Adam blinked slowly. “BFF?”

“Adam.” Holden pointed at a grimacing Malcolm with his thumb. “Now, please.”

Adam sighed heavily, but he turned to Malcolm. “Whatever I said or did, it was not personal. I’ve been told that I can be needlessly antagonistic. And unapproachable.”

Olive didn’t get to see Malcolm’s reaction. Because she was busy studying Adam and the slight curl on his lips, the one that became an almost smile when he looked at Olive and met her eyes. For a second, the brief second she held his gaze before he looked away, it was just the two of them. And this sort-of-past they shared, their stupid inside jokes, the way they’d teased each other in the late-summer sunlight.

“Perfect.” Holden clapped his hands, intrusively loud. “Egg rolls for appetizer, yes?”

It was a good idea, this dinner. This night, this table, this moment. Sitting next to Adam, smelling the petrichor, watching the dark splotches on the gray cotton of his Henley from the storm that had started just as they’d slipped inside the restaurant. They would have to talk, later, have a serious conversation about Tom and many other things. But for now it was the way it had always been between Adam and her: like slipping into a favorite dress, one she’d thought lost inside her closet, and finding that it fit as comfortably as it used to.

“I want egg rolls.” She glanced at Adam. His hair was starting to get long again, so she did what felt natural: reached out and flattened his cowlick. “I’m going to take a wild guess and assume that you hate egg rolls, just like everything else that’s good in the world.”

He mouthed smart-ass right as the waiter brought their waters and set the menus on the table. Three menus, to be precise. Holden and Malcolm each took one, and Olive and Adam exchanged a loaded, amused look and grabbed the remaining one to share. It worked perfectly: he angled it so that the veggie section was on his side and all manner of fried entrées were on hers. It was serendipitous enough that she let out a laugh.

Adam tapped his index finger on the drink section. “Look at this abomination,” he murmured. His lips were close to her ear—a chuff of hot air, intimate and pleasant in the blasting AC.

She grinned. “No way.”

“Appalling.”

“Amazing, you mean.”

“I do not.”

“This is my new favorite restaurant.”

“You haven’t even tried it yet.”

“It will be spectacular.”

“It will be horrific—”

A throat cleared, reminding them that they were not alone. Malcolm and Holden were both staring—Malcolm with a shrewd, suspicious expression, and Holden with a knowing smile. “What’s all that about?”

“Oh.” Olive’s cheeks warmed a little. “Nothing. They just have pumpkin spice bubble tea.”

Malcolm pretended to gag. “Ugh, Ol. Gross.”

“Shut up.”

“It sounds great.” Holden smiled and leaned into Malcolm. “We should get one to split.”

“Excuse me?”

Olive tried not to laugh at Malcolm’s horrified expression. “Don’t get Malcolm started on pumpkin spice,” she told Holden in an exaggerated whisper.

“Oh, shit.” Holden clutched his chest in mock terror.

“This is a serious matter.” Malcolm let his menu fall on the table. “Pumpkin spice is Satan’s dandruff, harbinger of the apocalypse, and it tastes like ass—not in the good way.” Next to Olive Adam nodded slowly, highly impressed with Malcolm’s rant. “One pumpkin spice latte contains the same amount of sugar you’d find in fifty Skittles—and no pumpkin whatsoever. Look it up.”

Adam stared at Malcolm with something very similar to admiration. Holden met Olive’s eyes and told her conspiratorially, “Our boyfriends have so much in common.”

“They do. They think hating entire harmless families of food is a personality trait.”

“Pumpkin spice is not harmless. It’s a radioactive, overpowering sugar bomb that worms its way into every sort of product and is single-handedly responsible for the extinction of the Caribbean monk seal. And you”—he pointed his finger at Holden—“are on thin ice.”

“What—why?”

“I can’t date someone who doesn’t respect my stance on pumpkin spice.”

“To be fair it’s not a very respectable stance—” Holden noticed Malcolm’s glare and lifted his hands defensively. “I had no idea, babe.”

“You should have.”

Adam clucked his tongue, amused. “Yes, Holden. Do better.” He leaned back in his seat, and his shoulder brushed against Olive’s. Holden gave him the finger.

“Adam knows and respects Olive’s stance on hamburgers, and they’re not even—” Whatever Malcolm had been about to say, he had the sense to stop himself. “Well, if Adam knows, you should know about the pumpkin spice.”

“Wasn’t Adam a dick until, like, twelve seconds ago?”

“How the turntables,” Adam murmured. Olive reached out to pinch him on the side, but he stopped her with a hand around her wrist.

Evil, she mouthed at him. He just smiled, evilly, studying Malcolm and Holden a little too gleefully.

“Come on. It’s not even comparable,” Holden was saying. “Olive and Adam have been together for years. We met less than a week ago.”

“They have not,” Malcolm corrected him, wagging a finger. Adam’s hand was still curled around her wrist. “They started dating, like, a month before we did.”

“No,” Holden insisted. “Adam was into her for ages. He probably secretly studied her eating habits and compiled seventeen databases and built machine-learning algorithms to predict her culinary preferences—”

Olive burst into laughter. “He did not.” She took a sip of water, still smiling. “We only just started hanging out. At the beginning of the fall semester.”

“Yes, but you knew each other from earlier.” Holden was frowning. “You two met the year before you started your Ph.D. here, when you came for your interview, and he’s been pining after you ever since.”

Olive shook her head and laughed, turning to Adam to share her amusement. Except that Adam was staring at her already, and he did not look amused. He looked . . . something else. Worried maybe, or apologetic, or resigned. Panicky? And just like that, the restaurant was silent. The pitter-patter of rain on the windows, people’s chatter, the clinking of silverware—it all receded; the floor tilted, shook a little, and the AC was just this side of too cold. At some point, Adam’s fingers had let go of her wrist.

Olive thought back to the bathroom incident. To burning eyes and wet cheeks, the smell of reagent and clean, male skin. The blur of a large, dark figure standing in front of her with his deep, reassuring, amused voice. The panic of being twenty-three and alone and having no idea what she should be doing, where she should be going, what the right choice was.

Is mine a good enough reason to go to grad school?

It’s the best one.

All of a sudden, things had seemed simple enough.

It had been Adam, after all. Olive had been right.

What she hadn’t been right about was whether he remembered her.

“Yes,” she said. She wasn’t smiling anymore. Adam was still holding her gaze. “I guess he has.”

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Chapter Twenty-Two

No. Not this time.