“Was it a pink carnation?”

“Maybe.”

Anh cackled. “And they say romance is dead.”

“Shut up. Then, toward the beginning of the date, something happened. Something catastrophic that could only ever happen to me, given that my entire damn family is obsessed with science and, therefore, attends all the conferences. All of them.”

“No. Tell me you didn’t—”

“Yes. When we got to the restaurant, we found my mother, father, uncle, and grandfather. Who insisted on us joining them. Which means that my first date with Holden was a freaking Thanksgiving dinner.”

Olive looked up from her laptop and shared an appalled look with Anh. “How bad was it?”

“Funny that you ask, because it is with the utmost disconcert that I must say: it was fucking spectacular. They loved him—because he’s a badass scientist and because he is smoother than an organic smoothie—and in the span of two hours he somehow managed to help me convince my parents that my plan of being an industry scientist is bomb. I’m not kidding—this morning my mother called and was all about how I have grown as a person and am finally in control of my future and how my dating choices reflect that. She said that Dad agrees. Can you believe it? Anyway. After dinner we got ice cream and then we went back to Holden’s hotel room and sixty-nined like the world was about to end—”

“A girl like you. Who figured out so early in her academic career that fucking well-known, successful scholars is how to get ahead. You fucked Adam, didn’t you? We both know you’re going to fuck me for the same reas—”

Olive slammed the spacebar, immediately stopping the replay of the recording. Her heart was pounding in her chest—first from confusion, then from the realization of what she’d inadvertently recorded, and finally from anger at hearing the words again. She brought a trembling hand to her lips, trying to purge Tom’s voice from her head. She had spent two days trying to recover, and now—

“The hell was that?” Malcolm asked.

“Ol?” Anh’s tentative voice reminded her that she was not alone in the room. She looked up and found that her friends had sat up. They were staring at her, wide-eyed with concern and shock.

Olive shook her head. She didn’t want to—no, she didn’t have the strength to explain. “Nothing. Just . . .”

“I recognize it,” Anh said, coming to sit next to her. “I recognize the voice. From that talk we went to.” She paused, searching Olive’s eyes. “That was Tom Benton, wasn’t it?”

“What the—” Malcolm stood. There was real alarm blooming in his voice. Anger, too. “Ol, why do you have a recording of Tom Benton saying shit like that? What happened?”

Olive looked up at him, then at Anh, then at him again. They were studying her with worried, incredulous expressions. Anh must have taken Olive’s hand at some point. She told herself that she needed to be strong, to be pragmatic, to be numb, but . . .

“I just . . .”

She tried. She really did try. But her face crumpled, and the last few days crashed and burned into her. Olive leaned forward, buried her head in Anh’s lap, and let herself burst into tears.

—

OLIVE HAD NO intention of hearing Tom spout his poison again, so she gave her friends her headphones, went to the bathroom, and let the faucet run until they’d finished listening. It took less than ten minutes, but she sobbed throughout. When Malcolm and Anh came in, they sat next to her on the floor. Anh was crying, too, fat, angry drops sliding down her cheeks.

At least there’s a bathtub we can flood, Olive thought while handing her the toilet paper roll she’d been hoarding.

“He’s the most disgusting, detestable, shameful, disgraceful human being,” Malcolm said. “I hope he has explosive diarrhea as we speak. I hope he gets genital warts. I hope he has to live saddled by the largest, most painful hemorrhoid in the universe. I hope he—”

Anh interrupted him. “Does Adam know?”

Olive shook her head.

“You need to tell him. And then the two of you need to report Benton’s ass and get him kicked out of academia.”

“No, I . . . I can’t.”

“Ol, listen to me. What Tom said is sexual harassment. There is no way Adam wouldn’t believe you—not to mention that you have a recording.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does!”

Olive wiped her cheeks with her palms. “If I tell Adam, he’s not going to want to collaborate with Tom anymore, and the project they’re working on is too important to him. Not to mention that he wants to move to Harvard next year, and—”

Anh snorted. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes. He told me that—”

“Ol, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s head over feet. There is no way he’ll want to move to Boston if you’re not going—and I’m sure as hell not letting you go work for this dipshit . . . What?” Her eyes darted from Olive to Malcolm, who were exchanging a long glance. “Why are you guys looking at each other like that? And why are you making your inside-joke faces?”

Malcolm sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay Anh, listen carefully. And before you ask—no, I’m not making this up. This is real life.” He took a deep breath before starting. “Carlsen and Olive never dated. They pretended so you’d believe that Olive wasn’t into Jeremy anymore—which she never was in the first place. Not sure what Carlsen was getting out of the arrangement, I forgot to ask. But halfway through the fake-dating Olive caught feelings for Carlsen, proceeded to lie to him about it, and pretended to be in love with someone else. But then . . .” He gave Olive a side glance. “Well. I didn’t want to be nosy, but judging from the fact that the other day only one bed in this hotel room was unmade, I’m pretty sure there have been some . . . recent developments.”

It was so painfully accurate, Olive had to bury her face in her knees. Just in time to hear Anh say, “This is not real life.”

“It is.”

“Nuh-uh. This is a Hallmark movie. Or a poorly written young adult novel. That will not sell well. Olive, tell Malcolm to keep his day job, he’ll never make it as a writer.”

Olive made herself look up, and Anh’s frown was the deepest she’d ever seen. “It’s true, Anh. I am so sorry I lied to you. I didn’t want to, but—”

“You fake-dated Adam Carlsen?”

Olive nodded.

“God, I knew that kiss was weird.”

She lifted her hands defensively. “Anh, I’m sorry—”

“You fake-dated Adam. Fucking. Carlsen?”

“It seemed like a good idea, and—”

“But I saw you kiss him! In the biology building parking lot!”

“Only because you forced me to—”

“But you sat on his lap!”

“Once again, you forced me to—not the coolest moment in our friendship, by the way—”

“But you put sunscreen on him! In front of at least one hundred people!”

“Only because someone put me up to it. Do you sense a pattern?”

Anh shook her head, as if suddenly appalled at her own actions. “I just—you guys looked so good together! It was so obvious from the way Adam stared at you that he was wild about you. And the opposite—you looked at him like he was the only guy on earth and then—it always seemed like you were forcing yourself to hold back on him, and I wanted you to know that you could express your feelings if you wanted to—I really thought I was helping you, and—you fake-dated Adam Carlsen?”

Olive sighed. “Listen, I’m sorry I lied. Please, don’t hate me, I—”

“I don’t hate you.”

Oh? “You . . . don’t?”

“Of course not.” Anh was indignant. “I low-key hate myself for forcing you to do all that stuff. Well, maybe not ‘hate,’ but I’d write myself a strongly worded email. And I’m incredibly flattered that you’d do something like that for me. I mean, it was misguided, and ridiculous, and needlessly convoluted, and you’re a living, breathing, rom-com trope machine, and . . . God, Ol, you’re such an idiot. But a very lovable idiot, and my idiot.” She shook her head, incredulous, but squeezed her hand on Olive’s knee and glanced at Malcolm. “Wait. Is your thing with Rodrigues real? Or are you two pretending to bone so a judge will give him custody of his recently orphaned godchildren?”