“Oh, Olive. But you will. Because you see—while your work is not particularly brilliant, it does complement nicely the ongoing projects in my lab.”
She let out a single, bitter laugh. “Are you really so deluded that you think I would ever collaborate with you after this?”
“Mmm. It’s more that you don’t have a choice. Because if you want to finish your project, my lab is your only opportunity. And if you don’t . . . well. You sent me information on all your protocols, which means that I can easily replicate them. But don’t worry. Maybe I’ll mention you in the acknowledgment section.”
She felt the ground flip under her feet. “You wouldn’t,” she whispered. “It’s research misconduct.”
“Listen, Olive. My friendly advice is: suck it up. Keep Adam happy and interested as long as possible, and then come to my lab to finally do some decent work. If you keep me happy, I’ll make sure you can save the world from pancreatic cancer. Your nice little sob story about your mom or your aunt or your stupid kindergarten teacher dying from it is only going to get you so far. You’re mediocre.”
Olive turned around and ran from the room.
* * *
—
WHEN SHE HEARD the beep of the key card, she immediately wiped her face with the sleeves of her dress. It didn’t quite do the trick: she’d been crying for a solid twenty minutes, and even an entire paper towel roll wouldn’t have been enough to hide what she’d been up to. Really, though, it wasn’t Olive’s fault. She’d been sure Adam had to attend the opening ceremony, or at least the department social after his talk. Wasn’t he on the social-and-networking committee? He should have been elsewhere. Socializing. Networking. Committeeing.
But here he was. Olive heard steps as he walked inside, then him stopping at the entrance of the bedroom, and . . .
She couldn’t convince her eyes to meet his. She was a mess after all, a miserable, disastrous mess. But she should at least attempt to divert Adam’s attention. Maybe by saying something. Anything.
“Hey.” She tried a smile, but continued to stare down at her own hands. “How did your address go?”
“What happened?” His voice was calm, pitched low.
“Did you only just finish?” Her smile was holding. Good. Good, that was good. “How was the Q and A—”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I . . .”
She didn’t manage to finish the sentence. And the smile—which, if she was honest with herself, hadn’t been much of a smile to begin with—was crumbling. Olive heard Adam come closer but didn’t look at him. Her closed eyelids were all that was keeping the floodgates shut, and they weren’t doing a good job of it, either.
She startled when she found him kneeling in front of her. Right by her chair, his head level with hers, studying her with a worried frown. She made to hide her face in her palms, but his hand came up to her chin and lifted it up, until she had no choice but to meet his eyes. Then his fingers slid up to her cheek, cupping it as he asked, yet again, “Olive. What happened?”
“Nothing.” Her voice shook. It kept disappearing somewhere, melting in the tears.
“Olive.”
“Really. Nothing.”
Adam stared at her, questioning, and didn’t let go. “Did someone buy the last bag of chips?”
A laugh bubbled out of her, wet and not wholly under her control. “Yes. Was it you?”
“Of course.” His thumb swiped across her cheekbone, stopping a falling tear. “I bought all of them.”
This smile felt better than the one she’d cobbled together earlier. “I hope you have good health insurance, because you’re so getting type 2 diabetes.”