Chapter One

Adam

“Hell hath no fury like a yeast sample scorned.” I bang my head on the countertop, and my lab assistant, Cody, pats my back and takes a sip of coffee so thick, it’s practically syrup.

“Shakespeare? This shit is getting tragic quick.” Cody looks over my shoulder and sucks his breath through his teeth. “Holy crap.”

“Yes.” I knock my forehead on the cold, cruel laminate again and appreciate Cody’s brutal honesty.

I need to hear this. I need to accept that my dreams of a PhD are slipping through my fingers fast. I can always go back to Israel and apply to school there. In fact, my father called just yesterday with “incredible news.” His longtime friend was looking for a research assistant.

I imagine the smug look on my father’s face when I show up for dinner, still jet-lagged, my tail firmly between my legs. I imagine how he’ll scoff at my failed attempts to be independent, to pursue my own dream while I “turn my back on my homeland.” The last thing I want is to listen to him crow when I’m forced to accept employment through one of his connections.

“I’m so completely screwed,” I mutter, staring into the petri dishes as if just looking at them hard enough will make those damn protein changes I need to see happen—need so badly that it starts a monster headache deep in my skull.

Cody claps a hand on my shoulder and takes another long sip from his Doctor Who mug. “Dr. Gibson knows you worked your ass off on these trays. She’ll give you an extension,” he assures me from behind the blue TARDIS.

And she will. I know that without having to ask. Dr. Gibson is all mile-long legs and shiny hair and way into open relationships with younger men who work in her lab. I’ve managed to appease her interest with stories about my time in the Israeli army without actually sheet hopping, and it’s always earned me a decent extension before. But even debasing my moral code and spending a long, sweaty night with my superior can’t get me out of this mess.

“She’s fine with giving me another extension. It’s my visa that’s the problem.”

Why? Why was I such a slacker when it came to keeping my paperwork up to date? Why did I try the patience of my foreign studies liaison over and over? Maybe because I was so sure I could get these damn yeasts to work, to back up my hypothesis, and do more than just complete my thesis.

I wanted my name in the journals.

I wanted to fly into my hometown and have my aunts carry around extra copies of a random science publication they’d never even known existed before so they could hand it out to neighbors who would say, “Adam Abramowitz went to the USA with nothing and came back a famous scientist!”

I wanted to sit at the head of the table while my father scowled into his soup and I felt a surge of cocky pride I wouldn’t quite be able to keep off my face.

I wanted to do this on my own, here, in the country I chose to be in, without accepting my father’s help…which would also mean accepting his never ending lectures about how I should have listened to him before I wasted my time.

“Fuck,” Cody says, pulling the word out with the same level of doom that’s rioting in my brain. “You could always see if Dr. Cougar wants you to put a ring on it. Green card marriage to a brilliant, hot, older woman?”

I shudder. “Even if I was that desperate, she’s married. To Dr. Ellison in Comparative Lit.”

“Comparative Lit?” Cody scoffs. “No wonder she cheats on the poor bastard. Is that seriously a major? Pathetic.”

“I hear you,” I agree, but for once my heart isn’t into mocking the liberal arts. And that’s how I realize my depression is complete.

“Well, at least you can go back to Israel and take that research job with that guy your dad knows, right?” Cody’s trying. I should appreciate it. He’s way more of a friend than any other lab rat I’ve worked with before, which could be because Cody actually has a grasp on things like social customs and empathy. He is the rare scientist with a fairly raging social life.

He’s also the most brilliant slacker I’ve ever met, and his intense optimism boggles my mind daily.

“Sure.” I get up and start to toss the petri dishes back in the fridge with much less care than I usually take. “I think I’m gonna call it a day.”

“Uh, dude. Did you forget?” Cody shakes his head and laughs. “I’ll tell you what, man. I don’t care if you’re working on the cure for cancer—forgetting your Tuesday appointment is a crying fucking shame. I’m on the verge of revoking your man card.” He quickly holds up his hands. “Unless girls don’t do it for you. Which is totally cool.”

I sigh. “Genevieve’s coming in today. Damn it,” I mutter under my breath. “Oh, I’m into girls. I love them. But that girl? Gen’s cool, but we’re just friends. She’s super sweet, but she’s such a pain in the ass.”

“A gorgeous pain the ass.” He raises his eyebrows and lets out a long, low whistle. “I can’t believe that girl is as much trouble as you pretend. Did you see that little top she had on last week? Was it even a shirt? It was more of a sexy bra with some see-through cloth hanging off of it. Damn.” He rubs his hands and smiles appreciatively. “How do you get to tutor sexy Genevieve Rodriguez and I get nerdy Samuel McKenna?”

I’m really close to telling Cody we should switch, just to keep the banter up. And I know I should laugh along. He’s trying to make me forget everything I’m worried about.

But I feel…kind of pissed. Maybe even more than kind of.

And super possessive. Genevieve was the first person on this campus to talk to me, my first week in the States. She noticed my kippah and invited me to some Jewish student meeting. I was so desperate to talk to anyone, I said okay…and after ten minutes of standing around awkwardly with a bunch of other Jewish college students, she suggested we go out for coffee. We started talking, we made each other laugh, she told me about her awful boyfriend—the first of about six since I met her—and we’ve been hanging out regularly since.

Tuesdays I tutor her, because she can’t afford another shitty grade, and the last tutor she paid an arm and a leg to help her was a moron. She’ll literally flunk out of college if she doesn’t pass this course. Smart as she is, Gen doesn’t take herself all that seriously. I guess that’s my job.

She’s the funny, outgoing beauty; I’m her serious, geeky friend. I think there’s a pretty popular sitcom based on this exact situation.

“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re stuck with Sam,” I growl. “Genevieve needs all the help she can get. She needs to focus on mastering differentials. If her tutor spent all his time ogling her, she’d never graduate.”

When I’m done with my little tirade, there’s a stretch of silence so deep it leaves me embarrassed. But Cody doesn’t seem upset at all.

In fact, he’s laughing.

“So I guess you did notice her little top. Nice. I’ve seen the way she looks at you, man. I’m not about to horn in, no matter how many times you give me that ‘just friends’ bullshit.” Cody’s smug look pricks at my usually level temper. “Much as I’d like to. Damn.”

“The way she looks at me? Like I’m that annoyingly focused friend who wants her to get her work done? Trust me, Genevieve doesn’t mince words. She told me what an uptight ass she thought I was the very first day we met. Her words, by the way. Not mine.”

And I’m glad she said them. Because—I can’t lie—I was drooling that first day. I knew my chances were bad to start with. Nerds like me do not score gorgeous chicks like Genevieve Rodriguez. But she set me straight right away, and now we have a good thing going. I try to keep her grounded, lecture her once in a while, and tutor her on Tuesdays, and she reminds me to take it easy now and then, drags me out of my lab to socialize with other humans, and sometimes pays attention to whatever lesson I’m going over with her. We have a solid friendship based on our easy back and forth and our ability to balance each other out. I didn’t really expect to become such good friends with her, but she’s made my last few semesters here feel almost like home.

It’s a really comfortable, easy thing we’ve got going on.

Aside from the times when I slip up and forget that it’s never going to be more than platonic. Luckily, she’s got a killer sense of humor on top of being drop-dead gorgeous, so I’ve never put my foot too far down my throat.

“How cute.” Cody pats me on the back as he leaves the lab. “It’s like when a girl pushes you off the swings on the playground, man. Mazel tov, you’re officially not stuck in the friend zone! She thinks you’re dreamy!”

“Fuck off, Cody!” I call, shaking my head as his snickers recede down the long hallway.

In a few minutes, Genevieve will be here, ten minutes late on the dot. It’s one thing about her that drives me totally insane. And it makes me worried. How the hell is she passing classes if she’s showing up late to lectures? Why is she always exactly ten minutes late? Why not just come at the arranged time? When I mentioned this to her once, like a reasonable person, her answer was, “Why don’t you just change the appointment time, Adam? You really need to chill. And be more flexible. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”

How can you like someone so much and at the same time want to scream in frustration when you talk to her?

Exactly ten minutes after the scheduled hour, I hear her heels clicking down the hall. She’s holding a huge box, and I can see that she’s about to trip over the FedEx package Cody and I have ignored all day. I jump over the counter, crash into some stools, and make it to the door just as her toe catches on the package.

I throw my arms around her tiny waist, but she bends one ankle at a funny angle, and the box crashes to the floor.

“Shit! Are you okay?” I need to get her off her feet, so I scoop her in my arms and carry her to the rolling chair in the corner, my mind spinning, my heart trapped in my throat. “Let me see your ankle.”

“Adam, it’s fine.” She winces as my hand travels down the smooth length of her calf to her delicate ankle.

She’s got great legs. I have completely accepted that she’s just a friend who happens to be very, very attractive, and who I have zero chance with—but there’s no way I can deny what amazing legs she has.

And these ankles? The scientist in me knows that her bones and muscles are perfectly capable of supporting her body weight. But the man in me wonders how such tiny joints can support the weight of a full human.

Even if the human is probably only a hundred and twenty pounds drenched.

“Does this hurt?” I gently turn her ankle right, then left.

“It just feels bruised,” she says, her big gray eyes looking into mine. “Hey, you’re kind of sexy when you’re playing the knight in shining armor, professor.”

That voice, smoky and sweet at once, would put me under a spell if I let it. Luckily she pulls a typical Genevieve move and jerks me out of my stupidity.

She lifts that long left leg and rolls her ankle back and forth, making her ridiculous, glittery shoe catch the light and sparkle.

“I don’t even care if I broke my ankle. These shoes are worth it.” Her smile is bordering on vacant, and I feel a twist in my gut.

Why does she do that? Why does she play dumb when she’s anything but? I’ve told her a million times that people are going to overlook her brains because of how pretty she is—she should shock the hell out of them by showing off her mind.

A blind man could tell Genevieve is gorgeous. But her brain? Now that’s the part of her that’s the real turn on.

“You could have broken your neck wearing those, Genevieve. You could have been seriously hurt. What the hell were you thinking?”

I mean to give her some sensible advice, to make sure she understands why her actions need to be rethought. But, as usual, it all comes out like I’m lecturing her, and I hate that. Why the hell can’t I keep my cool around this girl?

She rolls her head back and twirls in the chair, her shiny hair flying all around. “Unlike you, professor, I know when to turn my brain off and stop thinking so I can have some fun once in a while.” She points the toe of one shoe my way. “You should try it more often. Speaking of having some fun, how about you go with me and my friend Nicola to that new club downtown? It’s supposed to be killer, and she’s very, very cute!” She winks at me.

I groan. “Right. Nicola. You made me meet her for coffee, remember? C’mon, Gen, she’s boring as hell. How about you stop trying to arrange dates with girls who don’t even get my jokes.”

“How about you stop telling that lame joke about Schrodinger’s cat? Quantum superposition isn’t that funny.” She raises a dark eyebrow at me. “You had to explain the entire theory of paradox in quantum mechanics to me before I could even pretend to think it was funny.”

“You didn’t think it was funny?” I ask, a little wounded. She’d laughed so hard! “Well, at least you understood. Nicola asked me how they make coffee decaf, and when I started to explain, she told me she’d rather believe it is ‘some kind of magic.’” I snort. “I could have explained it simply. It’s not a difficult concept to grasp.”

“Okay, Nicola is kind of a space cadet. But I’m sure you could have made her understand. Because you’re a really good tutor, thankfully. How about I pay you back for tutoring me by taking you out to dinner? Have I introduced you to Amanda? She’s a comparative lit major!”

I stifle another groan and change the subject fast.

“How about we try getting you through differentials before you flunk?” I suggest, pointing to her backpack. “Did you get my outline? I emailed it after our last session and never heard back from you.”

“Oh.” She purses her lips. “School email?”

I nod, and she scrunches up her nose and shakes her head. “I’m sorry. You know I never check that one, Adam. Why can’t you send it to my normal email address?” She flashes me a wide smile that she seems confident will do the trick.

I count backward from ten in Hebrew. “Because, as your tutor, emailing your school address is normal, Genevieve. And grodgiguez@ucl doesn’t cause me any pain to type. I’m just going to lay this out honestly, as your friend, okay? Pinksnoogle23@gmail? Brain cells die every time I even think about that username.”

Genevieve tilts her head to one side so all her long, dark hair hangs down in a curtain. “Do you try to be this boring all the time? Like, is it work, or does it just come to you organically?”

“This conversation is adorable but, speaking of work, how about we get to it?” I tap my pen on her backpack and ignore the fact that, despite what I said to Cody earlier, I’ve definitely noticed how short and tight and totally hot her outfit is.

I need to change my thought process and fast.

She’s just a friend. A very attractive friend, but a friend nonetheless. I’ve met the guys she dates, and Genevieve definitely has a type. And even if the vacuum metastability event pans out and eradicates life on Earth as we know it, but, by some miracle, I’m the only guy left in the charred rubble of our universe, I’m pretty sure Gen would still see me as her friend and her friend only. Which is no big deal. I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m just not the kind of guy she’s into.

Sometimes I tell myself bullshit just to see if my brain will believe it. It almost never works, and this time is no exception.

“Aye, aye, cap’n. Back to work it is,” she quips with a little salute then looks back at the box she dropped. “But I think we need some sustenance to get us through the next hour.” She runs over to the box with these wobbly, mincing steps, nearly falling a second time because those idiotic heels are defying all basic laws of gravity. She should be falling on her ass…hard.

I would never want to see her hurt, but a little wipeout might remind her that there’s way more to life than fancy shoes, and get her to focus on making the most of her education.

She turns around, holding the open box out to me.

“Uh…what are these?” I finally ask, looking at a box filled with crumbs and thick smears of icing.

“Cupcakes!” she cries, staring down into the box like she’s confused that I don’t see what she does. She shrugs. “Or, they were cupcakes. But the awesome thing about desserts is, even when they’re completely smushed, they always taste delicious.” She sticks one finger into the sugary mess and holds a glob of icing-coated cake out to me. “I baked!”

I’m suddenly facing a huge problem.

I’ve never had to think about what I would do if I were staring down the prospect of licking icing off Genevieve’s fingers. But that dilemma morphs into a second, more pressing issue: now that the idea of licking icing off Genevieve’s finger has popped into my brain, it’s suddenly being crushed out by images of licking icing off…

Genevieve.

All of her.

Those mile-long legs, the tits pressed high in that corset of a top and jiggling with every step, her long, graceful neck, the dip of belly button that shows whenever she stretches over to grab a pencil from my side of the table or get a notebook out of her bag. I try to ignore how turned-on she makes me, because I care about her as a friend. I don’t want to be another caveman checking out her ass as she walks by.

I swallow hard and shake my head. “Not sanitary, Genevieve.”

“I swear I washed my hands,” she teases, her grin a challenge.

Making me squirm is one of her favorite pastimes, and it’s ridiculously easy for her to do. That’s one area of our friendship where she can hold something over my head. She’s sexy, and I’m turned on by her. She’s not stupid, so she knows how to yank my chain just a little bit.

“What would Jeremy think?” I ask, and her look of mild confusion lets me know he’s already out of the picture. That’s gotta be a record.

“We broke up two weeks ago. You brought me a pot of shakshuka before synagogue that Saturday morning, when I was hung over after binge drinking my breakup pain away. Remember? That was so delicious, by the way. I tried to make it, but I don’t think I used enough paprika. You need to cook it with me there, so I can watch exactly what you do,” she rambles.

“You broke up with Jeremy that night?” I ask, shocked because I remember bringing the shakshuka after she sent me a bunch of slightly alarming, drunken texts Friday night. I knew she’d need a vat of it to combat her hangover the next morning. But she never mentioned they’d broken up. “Why did you even date him?”

“Why are you being so weird?” she demands. “You hated Jeremy.”

“What was there to like? He was an egomaniac with a bloated trust fund and no sense of humor.”

“Did you try to tell him the joke about Schrodinger’s cat?”

“I wouldn’t have wasted the breath on someone who clearly didn’t have the brain cells to get it.” I pause and look her right in the eye. “Did you even like Jeremy?”

“Yes!” she says too fast. “Why?” she asks defensively.

“Because I know you had plans a few months back to finally tell Deo how you felt—”

“Deo is married. Which means he’s 100 percent off-limits in every way, no matter how much I had a crush on him when I was a kid,” she says, her voice stony. “My decision to date Jeremy—and break up with him—has nothing to do with Deo.” She pops the finger full of icing into her own mouth and scowls. “Why do you have to do that?”

“Do what?” I demand, staring right back at her.

“Make things complicated when they aren’t.” She crosses her arms.

“You held a candle for the guy for years. Then just when you finally work up the courage to ask him out, you find out he’s dating someone else. I remember you telling me you weren’t even worried, you’d just have to wait a few weeks because Deo’s relationships never lasted anyway. So you had big plans to finally tell him you’d been crushing on him since you were a little kid, and now he’s married. C’mon, that would make any reasonable person lose their shit a little.”

“Look, I know you’re trying to lead me in the right direction or whatever, Adam, but you need to stop treating me like I’m this huge screw-up and you’ve got everything figured out. I refuse to believe you don’t have any problems. Just because we spend all our time talking about mine… So my love life is a mess and I’m maybe flunking out of school. Who cares? I’ll pick myself up, dust myself off, and maybe find myself some nice, rich guy to marry before I even need a degree.” She laughs at my look of shock, then scoops another bit of frosting onto her finger and holds it out again. “Adam, I’m joking. I know it wasn’t Schrodinger’s cat, but you could laugh. Here. Eat some sugar and stop worrying so much.”

I’m staring at the tip of her finger coated in sugary goodness, and something in me fractures.

I’m so damn sick of feeling like everything’s falling apart, like everything I worked for is dissolving in front of my eyes. And Genevieve, this gorgeous, frustrating girl who has so much potential, just sells herself short over and over again and attracts the wrong kind of guys, the ones who are in it for the cheap thrill of the chase.

And, dammit, she always manages to catch every one of them because she has those legs that any guy would want wrapped around his waist, and those eyes that are the clearest, hottest gray I’ve ever seen.

Right now she’s in front of me, smiling ear to ear, her finger still held out, dragging this whole torment out longer. So I do exactly what she’s asking for but not expecting, not for a single second. I lean over and watch her eyes go wide. She starts to pull her hand back, but I grab her wrist, pull her hand toward mine, and suck her finger into my mouth.

There’s enough tension against my hand that I know she would have run like mad if I hadn’t held her. I appreciate the irony of this entire situation. Genevieve had been so sure it would be me running away, shocked and appalled.

I know Gen sees me as a straight-laced scientist. She’s even joked that she thinks I might be a robot. I’m pretty sure she won’t be making that joke anymore.

I’d smile about it, but my mouth is otherwise occupied with her finger.

Her hand is smaller than I’d realized—we’re not very touchy friends, with good reason. If I want things to stay platonic, touching Gen is a definite “no.” Her finger feels delicate in my mouth, and I lick at it gently. Until she sucks her bottom lip in.

My brain feels fried, and her face blurs a little in front of me. I pull her closer and suck a little harder, just for a second, just to watch her pant a tiny bit. Then I let her finger slide out of my mouth and glance down at the notes in front of me—like my heart isn’t about to kick out of my chest, and I’m not most of the way to a raging hard-on.

She stands, the box shaking in her hands, her mouth opening and closing uncertainly.

I glance up at her. “Good cupcake. Baking is all math and science. If you can make a cupcake that good, you can definitely make a killer pot of shakshuka. And handling differentials? A piece of…cupcake. C’mon, Gen. We’re going to shred this lesson apart and make it our little bitch. Today.”

She plops down on the stool across from me and takes out her paperwork so meekly I keep waiting for her to jump up and shout, “Gotcha!”

But she doesn’t.

She stares at the blank page until I slide a series of problems her way and say, “Solve, and if you get stuck, I’m going to teach you two different tactics for getting out of that situation, okay?”

She just nods, and my amusement over the whole finger-licking prank is waning. I shake my head, get off the stool, and rummage in the drawers, finding two paper plates and two plastic forks. While she works, I scoop some of the crushed dessert onto each plate, sliding one her way. She looks at me, her eyebrows low and questioning.

“You’re weirdly quiet. I figure you need a sugar rush,” I say, shrugging.

She looks down at her plate, and the smile that unfolds on her face is real and bright. “Thanks. So, how did I do?” She pushes the paper over and takes a delicate bite of cupcake.

I make sure not to watch her mouth as she eats and instead focus on the problem, worked out perfectly. I narrow my eyes at her.

“You used the methods I emailed you. This is…so well done. Why did you tell me you didn’t get the email?”

She bats lashes that, for no logical reason, make my mouth water, and then turns the fork over, scooping up another small bite. “I wanted to say thank you. For the notes. I know they must have taken you forever, and I know you’re crushed for time with your yeasts being so uncooperative. Then I came in, and you had to ruin my totally sweet gesture by yelling at me like some bully.”

I laugh, just a little. “Really? You don’t think the fact that you almost broke your leg had anything to do with my yelling at you? And I’m not a very good bully if I spend all my time catching you before you fall, tutoring you, and feeding you cupcakes,” I point out.

She blinks slowly. “Yeah. You kind of suck as a bully.” She puts her fingers to her lips, and I remember how it felt to have one in my mouth. “You really do…suck, Adam.”

Her attempt to flirt is so ridiculous, it pops the bubble of tension around us, and I can’t help laughing at her. “Back to work, Rodriguez. You’ve got a quiz this week, then another two weeks after, and if you don’t pass—”

“Don’t,” she pleads, her flirty face gone, replaced by a serious pout. “Just don’t. I have parents to tell me nonstop what a loser I am. I don’t need my friends doing it, too.”

“Hey.” I wait until she looks up from the cupcake she’s stabbing. “Are you kidding me? You’re not a loser.”

“Please don’t.” She shakes her head and takes angry swipes at her eyes. “Trust me. I know damn well I don’t live up to anyone’s expectations.”

Tears. Damn it.

I’m not well equipped for tears in general, and especially not when they’re pouring down Genevieve’s cheeks. I wish she’d say something flippant or roll her eyes. Her sadness is tearing my calm to shreds.

“Hey.” I come around the counter and carefully, robotically—okay, maybe she has a point—put one arm around her shoulders. “C’mon. That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

She holds her body stiff for a few seconds, but then she leans into my chest, burying her head in my shirt and mumbling something I can’t make out. Then she pulls her face up and sits straight, out of my arms. I’m shocked at how empty they feel without her in them.

“You have no idea, Adam. You’re, like, this genius. You run the whole lab, and all the professors are always talking about how smart you are and how you’re going on to bigger and better things.” Something that might be admiration shines in her eyes when she looks at me, and I feel a ridiculous burst of pride. “I bet your parents, like, have a shrine in your old bedroom with all your awards and ribbons and stuff.”

I force myself to smile through the bitter taste in my mouth. I guess Genevieve would be shocked to know that my childhood bedroom is now an exercise room for my father. I sleep on a cot when I go home. The truth is, as good a friend as Gen is, I don’t discuss my family or my life in Israel with her. That’s my past. I love my present in the U.S.…and I’m full of hope I’ll spend my future here, too.

I just have to manage to not get deported. My gut lurches at the thought of having to give in to my father and go back—

“I think you’re just getting starry-eyed over how brilliant I am.” I hold my breath and let it out slowly, relieved when she cracks a tiny smile. “In all seriousness, you drive me nuts. You know that, Gen. You always have. But I feel a little guilty when you thank me for tutoring you. I mean, even your horrible cupcake mess is too much because the truth is, you’re by far the smartest student I’ve ever worked with. I feel like I barely do anything, and you get it. And I know for a fact you’re going to ace this test today. And the next one. And the one after that. So get back to work.”

That tiny smile gets bigger and, when she looks down at her notebook, it stretches even wider—so wide it moves her ears back a little.

She’s gorgeous.

I scoop up another bite of smashed cupcake and enjoy that smile, the one I helped bring to her face. So my life is over. So I fucked up and will be brought down a whole bunch of pegs when I have to grovel back in Israel. Life isn’t all bad.

Genevieve flips her pencil and chews on the little pink eraser, and I remember her tiny, sugarcoated finger in my mouth.

Not all bad. Not by a long shot.

A few minutes of silent work later and I feel her pencil tapping against my knuckles.

“What’s going on, Adam?” she asks.

“No stalling,” I mutter.

“I’m not stalling. You’re biting your nails. Tell me what’s up.”

“Damn it.” I quit gnawing on my thumbnail and shove my hands in my pants pockets. “Don’t worry about it. You have work to do.”

“My work is done.” She pushes the notebook my way. “You haven’t bitten your nails in months. Is it the yeast? I know this is the dumbest question ever, but can I help somehow?”

I glance over her neatly penciled work. Flawless. What does she even come here for? I could just text her help with any questions she has. The practical part of me doesn’t get it. The irrational part of me decides not to think about it too hard.

There are some things—like biting my nails when shit gets really bad—that I can’t logically explain, but I do them anyway. Maybe coming to be tutored by me is just a habit for Gen. I’m hoping she doesn’t decide to break it any time soon.

“It’s not the yeast,” I admit. “The thing is, I’m in pretty deep shit, and nobody can help at this point.”

“What’s wrong?” She lays her pencil down and leans forward, her mouth pulled tight with worry. It feels so good to have someone give a shit about what’s going on in my life.

Especially Genevieve.

“You know how I’m always giving you crap about turning your paperwork in on time and keeping an eye on deadlines?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes at me. “Is this seriously turning into a lecture about how irresponsible I am?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s me admitting I’ve been a hypocrite. I thought my yeast project would go better, and I’d get my degree. That would mean a full time job, and a job would mean I could get a work visa. But I was too optimistic. The yeasts are fucking up my life, and I didn’t reapply for my student visa in time. Now I’m not sure I’ll be able to get an extension.”

“So…what’s going to happen?” she asks, her hand going to her throat like she’s having a hard time swallowing.

“My father wants me to come home, back to Israel. He has a friend who has a job all lined up for me. I could finish my research remotely and come back to defend my thesis. My advisor knows I’ve been struggling, and she’s been very understanding.”

Her nod is jerky, and she opens her eyes wide. “Wow. Okay. Right. So, back to Israel. Soon? But you have a job lined up there, so that’s good, right? And I’m sure your family would be so happy to see you. So…congratulations?” she says, and it’s almost a whisper.

“Thanks?” I say, in the same uncertain tone.

She looks up at me, and her eyes are bleary with tears.

More tears?

Over me?

My mouth goes dry.

“I know it makes me a truly shitty friend that I’m not happier. And, don’t get me wrong—I’m truly happy for you. If this is what you want, then I’m so damn happy. But I’m a selfish brat, too. I’ll miss you so much.” She puts a hand out and lays it on top of mine.

“It’s not…it’s not what I want,” I stutter.

“No?” She perks up a little, her eyes shining. “You don’t want to go back to Israel?”

“I don’t,” I tell her. “But I’m running out of options. I could try to get a full-time job outside the university, but that would take too much time from my research. I thought about getting my cougar advisor to marry me for a green card, but she’s actually already married.”

“Dr. Gibson?” Genevieve asks with a laugh. “She’s definitely hot. And I hear she’s in an open relationship…”

“Right. But polygamy isn’t a legal option. I guess I should have taken it more seriously when you tried to set me up. But, how can someone as cool as you wind up with so many weirdo friends?”

She nods at me. “You’re right. I definitely seem to be a weirdo magnet.”

An alarm on the counter goes off, letting me know I have to take some trays out of the freezer. Gen slides out her phone. “I have to run. Listen, Adam, don’t panic, okay? We’ll get together later and brainstorm. There has to be a solution that doesn’t involve you moving all the way to Israel and leaving me to flunk out of college.”

She hops off the stool, walks over to me, hesitates, and then kisses my cheek. She steps back so quickly she almost topples over.

I catch her by the arm. “Seriously, Gen, you need to invest in sneakers.”

“And you need to stop biting your nails. Text me so we can meet up, okay?” She grabs her backpack and stuffs her study sheets into it. “Don’t worry!” she calls as she hurries out the door.

“Okay,” I mutter to myself.

Weird and illogical as it is, Gen’s optimism actually makes me feel less worried. Even though I’m fairly sure there’s no answer to my fucked up situation, I entertain a stupid shred of hope.

Gen is pretty much the only person who can force my logic to take a backseat. I have no idea whether or not that’s a good thing.