She left with a wave of her hand, and Olive stood frozen, watching the doorframe long past the moment Anh had disappeared. Then she lowered her gaze to the floor, slumped on the stool behind her, and thought one single thing:
Shit.
* * *
—
IT WASN’T THE end of the world. These things happened. Even the best of people developed crushes—Anh had said love, oh God, she had said love—on the person they were fake-dating. It didn’t mean anything.
Except that: Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Olive locked the door of her office behind her and plopped herself into a chair, hoping today wouldn’t be the one time in the semester that her office mates decided to show up before 10:00 a.m.
It was all her fault. Her stupid doing. She had known, she had known, that she’d begun to find Adam attractive. She had known almost from the very beginning, and then she’d started talking with him, she’d started getting to know him even though it was never part of the plan, and—damn him to hell for being so different from what she’d expected. For making her want to be with him more and more. Damn him. It had been there, staring at Olive for the past few days, and she hadn’t noticed. Because she was an idiot.
She stood abruptly and dug into her pocket for her phone, pulling up Malcolm’s contact.
Olive: We have to meet.
Bless Malcolm, because it took him fewer than five seconds to answer.
Malcolm: Lunch? I’m about to dig into the neuromuscular junction of a juvenile rat.
Olive: I need to talk to you NOW.
Olive: Please.
Malcolm: Starbucks. In 10.
* * *
—
“I TOLD YOU so.”
Olive didn’t bother lifting her forehead from the table. “You didn’t.”
“Well, maybe I didn’t say, ‘Hey, don’t do this fake-dating shit because you’re going to fall for Carlsen,’ but I did say that the whole idea was idiotic and a car wreck waiting to happen—which I believe encompasses the current situation.”
Malcolm was sitting across from her, by the window of the crowded coffee shop. Around them students chatted, laughed, ordered drinks—rudely unaware of the sudden maelstrom in Olive’s life. She pushed up from the cold surface of the table and pressed her palms into her eyes, not quite ready to open them yet. She might never be ready again. “How could this happen? I am not like this. This is not me. How could I—and Adam Carlsen, of everyone. Who is into Adam Carlsen?”
Malcolm snorted. “Everyone, Ol. He’s a tall, broody, sullen hunk with a genius IQ. Everyone likes tall, broody, sullen hunks with genius IQs.”
“I don’t!”
“Clearly you do.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered. “He’s really not that sullen.”
“Oh, he is. Just, you don’t notice, because you’re halfway gone for him.”
“I am not—” She smacked her forehead. Repeatedly. “Shit.”
He leaned forward and grabbed her hand, his skin dark and warm against hers. “Hey,” he told her, voice pitched to a comforting tone. “Settle down. We’ll figure it out.” He even tacked on a smile. Olive loved him so much in that moment, even with all the I told you sos. “First of all, how bad is it?”
“I don’t know. Is there a scale?”
“Well, there is liking, and there is liking.”
She shook her head, feeling utterly lost. “I just like him. I want to spend time with him.”