. 

"I mean - look at me." His sticky-Hoisin-Sauce-infested index finger points to his chest. 

"I am the very defintion of attached. I have friends in my department. And no, not only you. I collaborate, I am co-dependant. I bought a two-bedroom-appartment for the price of a seven-bedroom-mansion in any other part of the fucking country. I date."

The last word gets smashed across the table and into my face. I frown.

"So, you mean, I start to date a random person and suddenly I am no longer considered a flight risk for the East Coast?" I make it sound like complete bullshit. Because, let's face it, it's complete bullshit. Yet, Holden nods like I just had an epiphany. 

"Are you really not getting this into your stubborn head?" His nodding turns into a contradicting headshake. 

"Adam. For Christ's sake! Okay - let's do a game of make-believe. Follow me?" He waits. I want to refuse, but - for Christ's sake, as Holden put it so eloquently - I comply and nod back.

"Picture this: You are in a serious relationship. With a woman, that works here. Doesn't have to be on campus. She could work for the bookstore or the supermarket. But she lives here. Wants to stay here. At least for the next couple of years. And you two - you're visibly serious about that thing. You might think, that this is ridiculous - but you know what Hammerstein will see? He will see a man who has a new first priority in his life. Who - for the first time in forever, I might add - has a private life. Suddenly, your research is only PART of your life. You will appear almost human!" He grins. The bastard. 

"Hammerstein will conclude the following: You dating means you staying. Easy as that."

I blink. Twice. 

THIS mofo of a word again. 

Why is it, that I can't evade? How is 'dating' suddenly all around me? How can this be the SECOND time in as many days, that this word seems to explain, to justify - everything?

And then a very - very - twisted thought appears. 

I could date Olive. 

In what feels like a avalanche of realizations, I come to the most bizarre, yet totally plausible solution to at least two of my problems. 

I could date Olive Smith. 

I could be her bulwark towards Anh Pham and the infamous redheaded Jeremy Langley, I only wish the worst in life for. 

She could be my -

let's be clear here for a second. She wouldn't be anything less than ALL for me. 

Period. 

And yet, she would also be the solution (at least, if I listen to Holden) to my most current problem with Hammerstein and my funding. 

"... pressed the intergalactic spaceship-red-button and doomed earth with a gigantic implosion to nothing more than future stardust and a lot of released energy."

"Excuse me?" My head jerks around, focussing on Holden, who's babbling absolute nonsense. 

"I just started, kinda curious, when you would join me again in the convo." He smirks. 

"Turns out, you join the hypothetical party of 'Holden destroys the world' pretty late." 

Miss Cheng uses this exact moment to dish our main courses to us. 

Over the steam of egg-fried rice with chicken I catch Holdens glance and we share a small grin. 

I will go and ask Olive Smith to date me. 

My chopsticks stomp into my pile of brokkoli, as my stomach makes a spontanous somersault. 

"Buon Appetito!" Holden exclaims and shovels a truckload of rice, veggies and chicken in his mouth. 

I give him at least four seconds of appreciating silence - since Mrs Chengs Rice is his favorite meal next to other overly oily, fat-induced, unhealthy options of questionable nutritional value. 

"Do you think about it?" He masticates through the load of rice in his mouth, to get the words out. I shouldn't dignify this behaviour with an answer. 

But he's right. 

I am thinking about it. Not only hypothetical. 

I am going to talk to Olive.