“I know.” He nodded, and . . . he didn’t even look surprised. It was as though it had never occurred to him that Olive might have been interested in him. It made her want to cry—a frequent state on this stupid morning—but instead of doing that, she just vomited out another lie.
“I just . . . I have a thing. For a guy.”
He nodded again, this time slowly. His eyes darkened, and the corner of his jaw twitched, just for a moment. She blinked, and his expression was blank again. “Yeah. I gathered that.”
“This guy, he’s . . .” She swallowed. What was he? Quick, Olive, quick. An immunologist? Icelandic? A giraffe? What was he?
“You don’t have to explain if you don’t want.” Adam’s voice seemed slightly offbeat, but also comforting. Tired. Olive realized that she was wringing her hands, and instead of stopping she simply hid them under the table.
“I . . . It’s just that . . .”
“It’s okay.” He offered her a reassuring smile, and Olive—she couldn’t possibly look at him. Not a second longer. She averted her eyes, desperately wishing she had something to say. Something to fix this. Right outside the café’s window, a group of undergrads were huddling together in front of a laptop, laughing at something playing on the screen. A gust of wind scattered a stack of notes, and a boy scrambled to retrieve them. In the distance, Dr. Rodrigues was walking in the direction of Starbucks.
“This . . . our arrangement.” Adam’s voice pulled her back inside. To the lies and the table between them; to the gentle, soft way he was talking to her. Kind, he’d been so kind.
Adam. I used to think the worst of you, and now . . .
“It’s supposed to help both of us. If it stops doing so . . .”
“No.” Olive shook her head. “No. I . . .” She forced her face into a smile. “It’s complicated.”
“I see.”
She opened her mouth to say that no, he couldn’t possibly see. He couldn’t possibly see anything, because Olive had just made all of this up. This clusterfuck of a situation. “I don’t—” She wet her lips. “There is no need to stop our arrangement early, because I can’t tell him that I like him. Because I—”
“Dude.” A hand clapped on Adam’s shoulder. “Since when are you not in your offi— Oh. I see.” Dr. Rodrigues’s gaze slid from Adam to Olive and settled on her. For a second, he just stood by the table and took her in, surprised to find her there. Then his mouth widened into a slow grin. “Hey, Olive.”
During Olive’s first year of grad school, Dr. Rodrigues had been on her preassigned graduate advisory committee—an admittedly odd choice, given his relative lack of relevance to her research. And yet, Olive had mostly pleasant memories of her interactions with him. When she’d stammered her way through her committee meetings, he’d always been the first to smile at her, and once he’d even complimented her Star Wars T-shirt—and then proceeded to hum the Darth Vader theme under his breath every time Dr. Moss would start one of her rants against Olive’s methods.
“Hey, Dr. Rodrigues.” She was positive that her smile was not nearly as convincing as it should have been. “How are you?”
He waved a hand. “Pssh. Please, call me Holden. You’re not my student anymore.” He patted Adam on the back with relish. “And you have the very dubious pleasure of dating my oldest, most socially impaired friend.”
It was all Olive could do not to let her jaw drop. They were friends? Charming, devil-may-care Holden Rodrigues and surly, taciturn Adam Carlsen were old friends? Was this something she was supposed to know? Adam’s girlfriend would have known, right?
Dr. Rodrigues—Holden? God, Holden. She was never going to get used to the fact that professors were real people and had first names—turned to Adam, who appeared untroubled by having been decreed socially impaired.