Ali Hazelwood

“I’m going to kill you,” he gritted out, little more than a growl. “If you say another word about the woman I love, if you look at her, if you even think about her—I’m going to fucking kill you.

“You’re not going to slow down your pace to match mine, are you?”

“Of course I am.”

She sighed, slumping against the tiled wall. “It’s my contacts. They expired some time ago, and they were never that great to begin with. They messed up my eyes. I’ve taken them off, but . . .” She shrugged. Hopefully in his direction. “It takes a while, before they get better.”

“You put in expired contacts?” He sounded personally offended.

the dubious privilege of slaughtering fruit flies in the name of science for ninety cents an hour.

I . . . maybe. I must say, the line between excellent career choice and critical life screwup is getting a bit blurry.”

have no idea if you’re good enough, he’d told her. What matters is whether your reason to be in academia is good enough.

“It will be fine, Olive.” His smile softened. “And if not, at least it will be over.

“It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is that you’re crying about, I will fix it. I will make it right. I—”

Adam: My arm hurts.

She initially thought that he was giving her a reason why they couldn’t meet up. Then she remembered waking up and rubbing her own achy arm.

Olive: From the flu shot?

Adam: It’s really painful.

She giggled. She truly had not thought she was the type to, but here she was, covering her mouth with her hand and . . . yes, giggling like a fool in the middle of the lab. Her mouse was staring up at her, its tiny red eyes a mix of judgment and surprise. Olive hastily turned away and looked back at her phone.

Olive: Oh, Adam. I’m so sorry.

Olive: Should I come over and kiss it better?

Adam: You never said it would hurt so bad.

Olive: As someone once told me, it’s not my job to work on your emotion regulation skills.

Adam’s answer was one single emoji (a yellow hand with a raised middle finger), and Olive’s cheeks pulled with how hard she was grinning. She was about to reply with a kiss emoji when a voice interrupted her.

“Gross.”

She looked up from her phone. Anh stood in the lab’s entrance, sticking out her tongue.

“Hey. What are you doing here?”

“Borrowing gloves. And being grossed out.”

Olive frowned. “Why?”

No, why are you grossed out?”

Anh made a face and plucked two purple gloves from Olive’s stash. “Because of how in love you are with Carlsen. Is it okay if I take a few pairs?”

“What are you—” Olive blinked at her, still clutching her phone. Was Anh going crazy? “I’m not in love with him.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Anh finished stuffing her pockets with gloves and then looked up, finally noticing Olive’s distressed expression. Her eyes widened. “Hey, I was kidding! You’re not gross. I probably look the same when I’m texting Jeremy. And it’s actually very sweet, how gone you are for him—”

“But I’m not. Gone.” Olive was starting to panic. “I don’t—It’s just—”

Anh pressed her lips together, as if biting back a smile. “Okay. If you say so.”

“No, I’m serious. We’re just—”

“Dude, it’s okay.” Anh’s tone was reassuring and a little emotional. “It’s just, you’re so amazing. And special. And honestly, my favorite person in the whole world. But sometimes I get worried that no one but Malcolm and me will ever get to experience how incredible you are. Well, until now. Now I’m not worried anymore, because I’ve seen you and Adam together, at the picnic. And in the parking lot. And . . . every other time, really. You’re both crazy in love, and over the moon about it. It’s cute! Except that first night,” she added, pensive. “I maintain that was pretty awkward.”

Olive stiffened. “Anh, it’s not like that. We’re just . . . dating. Casually. Hanging out. Getting to know each other. We’re not . . .”