Page 87 - The Love Hypothesis
P. 87

public, and . . . that was not something she enjoyed or excelled at. It made

                her feel panicky and judged, as though pinned to a microscope slide, and
                her ability to produce syntactically coherent sentences invariably leaked out
                of her brain.

                    Like right now. Olive felt her cheeks heat and her tongue tie and—
                    “What kind of question is that?” Adam interjected.

                    When she glanced at him, he was scowling at Tom, who just shrugged.
                    “What’s cool about your project?” Adam repeated back.

                    “Yeah. Cool. You know what I mean.”
                    “I don’t think I do, and maybe neither does Olive.”

                    Tom huffed. “Fine, what would you ask?”
                    Adam  turned  to  Olive.  His  knee  brushed  her  leg,  warm  and  oddly
                reassuring through her jeans. “What issues does your project target? Why

                do you think it’s significant? What gaps in the literature does it fill? What
                techniques are you using? What challenges do you foresee?”

                    Tom  huffed.  “Right,  sure.  Consider  all  those  long,  boring  questions
                asked, Olive.”

                    She  glanced  at  Adam,  finding  that  he  was  studying  her  with  a  calm,
                encouraging expression. The way he’d formulated the questions helped her

                reorganize  her  thoughts,  and  realizing  that  she  had  answers  for  each  one
                melted most of her panic. It probably hadn’t been intentional on Adam’s
                part, but he’d done her a solid.

                    Olive was reminded of that guy from the bathroom, from years ago. I
                have no idea if you’re good enough, he’d told her. What matters is whether

                your  reason  to  be  in  academia  is  good  enough.  He’d  said  that  Olive’s
                reason was the best one, and therefore, she could do this. She needed to do

                this.
                    “Okay,”  she  started  again  after  a  deep  breath,  gathering  what  she’d

                rehearsed  the  previous  night  with  Malcolm.  “Here’s  the  deal.  Pancreatic
                cancer is very aggressive and deadly. It has very poor prognosis, with only
                one out of four people alive a year after diagnosis.” Her voice, she thought,

                sounded less breathy and more self-assured. Good. “The problem is that it’s
                so hard to detect, we are only able to diagnose it very late in the game. At
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