It was an uncharacteristically cloudy day. Still August, but it almost felt like late fall. Olive glanced at him, and she immediately knew that he was in the nastiest of moods. That rumor of him throwing a petri dish against a wall because his experiment hadn’t worked out, or because the electron microscope needed repairs, or because something equally inconsequential had happened came to mind. She considered ducking under the table.
It’s okay, she told herself. This is worth it. Things with Anh were back to normal. Better than normal: she and Jeremy were officially dating, and last weekend Anh had showed up to beers-and-s’mores night wearing leggings and an oversize MIT sweater she’d clearly borrowed from him. When Olive had eaten lunch with the two of them the other day, it hadn’t even felt awkward. Plus, the first-, second-, and even third-year grads were too scared of Adam Carlsen’s “girlfriend” to steal Olive’s pipettes, which meant that she didn’t have to stuff them in her backpack and take them home for the weekend anymore. And she was getting some grade A free food out of this. She could take Adam Carlsen—yes, even this pitch-black-mood Adam Carlsen. For ten minutes a week, at the very least.
“Hey.” She smiled. He responded with a look that exuded moodiness and existential angst. Olive took a fortifying breath. “How are you?”
“Fine.” His tone was clipped, his expression tenser than usual. He was wearing a red plaid shirt and jeans, looking more like a wood-chopping lumberjack than a scholar pondering the mysteries of computational biology. She couldn’t help noticing the muscles and wondered again if he had his clothes custom-made. His hair was still a bit long but shorter than the previous week. It seemed a little surreal that she and Adam Carlsen were at a point where she was able to keep track of both his moods and his haircuts.
“Ready to get coffee?” she chirped.
He nodded distractedly, barely looking at her. On a table in the back, a fifth-year was glancing at them while pretending to clean the monitor of his laptop.
“Sorry if I was late. I just—”
“It’s fine.”
“Did you have a good week?”
“Fine.”
Okay. “Um . . . did you do anything fun last weekend?”
“I worked.”
They got in line to order, and it was all Olive could do to stop herself from sighing. “Weather’s been nice, right? Not too hot.”
He grunted in response.
It was starting to be a bit much. There was a limit to what Olive would do for this fake-dating relationship—even for a free mango Frappuccino. She sighed. “Is it because of the haircut?”
That got his attention. Adam looked down at her, a vertical line deep between his eyebrows. “What?”
“The mood. Is it because of the haircut?”
“What mood?”
Olive gestured broadly toward him. “This. The bad mood you’re in.”
“I’m not in a bad mood.”
She snorted—though that was probably not the right term for what she just did. It was too loud and derisive, more like a laugh. A snaugh.
“What?” He frowned, unappreciative of her snaugh.
“Come on.”
“What?”
“You ooze moodiness.”
“I do not.” He sounded indignant, which struck her as oddly endearing.
“You so do. I saw that face, and I immediately knew.”
“You did not.”
“I did. I do. But it’s fine, you’re allowed to be in a bad mood.”
It was their turn, so she took a step forward and smiled at the cashier.
“Good morning. I’ll have a pumpkin spice latte. And that cream cheese danish over there. Yep, that one, thank you. And”—she pointed at Adam with her thumb—“he’ll have chamomile tea. No sugar,” she added cheerfully. She immediately took a few steps to the side, hoping to avoid damage in case Adam decided to throw a petri dish at her. She was surprised when he calmly handed his credit card to the boy behind the counter. Really, he wasn’t as bad as they made him out to be.
“I hate tea,” he said. “And chamomile.”
Olive beamed up at him. “That is unfortunate.”
“You smart-ass.”
He stared straight ahead, but she was almost certain that he was about to crack a smile. There was a lot to be said about him but not that he didn’t have a sense of humor.
“So . . . not the haircut?”
“Mm? Ah, no. It was a weird length. Getting in my way while I was running.”
Oh. So he was a runner. Like Olive. “Okay. Great. Because it doesn’t look bad.”
It looks good. As in, really good. You were probably one of the most handsome men I’d ever talked to last week, but now you look even better. Not that I care about these things. I don’t care at all. I rarely notice guys, and I’m not sure why I’m noticing you, or your hair, or your clothes, or how tall and broad you are. I really don’t get it. I never care. Usually. Ugh.
“I . . .” He seemed flustered for a second, his lips moving without making a sound as he looked for an appropriate response. Then, out of the blue, he said, “I talked with the department chair this morning. He’s still refusing to release my research funds.”
“Oh.” She cocked her head. “I thought they weren’t due to decide until the end of September.”
“They aren’t. This was an informal meeting, but the topic came up. He said that he’s still monitoring the situation.”
“I see.” She waited for him to continue. When it became clear that he wouldn’t, she asked, “Monitoring . . . how?”
“Unclear.” He was clenching his jaw.
“I’m sorry.” She felt for him. She really did. If there was something she could empathize with, it was scientific studies coming to an abrupt halt because of a lack of resources. “Does that mean that you can’t continue your research?”
“I have other grants.”
“So . . . the problem is that you cannot start new studies?”
“I can. I had to rearrange different pots, but I should be able to afford to start new lines of research, too.”
Uh? “I see.” She cleared her throat. “So . . . let me recap. It sounds like Stanford froze your funds based on rumors, which I agree is a crappy move. But it also sounds like for now you can afford to do what you were planning, so . . . it’s not the end of the world?”
Adam gave her an affronted glare, suddenly looking even more cross.
Oh, boy. “Don’t get me wrong, I understand the principle of the matter, and I’d be mad, too. But you have, how many other grants? Actually, don’t answer that. I’m not sure I want to know.”
He probably had fifteen. He also had tenure, and dozens of publications, and there were all those honors listed on his website. Not to mention that she’d read on his CV that he had one patent. Olive, on the other hand, had cheap knockoff reagents and old pipettes that regularly got stolen. She tried not to dwell on how much further ahead than her he was in his career, but it was unforgettable, how good he was at what he did. How annoyingly good.
“My point is, this is not an insurmountable problem. And we’re actively working on it. We’re in this together, showing people that you’re going to stay here forever because of your amazing girlfriend.”
Olive pointed to herself with a flourish, and his glare followed her hand. Clearly he was not a fan of rationalizing and working through his emotions.
“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?”
He looked away and rolled his eyes, but she could see it in the curve of his cheeks that he was amused. Likely against his will. “You are such a smart-ass.”
“Maybe, but I’m not the one who grunted when I asked how your week was.”
/>
“I did not grunt. And you ordered me chamomile tea.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome.”
They were quiet for a few moments as she chewed through the first bite of her Danish. Once she’d swallowed she said, “I’m sorry about your funds.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry about the mood.”
Oh. “It’s okay. You’re famous for that.”
“I am?”
“Yep. It’s kind of your thing.”
“Is that so?”
“Mmm.”
His mouth twitched. “Maybe I wanted to spare you.”
Olive smiled, because it was actually a nice thing to say. And he was not a nice person, but he was very kind to her most of the time—if not always. He was almost smiling back, staring down at her in a way that she couldn’t quite interpret but that made her think weird thoughts, until the barista deposited their drinks on the counter. He suddenly looked like he was about to retch.
“Adam? Are you okay?”
He stared at her cup and took a step back. “The smell of that thing.”
Olive inhaled deeply. Heaven. “You hate pumpkin spice latte?”
He wrinkled his nose, moving even farther away. “Gross.”
“How can you hate it? It’s the best thing your country has produced in the past century.”
“Please, stand back. The stench.”
“Hey. If I have to choose between you and pumpkin spice latte, maybe we should rethink our arrangement.”
He eyed her cup like it contained radioactive waste. “Maybe we should.”
He held the door open for her as they exited the coffee shop, taking care not to come too close to her drink. Outside it was starting to drizzle. Students were hastily packing up their laptops and notebooks from the patio tables to head to class or move to the library. Olive had been in love with the rain since as far back as she could remember. She inhaled deeply and filled her lungs with petrichor, stopping with Adam under the canopy. He took a sip of his chamomile tea, and it made her smile.
“Hey,” she said, “I have an idea. Are you going to the fall biosciences picnic?”
He nodded. “I have to. I’m on the biology department’s social-and-networking committee.”
She laughed out loud. “No way.”
“Yep.”
“Did you actually sign up for it?”
“It’s service. I was forced to rotate into the position.”
“Ah. That sounds . . . fun.” She winced sympathetically, almost laughing again at his appalled expression. “Well, I’m going, too. Dr. Aslan makes us all go, says it promotes bonding among lab mates. Do you make your grads go?”
“No. I have other, more productive ways of making my grads miserable.”
She chuckled. He was funny, in that weird, dark way of his. “I bet you do. Well, here’s my idea: we should hang when we’re there. In front of the department chair—since he’s ‘monitoring.’ I’ll bat my eyelashes at you; he’ll see that we’re basically one step away from marriage. Then he’ll make a quick phone call and a truck will drive up and unload your research funds in cash right there in front of—”
“Hey, man!”
A blond man approached Adam. Olive fell silent as Adam turned to smile at him and exchanged a handshake—a close bros handshake. She blinked, wondering if she was seeing things, and took a sip of her latte.
“I thought you’d sleep in,” Adam was saying.
“The time difference screwed me up. I figured I might as well come to campus and get to work. Something to eat, too. You have no food, man.”
“There are apples in the kitchen.”
“Right. No food.”
Olive took a step back, ready to excuse herself, when the blond man turned his attention to her. He looked eerily familiar, even though she was certain she had never met him before.
“And who’s this?” he asked curiously. His eyes were a very piercing blue.
“This is Olive,” Adam said. There was a beat after her name, in which he should have probably specified how he knew Olive. He did not, and she really couldn’t blame him for not wanting to feed their fake-dating crap to someone who was clearly a good friend. She just kept her smile in place and let Adam continue. “Olive, this is my collaborator—”
“Dude.” The man pretended to bristle. “Introduce me as your friend.”
Adam rolled his eyes, clearly amused. “Olive, this is my friend and collaborator. Dr. Tom Benton.”
Chapter Five
HYPOTHESIS: The more I need my brain to be on top of its game, the higher the probability that it will freeze on me.
“Wait a minute.” Dr. Benton tilted his head. His smile was still in place, but his gaze became a little sharper, his focus on Olive less superficial. “Do you happen to be . . .”
Olive froze.
Her mind was never calm, or orderly—more like a garbled mess of thoughts, really. And yet, standing there in front of Tom Benton, the inside of her head went uncharacteristically quiet, and several considerations stacked themselves neatly into place.
The first was that she was comically luckless. The chances that the person she depended on to finish her beloved research project would be acquainted—no, friends with the person she depended on to ensure her beloved Anh’s romantic happiness were laughably low. And yet. Then again, Olive’s special brand of luck was no news, so she moved on to the next consideration.
She needed to admit who she was to Tom Benton. They were scheduled to meet at 3:00 p.m., and pretending not to recognize him now would mean the kiss of death to her plans to infiltrate herself into his lab. Academics had huge egos, after all.
Last consideration: if she phrased this right, she could probably avoid Dr. Benton hearing about the whole fake-dating mess. Adam hadn’t mentioned it, which probably meant that he wasn’t planning to. Olive just needed to follow his lead.
Yes. Excellent plan. She had this in the bag.
Olive smiled, held on to her pumpkin spice latte, and answered, “Yes, I’m Olive Smith, the—”
“Girlfriend I’ve heard so much about?”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She swallowed. “Um, actually I—”
“Heard from whom?” Adam asked, frowning.
Dr. Benton shrugged. “Everyone.”
“Everyone,” Adam repeated. He was scowling now. “In Boston?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are people at Harvard talking about my girlfriend?”
“Because you’re you.”
“Because I’m me?” Adam looked perplexed.
“There have been tears. Some hair-pulling. A few broken hearts. Don’t worry, they’ll get over it.”
Adam rolled his eyes, and Dr. Benton returned his attention to Olive. He smiled at her, offering his hand. “It’s very nice to meet you. I had written off the whole girlfriend thing as rumors, but I’m glad you . . . exist. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name—I’m terrible at names.”
“I’m Olive.” She shook his hand. He had a nice grip, not too tight and not too soft.
“Which department do you teach, Olive?”
Oh, crap. “Actually, I don’t. Teach, that is.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to assume.” He smiled, apologetic and self-effacing. There was a smooth charm to him. He was young to be a professor, though not as young as Adam. And he was tall, though not as tall as Adam. And he was handsome, though . . . yeah. Not as handsome as Adam.
“What do you do, then? Are you a research fellow?”
“Um, I actually—”
“She’s a student,” Adam said.
Dr. Benton’s eyes widened.
“A graduate student,” Adam clarified. There was a hint of warning in his tone, like he really wanted Dr. Benton to drop the subject.
Dr. Benton,
naturally, did not. “Your graduate student?”
Adam frowned. “No, of course she’s not my—”
This was the perfect opening. “Actually, Dr. Benton, I work with Dr. Aslan.” Maybe this meeting was still salvageable. “You probably don’t recognize my name, but we’ve corresponded. We’re supposed to meet today. I’m the student who’s working on the pancreatic cancer biomarkers. The one who asked to come work in your lab for a year.”
Dr. Benton’s eyes widened even more, and he muttered something that sounded a lot like “What the hell?” Then his face stretched into a wide, openmouthed grin. “Adam, you absolute ass. You didn’t even tell me.”
“I didn’t know,” Adam muttered. His gaze was fixed on Olive.
“How could you not know that your girlfriend—”
“I didn’t tell Adam, because I didn’t know you two were friends,” Olive interjected. And then she thought that maybe it wasn’t quite believable. If Olive really were Adam’s girlfriend, he’d have told her about his friends. Since, in a shocking plot twist, he did appear to have at least one.
“That is, I, um . . . never put two and two together, and didn’t know that you were the Tom he always talked about.” There, better. Kind of. “I’m sorry, Dr. Benton. I didn’t mean to—”
“Tom,” he said, grin still in place. His shock seemed to be settling into pleasant surprise. “Please, call me Tom.” His eyes darted between Adam and Olive for a few seconds. Then he said, “Hey, are you free?” He pointed at the coffee shop. “Why don’t we go inside and chat about your project now? No point in waiting until this afternoon.”
She took a sip of her latte to temporize. Was she free? Technically, yes. 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. And she wanted to look as accommodating as possible to Dr. Benton—Tom. Beggars and choosers and all that.
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