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“Have you and Jack been together for a while?” Olive asks, and I look up at her. I can tell that the Elsie she wants would say yes. That she loves Jack very much and likes the thought of someone who’ll take care of him. But.
Honesty.
For a second, I picture myself blurting out the entire story: how I fake-datedGreg, then metJack, then metJonathan. But I doubt Olive is familiar with the concept of fake dating, so I sanitize my version. “This is the first time, actually.”
It feels weird to say the opposite of what someone wants. And it feels downright horrible when Olive’s response is a disappointed “Oh.”
I swallow. “I’m sorry—”
“No, no.” She smiles, reassuring. “I’msorry about earlier. Asking if you’re getting married.”
I shake my head. “We’re just... getting to know each other.”
“That’s great. It’s nice to hear that he’s over his I Don’t Date, Let Me Set Boundaries and Make It Clear That This Is Just About Sex phase.” Her impression of Jack sounds more like Vin Diesel, but it has me thinking: I have no idea what Jack wants from me. Olive is the second person to mention how important boundaries are to him. He hasn’t set any, but he also said that he was attracted to me, and...
If what Jack wanted from me was sex... what then?
Honestly, no clue. I don’t have much experience. Not because I ever bought into the idea that sex is something precious, but because it felt like a means to an end, a way to ensure that the person I was with was pleased with me. Sex never happened because of any attractionIexperienced, but that’s okay: maybe I nevercravedit, but I also never minded it. Because it wasn’tfor me.
With Jack, though... something’s different. Perhaps because he sees more of me than anyone ever has. I find myself thinking about last Sunday by the car, over and over. Tethered on the edge of a kiss that might not come, tense, heated, spellbound.
There might be something here. Or it might be nothing. What’s certain is that I’m more curious than ever. If something were to happen, it would befor me.
“Did you guys meet at work?” Olive asks.
“Kind of. I’m a physicist, too. Though I’m an adjunct.”
“Ouch.”
I laugh. “Yeah.”
“You like teaching?”
“Nope. Lots of high-def pictures of butt rashes that are too deadly for people to come to class. Sifting through those doesn’t leave time for research.”
She laughs, too. “I bet. I did not like TA’ing. It’s nice being a postdoc—none of the bullshit of being a grad student, none of the responsibility of being a faculty member. Just research.”
“Sounds like a dream.”
She gives me a surprised look. “You didn’t do a postdoc?”
“There weren’t any positions. But my Ph.D. advisor says it’s for the best. I’ll move to a faculty position earlier.”
“But do youwantto move to faculty earlier?”
“It’s... complicated. But I trust him. I owe him a lot, so...” I sigh.
Olive scans my face, large eyes assessing, and then says, “In my experience, we all want to trust our mentors, but they don’t always have our best interests in mind.”
“In what way?”
“Just...” She chews on her lower lip, pensive. “Academia is so hierarchical, you know? There are all these people who have power over you, who are supposed to guide you and help you become the best possible scientist, but... sometimes they don’t know what’s best. Sometimes they don’t care. Sometimes they have their own agenda.” Her expression darkens. “Sometimes they’re total shitbuckets who deserve to step on a pitchfork and die.”
I wonder what happened to her. I even open my mouth to ask, but Adam turns to us, as if feeling the shift in her mood. “Olive, do you have pictures of the tux Holden bought for his wedding? Jack won’t believe it’s sequined.”
Olive brightens. “It’stotallysequined, and it’samazing.”
We end up chatting, first the four of us and then others, too, for what feels like minutes but turns out to be hours. While Andrea is telling the story of how her advisor showed up completely sloshed at her thesis defense and started offering digestive cookies to the rest of the committee, the cushion next to mine dips and I hear, “Everything okay?”
