Olive stopped pacing. “Uh?”
“Won’t your friends feel bad about dating if they think we’re not together? Or that you lied to them?”
She hadn’t thought of that. “I— Maybe. Maybe, but—”
It was true that Anh had seemed happy. Maybe she had already invited Jeremy to accompany her to that movie festival—possibly right after telling him about Olive and Carlsen, damn her. But this was exactly what Olive had wanted.
“Are you going to tell her the truth?”
She let out a panicked sound. “I can’t. Not now.” God, why did Olive ever agree to date Jeremy? She wasn’t even into him. Yes, the Irish accent and the ginger hair were cute, but not worth any of this. “Maybe we can tell people that I broke up with you?”
“That’s very flattering,” Dr. Carlsen deadpanned. She couldn’t quite figure out if he was joking.
“Fine. We can say that you broke up with me.”
“Because that sounds credible,” he said drily, almost below his breath. She was not sure she’d heard him correctly and had no idea what he might mean, but she was starting to feel very upset. Fine, she had been the one to kiss him first—God, she’d kissed Adam Carlsen; this was her life; these were her choices—but his actions in the break room the day before surely hadn’t helped matters. He could at least display some concern. There was no way he was okay with everyone believing that he was attracted to some random girl with one point five publications—yes, that paper she had revised and resubmitted three weeks ago counted as half.
“What if we tell people that it was a mutual breakup?”
He nodded. “Sounds good.”
Olive perked up. “Really? Great, then! We’ll—”
“We could ask Cherie to add it to the departmental newsletter.”
“What?”
“Or do you think a public announcement before seminar would be better?”
“No. No, it’s—”
“Maybe we should ask IT to put it on the Stanford home page. That way people would know—”
“Okay, okay, fine! I get it.”
He looked at her evenly for a moment, and when he spoke, his tone was reasonable in a way she would never have expected of Adam “Ass” Carlsen. “If what bothers you is that people are talking about you dating a professor, the damage is done, I’m afraid. Telling everyone that we broke up is not going to undo the fact that they think we dated.”
Olive’s shoulders slumped. She hated that he was right. “Okay, then. If you have any ideas on how to fix this mess, by all means I am open to—”
“You could let them go on thinking it.”
For a moment, she thought she hadn’t heard him correctly. “W-What?”
“You can let people go on thinking that we’re dating. It solves your problem with your friend and what’s-his-face, and you don’t have much to lose, since it sounds like from a . . . reputation standpoint”—he said the word “reputation” rolling his eyes a little, as if the concept of caring about what others thought were the dumbest thing since homeopathic antibiotics—“things cannot get any worse for you.”
This was . . . Out of everything . . . In her life, Olive had never, she had never . . .
“What?” she asked again, feebly.
He shrugged. “Seems like a win-win to me.”
It so did not, to Olive. It seemed like a lose-lose, and then lose again, and then lose some more, type of situation. It seemed insane.