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“What does it say?”
“?‘It’s never too late to tell the truth.’?” She shrugged, and turned to throw away the plastic wrapper. At the last moment, she decided to keep the strip of paper and slip it inside her jeans’ back pocket.
“Adam, open yours.”
“Nah.”
“Come on.”
“I’m not going to eat a piece of cardboard because it hurt your feelings.”
“You’re a shit friend.”
“According to the fortune cookie industry, you’re a shit boyfriend, so—”
“Give it here,” Olive interjected, plucking the cookie out of Adam’s hand. “I’ll eat it. And read it.”
The parking lot was completely empty, save for Adam’s and Malcolm’s cars. Holden had ridden from the airport with Adam, but he and Malcolm were planning to spend the night at Holden’s apartment to walk Fleming, his dog.
“Adam’s giving you a ride, right, Ol?”
“No need. It’s less than a ten-minute walk home.”
“But what about your suitcase?”
“It’s not heavy, and I—” She stopped abruptly, worried her lip for a second while she contemplated the possibilities, and then felt herself smile, at once tentative and purposeful. “Actually, Adam will walk me home. Right?”
He was silent and inscrutable for a moment. Then he calmly said, “Of course,” slipped his keys in the pocket of his jeans, and slid the strap of Olive’s duffel bag over his shoulder.
“Where do you live?” he asked when Holden was not within earshot anymore.
She pointed silently. “You sure you want to carry my bag? I heard it’s easy to throw out your back, once you reach a certain age.”
He glared at her, and Olive laughed, falling into step with him as they headed out of the parking lot. The street was silent, except for the soles of her Converse catching on the wet concrete and Malcolm’s car passing them by a few seconds later.
“Hey,” Holden asked from the passenger window. “What did Adam’s fortune cookie say?”
“Mmm.” Olive made a show to look at the strip. “Not much. Just ‘Holden Rodrigues, Ph.D., is a loser.’?” Malcolm sped up just as Holden flipped her off, making her burst into laughter.
“What does it really say?” Adam asked when they were finally alone.
Olive handed him the crumpled paper and remained silent as he angled it to read it in the lamplight. She wasn’t surprised when she saw a muscle jump in his jaw, or when he slid the fortune into the pocket of his jeans. She knew what it said, after all.
You can fall in love: someone will catch you.
“Can we talk about Tom?” she asked, sidestepping a puddle. “We don’t have to, but if we can . . .”
“We can. We should.” She saw his throat work. “Harvard’s going to fire him, of course. Other disciplinary measures are still being decided—there were meetings until very late last night.” He gave her a quick glance. “That’s why I didn’t call you earlier. Harvard’s Title IX coordinator should be in touch with you soon.”
Good. “What about your grant?”
His jaw clenched. “I’m not sure. I’ll figure something out—or not. I don’t particularly care at the moment.”
It surprised her. And then it didn’t, not when she considered that the professional implications of Tom’s betrayal couldn’t have cut as deeply as the personal ones. “I’m sorry, Adam. I know he was your friend—”
“He wasn’t.” Adam abruptly stopped in the middle of the street. He turned to her, his eyes a clear, deep brown. “I had no idea, Olive. I thought I knew him, but . . .” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I should never have trusted him with you. I’m sorry.”
He said it—“with you”—like Olive was something special, uniquely precious to him. His most beloved treasure. It made her want to shiver, and laugh, and weep at the same time. It made her happy and confused.
