The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood

“Aslan’s retiring, huh?” Tom asked after they’d found a
secluded table in the back. Olive had no choice but to sit
across from him—and on Adam’s left. Like a good
“girlfriend,” she supposed. Her “boyfriend,” in the meantime,
was sullenly sipping his chamomile tea next to her. I should
snap a picture, she reflected. He’d make for an excellent viral
meme.
“In the next few years,” Olive confirmed. She loved her
adviser, who had always been supportive and encouraging.
Since the very beginning she had given Olive the freedom to
develop her own research program, which was almost unheard
of for Ph.D. students. Having a hands-off mentor was great
when it came to pursuing her interests, but . . .
“If Aslan’s retiring soon, she’s not applying for grants
anymore—understandable, since she won’t be around long
enough to see the projects through—which means that your
lab is not exactly flush with cash right now,” Tom summarized
perfectly. “Okay, tell me about your project. What’s cool about
it?”
“I . . . ,” Olive began—she scrambled to collect her
thoughts. “So, it’s—” Another pause. Longer this time, and
more painfully awkward. “Um . . .”
This, precisely, was her problem. Olive knew that she was
an excellent scientist, that she had the discipline and the
critical-thinking skills to produce good work in the lab.
Unfortunately succeeding in academia also required the ability
to pitch one’s work, sell it to strangers, present it in 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—