He hadn’t been the one wearing expired contacts, after all.
Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Listen, Olive,” he said earnestly, “I need you to consider something: What if Adam likes you, too? What if he wants something more?”
She laughed. “There is no way.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because he’s him. He’s Adam Carlsen, and I . . .” She trailed off. No need to continue. And I’m me. I am nothing special.
Malcolm was quiet for a long moment. “You have no idea, do you?” His tone was sad. “You’re great. You’re beautiful, and loving. You’re independent, and a genius scientist, and selfless, and loyal—hell, Ol, look at this ridiculous mess you created just so your friend could date the guy she likes without feeling guilty. There’s no way Carlsen hasn’t noticed.”
“No.” She was resolute. “Don’t get me wrong, I do think he likes me, but he thinks of me as a friend. And if I tell him and he doesn’t want to . . .”
“To what? Doesn’t want to fake-date you anymore? It’s not like you have much to lose.”
Maybe not. Maybe all the talking, and those looks Adam gave her, and him shaking his head when she ordered extra whipped cream; the way he let himself be teased out of his moods; the texts; how he seemed to be so at ease with her, so noticeably different from the Adam Carlsen she used to be half-scared of—maybe all of that was not much. But she and Adam were friends now, and they could remain friends even past September twenty-ninth. Olive’s heart sank at the thought of giving up the possibility of it. “I do, though.”
Malcolm sighed, once again enveloping her hand with his. “You have it bad, then.”
She pressed her lips together, blinking rapidly to push back the tears. “Maybe I do. I don’t know—I’ve never had it before. I’ve never wanted to have it.”
He smiled reassuringly, even though Olive felt anything but reassured. “Listen, I know it’s scary. But this is not necessarily a bad thing.”
One single tear was making its way down Olive’s cheek. She hastened to clean it with her sleeve. “It’s the worst.”
“You’ve finally found someone you’re into. And okay, it’s Carlsen, but this could still turn out to be great.”
“It couldn’t. It can’t.”
“Ol, I know where you’re coming from. I get it.” Malcolm’s hand tightened on hers. “I know it’s scary, being vulnerable, but you can allow yourself to care. You can want to be with people as more than just friends or casual acquaintances.”
“But I can’t.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Because all the people I’ve cared about are gone,” she snapped.
Somewhere in the coffee shop, the barista called for a caramel macchiato. Olive immediately regretted her harsh words.
“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . it’s the way it works. My mom. My grandparents. My father—one way or another, everyone is gone. If I let myself care, Adam will go, too.” There. She’d put it into words, said it out loud, and it sounded all the truer because of it.
Malcolm exhaled. “Oh, Ol.” He was one of the few people to whom Olive had opened up about her fears—the constant feeling of not belonging, the never-ending suspicions that since so much of her life had been spent alone, then it would end the same way. That she’d never be worthy of someone caring for her. His knowing expression, a combination of sorrow and understanding and pity, was unbearable to watch. She looked elsewhere—at the laughing students, at the coffee cup lids stacked next to the counter, at the stickers on a girl’s MacBook—and slid her hand away from under his palm.