“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 . . .”