remote in one hand and his phone in the other, looking between the two screens with a frown.
“You would.”
“Would what?” he asked absentmindedly.
“Have a black toothbrush.”
His mouth twitched. “You will be shocked to hear that there is no Netflix category for movies in which horses don’t die.”
“An obscenity, isn’t it? It’s much needed.” She crumpled her too-short dress into a ball and stuffed it inside her bag, fantasizing that she was stuffing Tom’s throat. “If I were American, I’d totally run for Congress on that platform.”
“Should we fake-marry, so you can get citizenship?”
Her heart stumbled. “Oh, yes. I think it’s time we fake-move-to-thenext-level.”
“So”—he tapped at his phone—“I’m just googling ‘dead horse,’ plus the title of whatever movie sounds good.”
“That’s what I usually do.” She padded across the room until she was standing next to him. “What do you have?”
“This one’s about a linguistics professor who’s asked to help decipher an alien—”
He glanced up from his phone, and immediately fell silent. His mouth opened and then shut, and his eyes skittered to her thighs, her feet, her unicorn knee socks, and quickly back to her face. No, not her face: some point above her shoulder. He cleared his throat before saying, “Glad it . . . fits.” He was looking at his phone again. His grip on the remote had tightened.
It was a long beat before she realized that he was referring to his T-shirt.
“Oh, yeah.” She grinned. “Exactly my size, right?” It was so large that it covered pretty much the same amount of skin her dress had, but was soft and comfortable like an old shoe. “Maybe I won’t give it back.”
“It’s all yours.”
She rocked on her heels, and wondered if it would be okay if she sat next to him now. It was only convenient, since they had to choose a movie together. “Can I really sleep in it this week?”
“Of course. I’ll be gone tomorrow, anyway.”
“Oh.” She knew that, of course. She’d known the first time he’d told her, a couple of weeks ago; she’d known this morning when she’d boarded the plane in San Francisco, and she’d known mere hours ago, when she’d used that precise piece of information to comfort herself that no matter how awkward and stressful, her stay with Adam would at least be short-lived.
Except that it wasn’t awkward now. And it wasn’t stressful. Not nearly as much as the idea of being apart from him for several days. Of being here, of all places, without him. “How big is your suitcase?”
“Hm?”
“Can I come with you?”
He looked up at her, still smiling, but he must’ve noticed something in her eyes, behind the joke and the attempt at humor. Something vulnerable and imploring that she’d failed to adequately bury within herself.
“Olive.” He dropped his phone and the remote on the bed. “Don’t let them.”
She just tilted her head. She was not going to cry again. There was no point in it. And she was not like this—this fragile, defenseless creature who second-guessed herself at every turn. At least, she didn’t use to be. God, she hated Tom Benton.
“Let them?”
“Don’t let them ruin this conference for you. Or science. Or make you feel any less proud of your accomplishments.”
She looked down, studying the yellow of her socks as she buried her toes in the soft carpet. And then up to him again. “You know what’s really sad about this?” He shook his head, and Olive continued.
“For a moment there, during the talk . . . I really enjoyed myself. I was panicky. Close to puking, for sure. But while I was talking to this huge group of people about my work and my hypotheses and my ideas, and explaining my reasoning and the trials and errors and why what I research is so important, I . . . I felt confident. I felt good at it. It all felt right and fun. Like science is supposed to be when you share it.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Like maybe I could be an academic, down the road. A real one. And maybe make a difference.”
He nodded as though he knew exactly what she meant. “I wish I had been there, Olive.”
She could tell he really did. That he regretted not being with her. But even Adam—indomitable, decisive, ever-competent Adam—couldn’t be in two places at once, and the fact remained that he had not seen her talk.
I have no idea if you’re good enough, but that’s not what you should beasking yourself. What matters is whether your reason to be in academia is good enough. That’s what he’d told her years ago in the bathroom. What she’d been repeating to herself for years whenever she’d hit a wall. But what if he’d been wrong all along? What if there was such a thing as good enough?
What if that was what mattered the most?
“What if it’s true? What if I really am mediocre?”
He didn’t reply for a long moment. He just stared, a hint of frustration in his expression, a thoughtful line to his lips. And then, low and even, he said,
“When I was in my second year of grad school, my adviser told me that I was a failure who would never amount to anything.”
“What?” Whatever she’d expected, that wasn’t it. “Why?”
“Because of an incorrect primer design. But it wasn’t the first time, nor the last. And it wasn’t the most trivial reason he used to berate me. Sometimes
he’d publicly humiliate his grads for no reason. But that specific time stuck with me, because I remember thinking . . .” He swallowed, and his throat worked. “I remember being sure that he was right. That I would never amount to anything.”
“But you . . .” Have published articles in the Lancet . Have tenure and millions of dollars in research grants. Were keynote speaker at a major conference. Olive wasn’t even sure what to bring up, so she settled for, “You were a MacArthur Fellow.”
“I was.” He exhaled a laugh. “And five years before the MacArthur grant, in the second year of my Ph.D., I spent an entire week preparing law school applications because I was sure that I’d never become a scientist.”
