“Oh, cool. Me too.” Jeremy smiled, pointing in the direction of his lab. “I need to go isolate a bunch of virgin fruit flies. Before they’re not virgins anymore, you know?” He wiggled his eyebrows, and Olive had to force out a small, unconvincing laugh. She usually enjoyed his sense of humor. Usually. Now she just wished . . . She wasn’t sure what she wished. “You coming with, Ol?”
No, I’m fine right here, actually. “Sure.” Reluctantly, she stood. Adam did the same, gathering their wrappers and his empty bottle and sorting them in the recycling bins.
“Have a good night, Dr. Carlsen,” Jeremy said from the entrance. Adam just nodded at him, a touch curtly. The set of his eyes was yet again impossible to decipher.
I guess that’s it, then, she thought. Where the weight in her chest had come from, she had no clue. She was probably just tired. Had eaten too much, or not enough.
“See you, Adam. Right?” she murmured before he could head for the entrance and leave the room. Her voice was pitched low enough that Jeremy couldn’t possibly have heard her. Maybe Adam hadn’t, either. Except that he paused for a moment. And then, when he walked past her, she had the impression of knuckles brushing against the back of her hand.
“Good night, Olive.”
Chapter Nine
HYPOTHESIS: The more I mention an attachment in an email, the less likely I will be to actually include said attachment.
SATURDAY, 6:34 p.m.
FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] SUBJECT: Re: Report on Pancreatic Cancer Study Hi Tom,
Here is the report you asked for, with a detailed description of what I have done so far, as well as my thoughts on future directions and the resources I will need to expand. I’m excited to hear your thoughts on my work!
Sincerely,
Olive
SATURDAY, 6:35 p.m.
FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] SUBJECT: Re: Report on Pancreatic Cancer Study Hi Tom,
Oops, forgot the attachment.
Sincerely,
Olive
Today, 3:20 p.m.
FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] SUBJECT: Re: Report on Pancreatic Cancer Study Olive,
Done reading the report. Do you think you could come over to Adam’s to chat about it? Maybe tomorrow morning （Tue） at nine? Adam and I will be leaving for Boston on Wed afternoon.
TB
Olive’s heart beat faster—whether at the idea of being in Adam’s home or at the thought of getting her answer from Tom, she wasn’t sure. She immediately texted Adam.
Olive: Tom just invited me to your place to talk about the report I sent him. Would it be okay if I came over?
Adam: Of course. When?
Olive: Tomorrow at 9 a.m. Will you be home?
Adam: Probably. There are no bike lanes to my house. Do you need a ride? I can pick you up.
She thought about it for a few moments and decided that she liked the idea a little too much.
Olive: My roommate can drive me, but thanks for offering.
* * *
—
MALCOLM DROPPED HER off in front of a beautiful Spanish colonial house with stucco walls and arched windows and refused to back out of the driveway until Olive agreed to slide a can of pepper spray in her backpack. She walked over the brick-tile path and up to the entrance, marveling at the green of the yard and at the cozy atmosphere of the porch. She was about to ring the doorbell when she heard her name.
Adam was behind her, bathed in sweat and clearly just back from his morning run. He was wearing sunglasses, shorts, and a Princeton Undergrad Mathletes T-shirt that stuck to his chest. Out of the ensemble, the only nonblack items were the AirPods in his ears, peeking through the damp waves of his hair. She felt her cheeks curve into a smile, trying to imagine what he was listening to. Probably Coil, or Kraftwerk. The Velvet Underground. A TED Talk on water-efficient landscaping. Whale noises.