Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
CHAPTER FIVE – NOVA
FIVE YEARS AGO
Olsen is hanging about in the little grass-lined walkway that runs between our two cottages when I step out, dressed for dinner. My first day at the institute has been exhausting, but in a good way.
“Were you waiting for me?”
“Caught me.” He does a little self-deprecating shrug, like he’s guilty of something, but doesn’t care if he gets caught. “But I figured you might like company on the walk over to the dining hall.”
“You could’ve just knocked on the door, ya know.”
“I was just about to.” And now he does what he should’ve done earlier. He checks me out. I’m wearing a sage-green chiffon dress that hits me mid-thigh. It’s got a flirty hem and if I were to twirl, it would twirl with me, fanning out the way a dress does that’s meant for twirling. It’s strapless, but I’m wearing a pale-yellow cotton shrug. It’s the kind of outfit that makes people look. Not because it’s too revealing, or too sexy, or too anything.
It’s just pretty. And I’m pretty. And together, this outfit and I are stunning.
Olsen’s eyes drop all the way down to my feet. Strappy espadrilles that come off beachy instead of fancy because the straps are yellow cotton. They match the shrug.
His eyes travel back up, linger for a barely noticeable second on my breasts, then meet my eyes. “Nice, Ryan. You clean up good.”
“It’s not too casual? I wasn’t sure what passed for fancy here.” This is my own way of being self-deprecating. We both know I look amazing, but this is what I do. It puts people at ease if they think I have doubts.
I almost never have doubts.
“No, it’s great. Summer colors. I would not recommend wearing this for the New Year’s party though.”
This kinda throws me. A twist in the conversation. A jolt out of ‘the now.’ New Year’s in New Hampshire. It will be bitterly cold and windy. The trees will be bare and the lake will be frozen.
I pause to look around and imagine this change that will happen in just a few months. Then I look back up at Olsen and am polite. “Thanks for the tip.”
He chuckles. No one in their right mind would walk outside wearing this outfit on a winter New Hampshire day. And he knows this. Olsen comes off a little bumbly. No. That’s not the right word. He comes off humble and unassuming.
But he’s just acting, same way I am. He’s a genius or he wouldn’t be here. And he’s very attractive, and knows it. But also like me, he doesn’t want to broadcast his confidence. Not even to a woman his equal in beauty.
Olsen uses his beauty. We all do. It’s human nature. But he’s wise enough to hide this fact. I don’t know if this makes him an insincere sycophant, in a sleazy Eddie Haskell kind of way, or just plain smart.
When you’re just one genius on an island filled with geniuses, being modest might be the best way to stand out.
Olsen offers me his arm, which is very forward of him since we’ve barely known each other a day. But it’s also polite and charming. So I accept the offer and we walk down the grassy walkway in the opposite direction that I came earlier.
He chats. Actually, we both chat. Our conversation is easy and light. And even though he’s my neighborly advisor, or whatever—and not quite best-friend material—I can tell that we are going to be friends. How could we not? He’s outgoing, and charismatic, and literally sleeps across the sidewalk from me.
The dining hall looks like it came from another era. I mean, all the buildings here look that way, but this one is over the top. It’s round, for one. And just one level. But there’s a dome and it’s gold.
“Wow.” We pause on the pathway that leads to the steps. There are columns and… well, I really don’t have words to describe this building. It’s ancient Rome, or Greece, or one of those classical periods.
Which is confusing. I look over my shoulder at the other buildings behind us. The island is much longer than it is wide, and the dining hall is at the tip of the northern end. So I can see quite a few of them, even through the plentiful leaves of the thick hardwood trees.
“Yep,” Olsen says. “It’s different all right.”
I look back at the dining hall and shake my head. “Why though?”
“Why what?”
“Why make it so… striking?”
“The Institute is old, Ryan. The money that backs this place is ancient. And when I say ancient, I mean it. I once heard that the dean of this place—who will not be here tonight, he’s out of town—I once heard that he can trace his lineage all the way back to Patone, Plato’s sister.”