Page 280 - The Love Hypothesis

forgetting to ask how my outreach event went.”

“Shit!” Olive covered her mouth with her hand. “I am so sorry. How did
it go?”
“Perfect.” Anh’s eyes were shiny with happiness. “We had such great

attendance and everyone loved it. We’re thinking of making this a yearly
thing, and formally establishing an organization. Peer-to-peer mentoring!

Hear this: every grad is assigned two undergrads. Once they get into grad
school, they mentor two more undergrads each. And in ten years we take

over the entire damn world.”
Olive looked at her, speechless. “This is . . . you’re amazing.”

“I am, aren’t I? Okay, now’s your turn to grovel. Aaand, go.”
Olive opened her mouth, but for a long time nothing really came out. “I
don’t really have an excuse. I was just busy with . . . something Dr. Aslan

asked me to finish.”
“This is ridiculous. You are in Boston. You should be out there in an

Irish pub pretending you love the Red Sox and eating Dunkies, not doing
work. For your boss.”

“We’re technically here for a work conference,” Olive pointed out.
“Conference shmonference.” Malcolm joined Anh on the bed.

“Can we please go out, the three of us?” Anh begged. “Let’s do the
Freedom Trail. With ice cream. And beer.”
“Where’s Jeremy?”

“Presenting his poster. And I’m bored.” Anh’s grin was impish.
Olive was not in the mood for socializing, or beer, or freedom trails, but

at some point she was going to have to learn to productively navigate
society with a broken heart.

She smiled and said, “Let me check my email, and then we can go.” She
had, inexplicably, accumulated about fifteen messages in the thirty minutes

since she’d last checked, only one of which wasn’t spam.

Today, 3:11 p.m.
FROM: Aysegul-Aslan@stanford.edu
TO: Olive-Smith@stanford.edu