“Of course.”

She groaned. “Don’t.”

“Might also tell her about the kisses you’ve been extorting, and the fakedating scheme you roped me into, and above all about the sunscreen—”

“Oh God.” Olive hid her face in her knees, arms coming up to wrap around her head. “God. The sunscreen.”

“Yeah.” His voice sounded muffled from down here. “Yeah, that was . .

.”

“Awkward?” she offered, sitting back straight with a grimace. Adam was looking elsewhere. She was probably imagining it, the way he was flushing.

He cleared his throat. “Among other things.”

“Yep.” It had been other things, too. A lot of things that she was not going to mention, because her other things were sure to not be his other things. His other things were probably “terrible” and “harrowing” and “invasive.” While hers . . .

“Is the sunscreen going in the Title IX complaint?”

His mouth twitched. “Right on the first page. Nonconsensual sunblock application.”

“Oh, come on. I saved you from basal cell carcinoma.”

“Groped under SPF pretense.”

She swatted him with her Twix, and he ducked a bit to avoid her, amused.

“Hey, you want half of this? Since I fully plan to eat what’s left of your chips.”

“Nah.”

“You sure?”

“Can’t stand chocolate.”

Olive stared at him, shaking her head in disbelief. “You would, wouldn’t you? Hate everything that is delicious and lovely and comforting.”

“Chocolate’s disgusting.”

“You just want to live in your dark, bitter world made of black coffee and plain bagels with plain cream cheese. And occasionally salt-andvinegar chips.”

“They are clearly your favorite chips—”

“Not the point.”

“—and I am flattered that you’ve memorized my orders.”

“It does help that they’re always the same.”

“At least I’ve never ordered something called a unicorn Frappuccino.”

“That was so good. It tasted like the rainbow.”

“Like sugar and food coloring?”

“My two favorite things in the universe. Thank you for buying it for me, by the way.” It had made for a nice fake-dating Wednesday treat this week, even though Olive had been so busy with Tom’s report that she hadn’t been able to exchange more than a couple of words with Adam. Which, she had to admit, had been a little disappointing.

“Where’s Tom by the way, while you and I slave our Friday night away?”

“Out. On a date, I think.”

“On a date? Does his girlfriend live here?”

“Tom has lots of girlfriends. In lots of places.”

“But are any of them fake?” She beamed at him, and could tell that he was tempted to smile back. “Would you like half a dollar, then? For the chips?”

“Keep it.”

“Great. Because it’s about a third of my monthly salary.”

She actually managed to make him laugh, and—it didn’t just transform his face, it changed the entire space they were inhabiting. Olive had to convince her lungs not to stop working, to keep taking in oxygen, and her eyes not to get lost in the little lines at the corners of his eyes, the dimples in the center of his cheeks. “Glad to hear that grad students’ stipends have not increased since I was one.”

“Did you use to live on instant ramen and bananas during your Ph.D., too?”

“I don’t like bananas, but I remember having lots of apples.”

“Apples are expensive, you fiscally irresponsible splurger.” She tilted her head and wondered if it was okay to ask the one thing she’d been dying to know. She told herself that it was probably inappropriate—and then went for it anyway. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Oh. Wow.” She’d thought younger. Or older, maybe. She’d thought he existed in an ageless dimension. It was so weird to hear a number. To have a year of birth, almost a whole decade before hers. “I’m twenty-six.” Olive wasn’t sure why she offered up the information, since he hadn’t asked. “It’s odd to think that you used to be a student, too.”

“Is it?”

“Yep. Were you like this as an undergrad, too?”

“Like this?”

“You know.” She batted her eyes at him. “Antagonistic and unapproachable.”

He glared, but she was starting to not take that too seriously. “I might have been worse, actually.”

“I bet.” There was a brief, comfortable silence as she sat back and began to tackle her bag of chips. It was all she’d ever wanted from a vending machine snack. “So does it get better?”

“What?”

“This.” She gestured inchoately around herself. “Academia. Does it get better, after grad school? Once you have tenure?”