“Can’t. Have a TA meeting.” Olive smiled. “Maybe Jeremy’s free, though.”
Anh rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth were curving up. It made Olive more than a little happy. So happy that she didn’t even flip her off when Anh turned around from the path and asked, “Is he blackmailing you?”
“Huh?”
“Carlsen. Is he blackmailing you? Did he find out that you’re an aberration and pee in the shower?”
“First of all, it’s time efficient.” Olive glared. “Second, I find it oddly flattering that you’d think Carlsen would go to these ridiculous lengths to get me to date him.”
“Anyone would, Ol. Because you’re awesome.” Anh grimaced before adding, “Except when you’re peeing in the shower.”
—
JEREMY WAS ACTING weird. Which didn’t mean much, since Jeremy had always been a bit awkward, and having recently split from Olive to date her best friend was not going to make him any less so—but today he seemed even weirder than usual. He came into the campus coffee shop, a few hours after Olive’s conversation with Anh, and proceeded to stare at her for two good minutes. Then three. Then five. It was more attention than he’d ever paid to Olive—yes, including their dates.
When it got borderline ridiculous, she lifted her eyes from her laptop and waved at him. Jeremy flushed, grabbed his latte from the counter, and found a table for himself. Olive went back to rereading her two-line email for the seventieth time.
Today, 10:12 a.m.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: Pancreatic Cancer Screening Project
Dr. Benton,
Thank you for your response. Chatting in person would be fantastic. What day will you be at Stanford? Let me know when it’s most convenient for you to meet.
Sincerely,
Olive
Not twenty minutes later, a fourth-year who worked with Dr. Holden Rodrigues over in pharmacology came in and took a seat next to Jeremy. They immediately started whispering to each other and pointing at Olive. Any other day she would have been concerned and a little upset, but Dr. Benton had already answered her email, which took priority over . . . anything else, really.
Today, 10:26 a.m.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: Pancreatic Cancer Screening Project
Olive,
I’m on sabbatical from Harvard this semester, so I’ll be staying for several days. A Stanford collaborator and I were just awarded a large grant, and we’ll be meeting to talk about setup, etc. Okay if we play it by ear once I’m there?
Cheers,
TB
Sent from my iPhone
Yes! She had several days to convince him to take on her project, which was much better than the ten minutes she’d originally anticipated. Olive fist-pumped—which led to Jeremy and his friend staring at her even more weirdly. What was up with them, anyway? Did she have toothpaste on her face or something? Who cared? She was going to meet Tom Benton and convince him to take her on. Pancreatic cancer, I’m coming for you.
She was in an excellent mood until two hours later, when she entered the biology TA meeting and a sudden silence dropped in the room. About fifteen pairs of eyes fixed on her—not a reaction she was accustomed to receiving.
“Uh—hi?”
A couple of people said hi back. Most averted their gazes. Olive told herself that she was just imagining things. Must be low blood sugar. Or high. One of the two.
“Hey, Olive.” A seventh-year who had never before acknowledged her existence moved his backpack and freed the seat next to his. “How are you?”
“Good.” She sat down gingerly, trying to keep the suspicion from her tone. “Um, you?”
“Great.”
There was something about his smile. Something salacious and fake. Olive was considering asking about it when the head TA managed to get the projector to work and called everyone’s attention to the meeting.
After that, things became even weirder. Dr. Aslan stopped by the lab just to ask Olive if there was anything she’d like to talk about; Chase, a grad in her lab, let her use the PCR machine first, even though he usually hoarded it like a third grader with his last piece of Halloween candy; the lab manager winked at Olive as he handed her a stack of blank paper for the printer. And then she met Malcolm in the all-gender restroom, completely by chance, and suddenly everything made sense.
“You sneaky monster,” he hissed. His black eyes were almost comically narrow. “I’ve been texting you all day.”
“Oh.” Olive patted the back pocket of her jeans, and then the front one, trying to remember the last time she had seen her phone. “I think I might have left my phone at home.”
“I cannot believe it.”
“Believe what?”
“I cannot believe you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“We are.”
“Good friends.”
“We are. You and Anh are my best friends. What—”
“Clearly not, if I had to hear it from Stella, who heard it from Jess, who heard it from Jeremy, who heard it from Anh—”
“Hear what?”
“—who heard it from I don’t even know who. And I thought we were friends.”
Something icy crawled its way up Olive’s back. Could it be . . . No. No, it couldn’t be. “Hear what?”
“I’m done. I’m letting the cockroaches eat you. And I’m changing my Netflix password.”
Oh no. “Malcolm. Hear what?”
“That you are dating Adam Carlsen.”
—
OLIVE HAD NEVER been in Carlsen’s lab, but she knew where to find it. It was the biggest, most functional research space in the whole department, coveted by all and a never-ending source of resentment toward Carlsen. She had to swipe her badge once and then once more to access it (she rolled her eyes both times). The second door opened directly onto the lab space, and maybe it was because he was as tall as Mount Everest and his shoulders were just as large, but Carlsen was the very first thing she noticed. He was peering at a Southern blot next to Alex, a grad who was one year ahead of Olive, but he turned toward the entrance the moment she came in.
Olive smiled weakly at him—mainly out of relief at having found him.
It was going to be all right. She was going to explain to him what Malcolm had told her, and without a doubt he was going to find the situation categorically unacceptable and fix it for the both of them, because Olive could not spend her next three years surrounded by people who thought that she was dating Adam freaking Carlsen.
The problem was, Carlsen wasn’t the only one to notice Olive. There were over a dozen benches in the lab, and at least ten people working at them. Most of them—all of them—were staring at Olive. Probably because most of them—all of them—had heard that Olive was dating their boss.
Fuck her life.
“Can I talk to you for a minute, Dr. Carlsen?” Rationally, Olive knew that the lab was not furnished in a way that made echoing possible. Still, she felt as though her words bounced off the walls and repeated about four times.
Carlsen nodded, nonplussed, and handed the Southern blot to Alex before heading in her direction. He appeared either unaware or uncaring that approximately two-thirds of his lab members were gaping at him. The remaining ones seemed to be on the verge of a hemorrhagic stroke.
He led Olive to a meeting room just outside the main lab space, and she followed him silently, trying not to dwell on the fact that a lab full of people who thought that she and Carlsen were dating had just seen them enter a private room. Alone.
