“Did what?”
“Force you to talk about your personal life.”
“Oh.” Olive looked away, toward the blue glow of the vending machine. “It’s okay. It’s been a while.” She was surprised to hear herself continue. To feel herself wanting to continue. “Since high school, really.”
“That’s . . . young.” There was something about his tone, maybe the evenness, maybe the lack of overt sympathy, that she found reassuring.
“I was fifteen. One day my mom and I were there, just . . . I don’t even know. Kayaking. Thinking about getting a cat. Arguing over the way I’d pile stuff on top of the trash can when it was overflowing and I didn’t want to take it out. And next thing I knew she had her diagnosis, and three weeks later she’d already—” She couldn’t say it. Her lips, her vocal folds, her heart, they just wouldn’t form the words. So she swallowed them. “The child welfare system couldn’t figure out where to send me until I became of age.”
“Your dad?”
She shook her head. “Never in the picture. He’s an asshole, according to my mom.” She laughed softly. “The never-takes-out-the-trash gene clearly came from his side of the family. And my grandparents had died when I was a kid, because apparently that’s what people around me do.” She tried to say it jokingly, she really tried. To not sound bitter. She thought she even succeeded. “I was just . . . alone.”
“What did you do?”
“Foster home until sixteen, then I emancipated.” She shrugged, hoping to brush off the memory. “If only they’d caught it earlier, even just by a few months—maybe she’d be here. Maybe surgery and chemo would have actually done something. And I . . . I was always good at science stuff, so I thought that the least I could do was . . .”
Adam dug into his pockets for a few moments and held out a crumpled paper napkin. Olive stared at it, confused, until she realized that her cheeks had somehow grown wet.
Oh.
“Adam, did you just offer me a used tissue?”
“I . . . maybe.” He pressed his lips together. “I panicked.”
She chuckled wetly, accepting his gross tissue and using it to blow her nose. They’d kissed twice, after all. Why not share a bit of snot? “I’m sorry. I’m usually not like this.”
“Like what?”
“Weepy. I . . . I shouldn’t talk about this.”
“Why?”
“Because.” It was hard to explain, the mix of pain and affection that always resurfaced when she talked about her mother. It was the reason she almost never did it, and the reason she hated cancer so much. Not only had it robbed her of the person she loved the most, but it had also turned the happiest memories of her life into something bittersweet. “It makes me weepy.”
He smiled. “Olive, you can talk about it. And you should let yourself be weepy.”
She had a sense that he really meant it. That she could have talked about her mom for however long she liked, and he would have listened intently to every second of it. She wasn’t sure she was ready for it, though. So she shrugged, changing the topic. “Anyway, now here I am. Loving lab work and barely dealing with the rest—abstracts, conferences, networking. Teaching. Rejected grants.” Olive gestured in Adam’s direction. “Failed dissertation proposals.”
“Is your lab mate still giving you a hard time?”
Olive waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not his favorite person, but it’s fine. He’ll get over it.” She bit into her lip. “I’m sorry about the other night. I was rude. You have every right to be mad.”
Adam shook his head. “It’s okay. I understand where you were coming from.”