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“Listen. It’s not what you think—”
“Fine. I’ll get them myself.”
To be fair, Malcolm had every right to be mad. And Olive did feel for him. He was one year ahead of her, and the scion of STEM royalty. The product of generations of biologists, geologists, botanists, physicists, and who knows what other -ists mixing their DNA and spawning little science machines. His father was a dean at some state school on the East Coast. His mother had a TED Talk on Purkinje cells with several million views on YouTube. Did Malcolm want to be in a Ph.D. program, headed for an academic career? Probably no. Did he have any other choice, considering the pressure his family had put on him since he was in diapers? Also no.
Not to say that Malcolm was unhappy. His plan was to get his Ph.D., find a nice cushy industry job, and make lots of money working nine-to-five—which technically qualified as “being a scientist,” which in turn was not something his parents would be able to object to. At least, not too strenuously. In the meantime, all he wanted was to have a grad school experience that was as un-traumatizing as possible. Out of everyone in Olive’s program, he was the one who best managed to have a life outside of grad school. He did things that were unimaginable to most grads, like cooking real food! Going for hikes! Meditating! Acting in a play! Dating like it was an Olympic sport! (“It is an Olympic sport, Olive. And I am training for gold.”)
Which was why when Adam forced Malcolm to throw out tons of data and redo half his study, it made for a very, very miserable few months. In retrospect, that might have been when Malcolm started wishing a plague on the Carlsen house (he had been rehearsing for Romeo and Juliet at the time).
“Malcolm, can we please talk about this?”
“We’re talking.”
&nbs
p; “No, you are cooking and I am just standing here, trying to get you to acknowledge that you are mad because Adam—”
Malcolm turned away from his casserole, wagging his finger in Olive’s direction. “Do not say it.”
“Do not say what?”
“You know what.”
“Adam Carl—?”
“Do not say his name.”
She threw her hands up. “This is crazy. It’s fake, Malcolm.”
He went back to chopping the asparagus. “Pass the salt.”
“Are you even listening? It’s not real.”
“And the pepper, and the—”
“The relationship, it’s fake. We’re not really dating. We’re pretending so people will think that we’re dating.”
Malcolm’s hands stopped mid-chop. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Is it a . . . friends-with-benefits arrangement? Because—”
“No. It’s the opposite. There are no benefits. Zero benefits. Zero sex. Zero friends, too.”
He stared at her, narrow-eyed. “To be clear, oral and butt stuff totally counts as sex—”
“Malcolm.”
He took a step closer, grabbing a dishrag to wipe his hands, nostrils flaring. “I’m scared to ask.”
“I know it sounds ridiculous. He’s helping me out by pretending we’re together because I lied to Anh, and I need her to feel okay about dating Jeremy. It’s all fake. Adam and I have talked exactly”—she decided on the spot to omit any information pertinent to The Night—“three times, and I know nothing about him. Except that he’s willing to help me handle this situation, and I jumped at the chance.”
Malcolm was making that face, the one he reserved for people who wore sandals paired with white socks. He could be a little scary, she had to admit.
“This is . . . wow.” There was a vein pulsating on his forehead. “Ol, this is breathtakingly stupid.”
“Maybe.” Yes. Yes, it was. “But it is what it is. And you have to support me in my idiocy, because you and Anh are my best friends.”
