“In case Anh’s still around.”
“Oh.” It was, Olive had to admit, a kind offer. Surprisingly so.
Especially because it came from Adam “I’m Too Good for This Department”
Carlsen. Olive knew that he was a dick, so she couldn’t quite understand why today he . . . didn’t seem to be one. Maybe she should just blame her own appalling behavior, which would make anyone look good by comparison.
“Thanks. But no need.”
She could tell that he didn’t want to insist but couldn’t help himself. “I’d feel better if you let me walk you to your car.”
“I don’t have a car.” I’m a grad student living in Stanford, California. I make less than thirty thousand dollars a year. My rent takes up two-thirds of my salary. I’ve been wearing the same pair of contacts since May, and I go to every seminar that provides refreshments to save on meals, she didn’t bother adding. She had no idea how old Carlsen was, but it couldn’t have been that long ago that he was a grad student.
“Do you take the bus?”
“I bike. And my bike is right at the entrance of the building.” He opened his mouth, and then closed it. And then opened it again.
You kissed that mouth, Olive. And it was a good kiss.
“There are no bike lanes around here.”
She shrugged. “I like to live dangerously.” Cheaply, she meant. “And I have a helmet.” She turned to set her mug on the first surface she could find.
She’d retrieve it later. Or not, if someone stole it. Who cared? She’d gotten it from a postdoc who’d left academia to become a DJ, anyway. For the second time in less than a week, Carlsen had saved her ass. For the second time, she couldn’t stand being with him a minute longer.
“I’ll see you around, okay?”
His chest rose as he inhaled deeply. “Yeah.
Okay.” Olive got out of the room as fast as she
could. —
“IS IT A prank? It must be a prank. Am I on national TV? Where are the hidden cameras? How do I look?”
“It’s not a prank. There are no cameras.” Olive adjusted the strap of her backpack on her shoulder and stepped to the side to avoid being run over by an undergrad on an electric scooter. “But now that you mention it—you look great. Especially for seven thirty in the morning.”
Anh didn’t blush, but it was a close thing. “Last night I did one of those face masks that you and Malcolm got me for my birthday. The one that looks like a panda? And I got a new sunscreen that’s supposed to give you a bit of a glow. And I put on mascara,” she added hastily under her breath.
Olive could ask her why she’d gone the extra mile to look nice on a runof-the-mill Tuesday morning, but she already knew the answer: Jeremy’s and Anh’s labs were on the same floor, and while the biology department was large, chance encounters were very much a possibility.
She hid a smile. As weird as the idea of a best friend dating an ex might sound, she was glad that Anh was starting to allow herself to consider Jeremy romantically. Mostly, it was nice to know that the indignity Olive had put herself through with Carlsen on The Night was paying off. That, together with Tom Benton’s very promising email about her research project, had Olive thinking that things might be finally looking up.
“Okay.” Anh chewed on her lower lip, deep in concentration. “So it’s not a prank. Which means that there must be another explanation. Let me find it.”
“There is no explanation to be found. We just—”
“Oh my God, are you trying to get citizenship? Are they deporting you back to Canada because we’ve been sharing Malcolm’s Netflix password?
Tell them we didn’t know it was a federal crime. No, wait, don’t tell them anything until we get you a lawyer. And, Ol, I will marry you. I’ll get you a green card and you won’t have to—”
“Anh.” Olive squeezed her friend’s hand tighter to get her to shut up for a second. “I promise you, I’m not getting deported. I just went on a single date with Carlsen.”
Anh scrunched her face and dragged Olive to a bench on the side of the path, forcing her to sit down. Olive complied, telling herself that were their positions inverted, had she caught Anh kissing Adam Carlsen, she’d probably have the same reaction. Hell, she’d probably be busy booking a full-blown psychiatric evaluation for Anh.
“Listen,” Anh started, “do you remember last spring, when I held your hair back while you projectile vomited the five pounds of spoiled shrimp cocktail you ate at Dr. Park’s retirement party?”
“Oh, yes. I do.” Olive cocked her head, pensive. “You ate more than me and never got sick.”
“Because I’m made of sterner stuff, but never mind that. The point is: I am here for you, and always will be, no matter what. No matter how many pounds of spoiled shrimp cocktail you projectile vomit, you can trust me.
We’re a team, you and I. And Malcolm, when he’s not busy screwing his way through the Stanford population. So if Carlsen is secretly an extraterrestrial life-form planning a takeover of Earth that will ultimately result in humanity being enslaved by evil overlords who look like cicadas, and the only way to stop him is dating him, you can tell me and I’ll inform NASA—”
“For God’s sake”—Olive had to laugh—“it was just a date!”
Anh looked pained. “I just don’t understand.”
Because it doesn’t make sense. “I know, but there is nothing to understand.
It’s just . . . We went on a date.”
“But . . . why? Ol, you’re beautiful and smart and funny and have excellent taste in knee socks, why would you go out with Adam Carlsen?”
Olive scratched her nose. “Because he is . . .” It cost her, to say the word.
Oh, it cost her. But she had to. “Nice.”
“Nice?” Anh’s eyebrows shot up so high they almost merged with her hairline.
