She laughed. “So is Malcolm. He dates a lot, and he’s usually good at managing expectations, but this thing with Holden—I had a sandwich for lunch and he randomly volunteered that Holden is allergic to peanuts. It wasn’t even PB and J!”
“He’s not allergic, he fakes it because he doesn’t like nuts.” He massaged his temple. “This morning I woke up to a haiku about Malcolm’s elbows. Holden had texted it at three a.m.”
“Was it good?”
He lifted one eyebrow, and she laughed again.
“They are . . .”
“The worst.” Adam shook his head. “But I think Holden might need it. Someone to care about, who also cares about him.”
“Malcolm, too. I’m just . . . concerned that he might want more than Holden is willing to offer?”
“Believe me, Holden is very ready to file taxes jointly.”
“Good. I’m glad.” She smiled. And then felt her smile fade, just as quickly. “One-sided relationships are really . . . not good.” I would know. And maybe you would, too.
He studied his own palm, undoubtedly thinking about the woman Holden had mentioned. “No. No, they’re not.”
It was a weird kind of ache, the jealousy. Confusing, unfamiliar, not something she was used to. Half cutting, half disorienting and aimless, so different from the loneliness she’d felt since she was fifteen. Olive missed her mother every day, but with time she’d been able to harness her pain and turn it into motivation for her work. Into purpose. Jealousy, though . . . the misery of it didn’t come with any gain. Only restless thoughts, and something squeezing at her chest whenever her mind turned to Adam.
“I need to ask you something,” he said. The seriousness of his tone made her look up.
“Sure.”
“The people you overheard at the conference yesterday . . .”
She stiffened. “I’d rather not—”
“I won’t force you to do anything. But whoever they were, I want . . . I think you should consider filing a complaint.”
Oh God. God. Was this some cruel joke? “You really like complaints, don’t you?” She laughed once, a weak attempt at humor.
“I’m serious, Olive. And if you decide you want to do it, I’ll help you however I can. I could come with you and talk with SBD’s organizers, or we could go through Stanford’s Title IX office—”
“No. I . . . Adam, no. I’m not going to file a complaint.” She rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers, feeling as though this was one giant, painful prank. Except that Adam had no idea. He actually wanted to protect her, when all Olive wanted was . . . to protect him. “I’ve already decided. It would do more harm than good.”
“I know why you think that. I felt the same during grad school, with my mentor. We all did. But there are ways to do it. Whoever this person is, they—”
“Adam, I—” She ran one hand down her face. “I need you to drop this. Please.”
He studied her, silent for several minutes, and then nodded. “Okay. Of course.” He pushed away from the wall and straightened, clearly unhappy to let the subject go but making an effort to do so. “Would you like to go to dinner? There’s a Mexican restaurant nearby. Or sushi—real sushi. And a movie theater. Maybe there are one or two movies playing in which horses don’t die.”
“I’m not . . . I’m not hungry, actually.”
“Oh.” His expression was teasing. Gentle. “I didn’t know that was possible.”
“Me neither.” She chuckled weakly, and then forced herself to continue. “Today is September twenty-ninth.”