She attempted a smile. “We are friends, right?”
His frown deepened. “Friends?”
“Yes. You and I.”
He studied for a long moment. Something new passed through his face, stark and a little sad. Too fleeting to interpret. “Yes, Olive.”
She nodded, unsure as to whether she should be feeling relieved. This was not how she’d thought today would go, and there was a strange pressure behind her eyelids, which had her sliding her arms through the straps of her backpack that much quicker. She waved him goodbye with a tremulous smile, and she’d have already been out of this damn Starbucks, if he hadn’t said with that voice of his: “Olive.”
She paused right in front of his chair and looked down at him. It was so odd, to be the taller one for once.
“This might be inappropriate, but . . .” His jaw shifted, and he closed his eyes for a second. As if to collect his thoughts. “Olive. You are really . . . You are extraordinary, and I cannot imagine that if you told Jeremy how you feel he wouldn’t . . .” He trailed off and then nodded. A punctuation of sorts, as his words and the way he’d said them brought her that much closer to tears.
He thought it was Jeremy. Adam thought Olive had been in love with Jeremy when they’d begun their arrangement—he thought she was still in love with him. Because she’d just told a half-assed lie that she was too afraid to take back and—
It was going to happen. She was going to cry, and what she wanted most in the world was to not do it in front of Adam.
“I’ll see you next week, okay?” She didn’t wait for his response and walked briskly toward the exit, her shoulder bumping into someone she should have apologized to. Once she was outside, she took a deep breath and marched to the biology building, trying to empty her mind, forcing herself to think about the section she was slated to TA later today, the fellowship application she’d promised Dr. Aslan she’d send by tomorrow, the fact that Anh’s sister would be in town next weekend and had made plans to cook Vietnamese food for everyone.
A chilly wind weaved through the leaves of the campus trees, pushing Olive’s sweater against her body. She hugged herself and didn’t look back to the café. Fall had finally begun.
Chapter Twelve
HYPOTHESIS: If I am bad at doing activity A, my chances of being asked to engage in activity A will rise exponentially.
Campus felt strangely empty with Adam gone, even on days in which she likely wouldn’t have met him anyway. It didn’t make much sense: Stanford was most definitely not empty, but teeming with loud, annoying undergrads on their way to and from class. Olive’s life, too, was full: her mice were old enough for the behavioral assays to be run, she’d finally gotten revisions for a paper she’d submitted months earlier, and she had to start making concrete plans for her move to Boston next year; the class she was TA’ing had a test coming up, and undergrads magically began to pop by during office hours, looking panicky and asking questions that were invariably answered in the first three lines of the syllabus.
Malcolm spent a couple of days trying to convince Olive to tell Adam the truth, and then became—thankfully—too discouraged by her stubbornness and too busy trying to meditate away his own dating drama to insist. He did bake several batches of butterscotch cookies, though, patently lying that he was “not rewarding your self-destructive behaviors, Olive, but just perfecting my recipe.” Olive ate them all, and hugged him from behind while he sprinkled sea salt on top of the last batch.
On Saturday, Anh came over for beer and s’mores, and she and Olive daydreamed about leaving academia and finding industry jobs that paid a proper salary and acknowledged the existence of free time.
“We could, like, sleep in on Sunday mornings. Instead of having to check on our mice at six a.m.”
“Yeah.” Anh sighed wistfully. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies was running in the background, but neither of them was paying attention. “We could buy real ketchup instead of stealing packets from Burger King. And order that wireless vacuum cleaner I saw on TV.”
Olive giggled drunkenly and turned to her side, making the bed squeak. “Seriously? A vacuum cleaner?”
“A wireless one. It’s the shit, Ol.”
“That is . . .”
“What?”
“Just . . .” Olive giggled some more. “It’s the most random thing.”
“Shut up.” Anh smiled but didn’t open her eyes. “I have severe dust allergies. You know what, though?”
“Are you going to hit me with a Trivial Pursuit vacuum cleaner fact?”
The corners of Anh’s eyes crinkled. “Nah,” she said, “I don’t have any. Wait—I think that maybe the first female corporate CEO worked for a vacuum cleaner company.”
“No way. That is actually cool.”
“But maybe I’m making it up.” Anh shrugged. “Anyway, what I meant to say is . . . I think I still want it?”
“The vacuum cleaner?” Olive yawned without bothering to cover her mouth.
“No. An academic job. And everything that comes with it. The lab, the grad students, the outrageous teaching load, the race for the NIH grants, the disproportionately low salary. The whole shebang. Jeremy says that Malcolm has it right. That industry jobs are where it’s at. But I think I want to stay and become a professor. It’ll be miserable, for sure, but it’s the only way to create a good environment for women like us, Ol. Give some competition to all these entitled white men.” She grinned, beautiful and fierce. “Jeremy can go into industry and make a ton of blood money that I’ll invest in wireless vacuum cleaners.”
Olive drunkenly studied the drunken determination on Anh’s drunken face, thinking that there was something reassuring in knowing that her closest friend was starting to figure out what she wanted her life to be like. Who she wanted to live it with. It did send a pang deep in Olive’s stomach, in that spot that seemed to feel Adam’s absence most acutely, but she pushed it down, trying not to think about it too hard. Instead she reached for her friend’s hand, squeezed it once, and inhaled the sweet scent of apple from her hair.
“You’ll be so good at it, Anh. I can’t wait to see you change the world.”
* * *
—
ALL IN ALL, Olive’s life continued as it always had—except that for the first time, there was something else she’d rather be doing. Someone else she’d rather be with.
So, this is liking someone, she mused. Feeling like the biology building was not worth going to because if Adam was out of town, even the most remote chance of running into him had been taken away from her; constantly spinning around after catching a glimpse of jet-black hair, or when hearing a deep voice that sounded as rich as Adam’s but really wasn’t; thinking of him because her friend Jess mentioned planning a trip to the Netherlands, or when on Jeopardy! the correct answer to “Aichmophobia” turned out to be “What is fear of needles?”; feeling stuck in an odd limbo, waiting, just waiting, waiting . . . for nothing. Adam was going to come back in a few days, and Olive’s lie that she was in love with someone else was still going to be there. September twenty-ninth would arrive all too soon, and anyway, the assumption that Adam could ever see Olive in any romantic light was preposterous. All considered, she was lucky he liked her enough to want to be her friend.
On Sunday, her phone pinged while she was running at the gym. When Adam’s name popped up at the top of the screen, she immediately jumped to read it. Except that there wasn’t much to read: just the image of a huge drink in a plastic cup, topped with what looked like a muffin. The bottom of the image proudly stated “Pumpkin Pie Frappuccino,” and below that, Adam’s text:
Adam: Think I can smuggle this on the plane?
She didn’t need to be told that she was grinning at her phone like an idiot.
Olive: Well, TSA is notoriously incompetent.
Olive: Though maybe not that incompetent?
Adam: Too bad.
Adam: Wish you were here, then.
Olive’s smile stayed in place for a long time. And then, when she remembered the mess she was in, it faded into a heavy sigh.
* * *
—
SHE WAS CARRYING a tray of tissue samples to the electron microscope lab when someone patted her on the shoulder, startling her. Olive nearly tripped and destroyed several thousand dollars’ worth of federal grant funding. When she turned, Dr. Rodrigues was staring at her with his usual boyish grin—like they were best buddies about to go for a beer and a jolly good time, instead of a Ph.D. student and a former member of her advisory committee who’d never quite gotten around to reading any of the paperwork she’d turned in.
“Dr. Rodrigues.”
His brow wrinkled. “I thought we’d settled on Holden?”
Had they? “Right. Holden.”
He smiled, pleased. “Boyfriend’s out of town, huh?”
“Oh. Um . . . Yes.”
“You going in there?” He pointed at the microscope lab with his chin, and Olive nodded. “Here, let me get it.” He swiped his badge to unlock the door and held it open for her.
“Thank you.” She settled her samples on a bench and smiled gratefully, sliding her hands into her back pockets. “I was going to get a cart, but I couldn’t find one.”
“There’s only one left on this floor. I think someone’s bringing them home and reselling them.”
He grinned, and—Malcolm was right. Had been right for the past two years: there really was something easygoing and effortlessly attractive about Holden. Not that Olive seemed to be interested in anything but tall, broody, sullen hunks with genius IQs.
“Can’t blame ’em. I’d have done the same in my grad school days. So, how’s life?”
“Um, fine. You?”
Holden ignored her question and casually leaned against the wall. “How bad is it?”
“Bad?”
“Adam being gone. Hell, even I miss that little shit.” He chuckled. “How are you holding up?”
“Oh.” She took her hands out of her pockets, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and then changed her mind and dropped them woodenly by her sides. Yep. Perfect. Acting natural. “Fine. Good. Busy.”
Holden looked genuinely relieved. “Great. Have you guys been talking on the phone?”
No. Of course not. Talking on the phone is the hardest, most stressful thing in the world, and I can’t do it with the nice lady who schedules my dental cleanings, let alone with Adam Carlsen. “Ah, mostly texting, you know?”
“Yeah, I do know. However buttoned-up and sulky Adam is with you, please know that he’s making an effort and he’s a million times worse with everyone else. Me included.” He sighed and shook his head, but there was a fondness behind it. An easy affection that Olive couldn’t miss. My oldest friend, he’d said about Adam, and clearly he hadn’t been lying. “He’s actually gotten a lot better, since you guys started dating.”
Olive felt on the verge of a full-body cringe. Unsure of what to say, she settled for a simple, painful, awkward: “Really?”
Holden nodded. “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.”
Olive’s brain stuttered. Her neurons went sluggish and cold, and it took her several seconds to process that Adam had been wanting to ask her out for years. She couldn’t wrap her head around it, because . . . it was not possible. It didn’t make sense. Adam didn’t even remember Olive existed before she’d Title-IXed him in the hallway a few weeks ago. The more she thought about it, the more she grew convinced that if he’d had any recollection of their bathroom meeting, he would have said as much. Adam was famously direct, after all.
Holden must have been referring to someone else. And Adam must have feelings for that someone. Someone he worked with, someone who was in their department. Someone who was “amazing.”
Olive’s mind, half frozen until a few seconds ago, began to spiral with the knowledge. Setting aside the fact that this conversation was an utter invasion of Adam’s privacy, Olive couldn’t stop herself from considering the implications of their arrangement for him. If the person Holden was talking about was one of Adam’s colleagues, there was no chance that she hadn’t heard about Adam and Olive dating. It was possible that she’d seen the two of them get coffee together on a Wednesday, or Olive sitting on Adam’s lap during Tom’s talk, or—God, Olive slathering him with sunblock at that godforsaken picnic. Which couldn’t be good for his prospects. Unless Adam didn’t mind, because he was sure beyond any doubt that his feelings were unrequited—and oh, wouldn’t that be funny? About as funny as a Greek tragedy.
“Anyway.” Holden pushed away from the wall, his hand coming up to scratch his nape. “I think we should go on a double date one of these days. I’ve been taking a break from dating—too much heartache—but maybe it’s time to dip my toes in again. Hopefully I’ll snatch myself a boyfriend soon.”
The weight in Olive’s stomach sank even lower. “That would be lovely.” She attempted a smile.
“Right?” He grinned. “Adam would hate it with the intensity of a thousand suns.”
He really would.
“But I could tell you so many juicy stories about him, approximately aged ten to twenty-five.” Holden was delighted at the prospect. “He’d be mortified.”
“Are they about taxidermy?”
“Taxidermy?”
“Nothing. Just something Tom had said about . . .” She waved her hand. “Nothing.”
Holden’s gaze turned sharp. “Adam said you might be going to work with Tom next year. Is that true?”
“Oh . . . yeah. That’s the plan.”
He nodded, pensive. Then seemed to come to some sort of decision and added, “Watch your back while you’re around him, okay?”
“My back?” What? Why? Did this have anything to do with what Adam had mentioned—Holden not liking Tom? “What do you mean?”
“Adam’s back, too. Especially Adam’s back.” Holden’s expression remained intense for a moment, and then lightened up. “Anyway. Tom only met Adam in grad school. But I was there in his teenage years—that’s when the good stories are from.”
“Oh. You probably shouldn’t tell me. Since . . .” Since he’s faking a relationship with me and surely doesn’t want me in his business. Also, he’s probably in love with someone else.
“Oh, of course. I’ll wait until he’s present. I want to see his face when I tell you everything about his newsboy-cap phase.”
She blinked. “His . . . ?”
He nodded solemnly and stepped out, closing the door behind him and leaving her alone in the chilly, semidark lab. Olive had to take several deep breaths before she could focus on her work.
* * *
—
WHEN SHE RECEIVED the email, she initially thought it must be an error. Maybe she’d misread—she hadn’t been sleeping well, and as it turned out, having an unwanted, unreciprocated crush came with all sorts of scatter-headedness—though after a second look, then a third and a fourth, she realized that wasn’t the case. So maybe the mistake was on the SBD conference’s side. Because there was no way—absolutely no way—that they’d really meant to inform her that the abstract she’d submitted had been selected to be part of a panel.
A panel with faculty.
It was just not possible. Graduate students were rarely selected for oral presentations. Most of the time they just made posters with their findings. Talks were for scholars whose careers were already advanced—except that when Olive logged into the conference website and downloaded the program, her name wa
s there. And out of all the speakers’ names, hers was the only one not followed by any letters. No MD. No Ph.D. No MD-Ph.D.
Crap.
She ran out of the lab clutching her laptop to her chest. Greg gave her a dirty look when she almost crashed into him in the hallway, but she ignored him and stormed inside Dr. Aslan’s office out of breath, her knees suddenly made of jelly.
“Can we talk?” She closed the door without waiting for an answer.
Her adviser looked up from behind her desk with an alarmed expression. “Olive, what is—”
“I don’t want to give a talk. I can’t give a talk.” She shook her head, trying to sound reasonable but only managing panic-stricken and frantic. “I can’t.”
Dr. Aslan cocked her head and steepled her hands. The veneer of calm her adviser projected was usually comforting, but now it made Olive want to flip the nearest piece of furniture.
Calm down. Deep breaths. Use your mindfulness and all that stuff Malcolm’s always yapping his mouth about. “Dr. Aslan, my SBD abstract was accepted as a talk. Not as a poster, a talk. Out loud. On a panel. Standing. In front of people.” Olive’s voice had made its way to a shriek. And yet, for reasons beyond understanding, Dr. Aslan’s face split into a grin.
“This is wonderful news!”
Olive blinked. And then blinked again. “It’s . . . not?”
“Nonsense.” Dr. Aslan stood and walked around her desk, running her hand up and down Olive’s arm in what she clearly intended as a congratulatory gesture. “This is fantastic. A talk will give you much more visibility than a poster. You might be able to network for a postdoctoral position. I am so, so happy for you.”
Olive’s jaw dropped. “But . . .”
“But?”
“I cannot give a talk. I can’t talk.”
“You’re talking right now, Olive.”
“Not in front of people.”
“I am people.”
“You’re not many people. Dr. Aslan, I can’t talk in front of a lot of people. Not about science.”
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