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 was 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.”
“Why?”
“Because.” Because my throat will dry up and my brain will shut down and I will be so bad that someone from the audience will take out a crossbow and shoot me in the kneecap. “I’m not ready. To speak. In public.”
“Of course you are. You’re a good public speaker.”
“I’m not. I stammer. I blush. I meander. A lot. Especially in front of large crowds, and—”
“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.”
Olive closed her eyes and took enough deep breaths to pull back from the verge of a panic attack. When she opened them, her adviser was smiling encouragingly.
“Dr. Aslan.” Olive grimaced. “I really don’t think I can do this.”
“I know you don’t.” There was some sadness in her expression. “But you can. And we’ll work together until you feel up to the task.” This time, she put both her hands on Olive’s shoulders. Olive was still hugging her laptop to her chest, like she would a life buoy in the open sea, but the touch was oddly comforting. “Don’t worry. We have a couple of weeks to get you ready.”
You say that. You say “we,” but I’ll be the one to speak in front of hundreds of people, and when someone asks a three-minute-long question meant to get me to admit that deep down my work is poorly structured and useless, I’ll be the one to crap her pants. “Right.” Olive had to force her head into an up-and-down motion and take a deep breath. She exhaled slowly. “Okay.”
“Why don’t you put together a draft? You could practice during the next lab meeting.” Another reassuring smile, and Olive was nodding again, not feeling reassured in the least. “And if you have any questions, I’m always here. Oh, I am so disappointed that I won’t get to see your talk. You must promise to record it for me. It will be just as if I was there.”
Except that you won’t be there, and I’ll be alone, she thought bitterly while closing the door of Dr. Aslan’s office behind her. She slumped against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to quiet the agitated mess of thoughts fluttering inside her head. And then she opened them again when she heard her name in Malcolm’s voice. He was standing in front of her with Anh, studying her with a half-amused, half-worried expression. They were holding Starbucks cups. The smell of caramel and peppermint wafted over, making her stomach churn.
“Hey.”
Anh took a sip of her drink. “Why are you taking a standing nap next to your adviser’s office?”
“I . . .” Olive pushed away from the wall and walked a few steps away from Dr. Aslan’s door, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. “My abstract got accepted. The SBD one.”
“Congrats!” Anh smiled. “But that was pretty much a given, right?”
“It was accepted as a talk.”
For a few seconds, two pairs of eyes just stared at her in silence. Olive thought that Malcolm might be wincing, but when she turned to check, there was just a vague smile pasted on his face. “That’s . . . awesome?”
“Yeah.” Anh’s eyes darted to Malcolm and back to Olive. “That’s, um, great.”
“It’s a disaster of epic proportions.”
Anh and Malcolm exchanged a worried glance. They knew very well how Olive felt about public speaking.
“What is Dr. Aslan saying about it?”
“The usual.” She rubbed her eyes. “That it will be fine. That we’ll work on it together.”
“I think she’s right,” Anh said. “I’ll help you practice. We’ll make sure you know it by heart. And it will be fine.”
“Yeah.” Or it won’t. “Also, the conference is in less than two weeks. We should book the hotel—or are we doing Airbnb?”
Something odd happened the moment she asked the question. Not with Anh—she was still peacefully sipping on her coffee—but Malcolm’s cup froze halfway to his mouth, and he bit his lip while studying the sleeve of his sweater.
“About that . . . ,” he began.
Olive frowned. “What?”
“Well.” Malcolm shuffled his feet a little, and maybe it was accidental, the way he seemed to be drifting away from Olive—but she didn’t think so. “We already have.”
“You already booked something?”
Anh nodded cheerfully. “Yes.” She didn’t appear to notice that Malcolm was about to have a stroke. “The conference hotel.”
“Oh. Okay. Let me know what I owe you then, since—”
“The thing is . . .” Malcolm seemed to move even farther away.
“What thing?”
“Well.” He fidgeted with the cardboard holder of his cup, and his eyes darted to Anh, who seemed blissfully oblivious to his discomfort. “Jeremy’s hotel room is paid for because of that fellowship he’s on, and he asked Anh to stay with him. And then Jess, Cole, and Hikaru offered for me to stay with them.”
“What?” Olive glanced at Anh. “Seriously?”
“It will save all of us a lot of money. And it will be my first trip with Jeremy,” Anh interjected distractedly. She was typing something on her phone. “Oh my God, guys, I think I found it! A location for the Boston event for BIPOC women in STEM! I think I’ve got it!”
“That’s great,” Olive said weakly. “But I thought . . . I thought we’d room together.”
Anh glanced up, looking contrite. “Yeah, I know. That’s what I told Jeremy, but he pointed out that you . . . you know.” Olive tilted her head, confused, and Anh continued, “I mean, why would you want to spend money on a room when you could stay with Carlsen?”
Oh. “Because.” Because. Because, because, because. “I . . .”
“I’ll miss you, but it’s not as if we’ll be in the rooms for anything other than sleeping.”
“Right. . . .” She pressed her lips together, and added, “Sure.”
Anh’s grin made her want to groan. “Awesome. We’ll get meals together and hang out for poster sessions. And at night, of course.”
“Of course.” It was all Olive could do not to sound bitter. “I look forward to it,” she added with as good a smile as she could muster.
“Okay. Great. I gotta go—the Women in Science outreach committee is meeting in five. But let’s get together this weekend to plan fun activities for Boston. Jeremy said something about a ghost tour!”
Olive waited until Anh was out of earshot before turning to face Malcolm. He was already raising his hands defensively.
“First of all, Anh came up with this plan while I was monitoring that twenty-four-hour experiment—worst day of my life, I cannot graduate soon enough. And after that—what was I supposed to do? Inform her that you’re not going to stay with Carlsen because you’re fake-dating? Oh, but wait—now that you’ve got a huge crush on him maybe it’s sort of real—”
“Okay, I get it.” Her stomach was starting to ache. “You still could have told me.”
“I was going to. And then I dumped Neuro Jude and he went crazy and egged my car. And after that my dad called me to say hi and asked me about how my projects are going, which devolved into him grilling me on why I’m not using a C. elegans model, and, Ol, you know how incredibly nosy and micromanaging he can be, which led to us having an argument and my mom got involved and—” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Well, you were there. You heard the screams. Bottom line is, it totally slipped my mind, and I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.” She scratched her temple. “I’m going to have to find someplace to stay.”
“I’ll help you,” Malcolm told her eagerly. “We can look online tonight.”
“Thanks, but don’t worry about it. I’ll manage.” Or not. Probably. Likely. Since the conference was in less than two weeks, and everything was likely already booked up. What was left was undoubtedly so out of her price range, she’d have to sell a kidney to be able to afford it. Which could be an option—she did have two.
“You’re not mad, right?”
“I . . .” Yes. No. Maybe a little. “No. It’s not your fault.” She hugged Malcolm back when he leaned into her, reassuring him with a few awkward pats on the shoulder. As much as she’d have liked to blame him for this, she only had to look at herself. The crux of her problems—most of them, at least—was her moronic, harebrained decision to lie to Anh in the first place. To begin this fake-dating sham. Now she was giving a talk at this stupid conference, probably after sleeping at a bus station and eating moss for breakfast, and despite all of this she couldn’t stop thinking about Adam. Just perfect.
Laptop under her arm, Olive headed back to the lab, the prospect of getting her slides in order for her talk simultaneously daunting and depressing. There was something leaden and unpleasant weighing on her stomach, and on impulse she made a detour to the restroom and entered the stall farthest from the door, leaning against the wall until the back of her head hit the cold tile surface.
When the weight in her belly began to feel too heavy, her knees gave out on her and her back slid down until she sat on the floor. Olive stayed like that for a long time, trying to pretend that this wasn’t her life.
