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It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when she was sitting on her bed staring at the Boston skyline and chewing on her lunch, that Olive realized that the protein bar Adam had given her was covered in chocolate.
* * *
—
SHE CHECKED WHETHER she had the correct room for the third time—nothing like talking about pancreatic cancer to a crowd that expected a presentation on the Golgi apparatus to make an impression—and then felt a hand close around her should
er. She spun around, noticed who it belonged to, and immediately grinned.
“Tom!”
He was wearing a charcoal suit. His blond hair was combed back, making him look older than he had in California, but also professional. He was a friendly face in a sea of unfamiliar ones, and his presence took the edge off her intense desire to puke in her own shoe.
“Hey, Olive.” He held the door open for her. “I thought I might see you here.”
“Oh?”
“From the conference program.” He looked at her oddly. “You didn’t notice we’re on the same panel?”
Oh, crap. “Uh—I . . . I didn’t even read who else was on the panel.” Because I was too busy panicking.
“No worries. It’s mostly boring people.” He winked, and his hand slid to her back, guiding her toward the podium. “Except for you and me, of course.”
Her talk didn’t go poorly.
It didn’t go perfectly, either. She stumbled on the word “channelrhodopsin” twice, and by some weird trick of the projector her staining looked more like a black blob than a slice. “It looks different on my computer,” Olive told the audience with a strained smile. “Just trust me on this one.”
People chuckled, and she relaxed marginally, grateful that she’d spent hours upon hours memorizing everything she was supposed to say. The room was not as full as she’d feared, and there were a handful of people—likely working on similar projects at other institutions—who took notes and listened raptly to her every word. It should have been overwhelming and anxiety inducing, but about halfway through she realized that it made her oddly giddy, knowing that someone else was passionate about the same research questions that had taken up most of the past two years of her life.
In the second row, Malcolm faked a fascinated expression, while Anh, Jeremy, and a bunch of other grads from Stanford nodded enthusiastically whenever Olive happened to look in their direction. Tom alternated between staring intensely at her and checking his phone with a bored expression—fair, since he’d already read her report. The session was running late, and the moderator ended up giving her time for only one question—an easy one. At the end, two of the other panelists—well-known cancer researchers whom Olive had to restrain herself not to fangirl over—shook her hand and asked her several questions about her work. She was simultaneously flustered and overjoyed.
“You were so amazing,” Anh told her when it was over, pushing up to hug her. “Also, you look hot and professional, and while you were talking, I had a vision of your future in academia.”
Olive wrapped her arms around Anh. “What vision?”
“You were a high-powered researcher, surrounded by students who hung on your every word. And you were answering a multiparagraph email with an uncapitalized no.”
“Nice. Was I happy?”
“Of course not.” Anh snorted. “It’s academia.”
“Ladies, the department social starts in half an hour.” Malcolm leaned in to kiss Olive on the cheek and squeeze her waist. When she was wearing heels, he was just a tiny bit shorter than her. She definitely wanted a picture of the two of them side by side. “We should go celebrate the single time Olive managed to pronounce ‘channelrhodopsin’ right with some free booze.”
“You dick.”
He pulled her in for a tight hug and whispered in her ear, “You did amazing, Kalamata.” And then, louder: “Let’s go get wasted!”
“Why don’t you guys go ahead? I’ll get my USB and put my stuff back in the hotel.”
Olive made her way through the now-empty room to the podium, feeling like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She was relaxed and relieved. Professionally, things were starting to look up: as it turned out, with adequate preparation she could actually string together several coherent sentences in front of other scientists. She also had the means to carry out her research next year, and two big names in her field had just complimented her work. She smiled, letting her mind wander to whether she should text Adam to tell him that he was right, she did make it out alive; she should probably ask how his keynote address had gone, too. If his PowerPoint had acted up and he’d mispronounced words like “microarrays” or “karyotyping,” whether he planned to go to the department social. He was probably meeting up with friends, but maybe she could buy him a thank-you drink for all his help. She would even pay, for once.
“It went well,” someone said.
Olive turned to find Tom standing behind her, arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the table. He looked as though he’d been staring at her for a while. “Thank you. Yours, too.” His talk had been a more condensed repeat of the one he’d given at Stanford, and Olive had to admit that she’d spaced out a bit.
“Where’s Adam?” he asked.
“Still giving his keynote, I think.”
