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“Adam’s back, too. Especially Adam’s back.” Holden’s expression remained intense for a moment, and then lightened up. “Anyway. Tom only met Adam in grad school. But I was there in his teenage years—that’s when the good stories are from.”
“Oh. You probably shouldn’t tell me. Since . . .” Since he’s faking a relationship with me and surely doesn’t want me in his business. Also, he’s probably in love with someone else.
“Oh, of course. I’ll wait until he’s present. I want to see his face when I tell you everything about his newsboy-cap phase.”
She blinked. “His . . . ?”
He nodded solemnly and stepped out, closing the door behind him and leaving her alone in the chilly, semidark lab. Olive had to take several deep breaths before she could focus on her work.
* * *
—
WHEN SHE RECEIVED the email, she initially thought it must be an error. Maybe she’d misread—she hadn’t been sleeping well, and as it turned out, having an unwanted, unreciprocated crush came with all sorts of scatter-headedness—though after a second look, then a third and a fourth, she realized that wasn’t the case. So maybe the mistake was on the SBD conference’s side. Because there was no way—absolutely no way—that they’d really meant to inform her that the abstract she’d submitted had been selected to be part of a panel.
A panel with faculty.
It was just not possible. Graduate students were rarely selected for oral presentations. Most of the time they just made posters with their findings. Talks were for scholars whose careers were already advanced—except that when Olive logged into the conference website and downloaded the program, her name wa
s there. And out of all the speakers’ names, hers was the only one not followed by any letters. No MD. No Ph.D. No MD-Ph.D.
Crap.
She ran out of the lab clutching her laptop to her chest. Greg gave her a dirty look when she almost crashed into him in the hallway, but she ignored him and stormed inside Dr. Aslan’s office out of breath, her knees suddenly made of jelly.
“Can we talk?” She closed the door without waiting for an answer.
Her adviser looked up from behind her desk with an alarmed expression. “Olive, what is—”
“I don’t want to give a talk. I can’t give a talk.” She shook her head, trying to sound reasonable but only managing panic-stricken and frantic. “I can’t.”
Dr. Aslan cocked her head and steepled her hands. The veneer of calm her adviser projected was usually comforting, but now it made Olive want to flip the nearest piece of furniture.
Calm down. Deep breaths. Use your mindfulness and all that stuff Malcolm’s always yapping his mouth about. “Dr. Aslan, my SBD abstract was accepted as a talk. Not as a poster, a talk. Out loud. On a panel. Standing. In front of people.” Olive’s voice had made its way to a shriek. And yet, for reasons beyond understanding, Dr. Aslan’s face split into a grin.
“This is wonderful news!”
Olive blinked. And then blinked again. “It’s . . . not?”
“Nonsense.” Dr. Aslan stood and walked around her desk, running her hand up and down Olive’s arm in what she clearly intended as a congratulatory gesture. “This is fantastic. A talk will give you much more visibility than a poster. You might be able to network for a postdoctoral position. I am so, so happy for you.”
Olive’s jaw dropped. “But . . .”
“But?”
“I cannot give a talk. I can’t talk.”
“You’re talking right now, Olive.”
“Not in front of people.”
“I am people.”
“You’re not many people. Dr. Aslan, I can’t talk in front of a lot of people. Not about science.”
“Why?”
“Because.” Because my throat will dry up and my brain will shut down and I will be so bad that someone from the audience will take out a crossbow and shoot me in the kneecap. “I’m not ready. To speak. In public.”
