“So they put you on A & PE?”
“First, I joined the NASA expedition to Norway’s Mars Analog site.”
I inhale audibly. “AMASE?” The Arctic Mars Analog Svalbard Expedition （AMASE, for friends） is what happens when a bunch of nerds travel to Norway, in the Bockfjorden area of Svalbard. One might think that the North Pole has nothing to do with space, but because of all the volcanic activity and glaciers it’s actually the place on Earth most similar to Mars. It even has one-of-a-kind carbonate spherules that are almost identical to the ones we found on meteorites of Martian origin. NASA researchers like to use it as a location to test the functionality of equipment they plan to send on space exploration missions, collect samples, examine fun science questions that can prepare astronauts for future space missions.
I want to be part of it so bad, a shiver runs down my spine.
“Yup. When I came back I asked for an A & PE placement, which apparently everyone wanted. To the point that the mission leader sent out a NASA-wide email asking whether we thought we’d get double pay and free beer.”
“Did you?”
I laugh at the look he gives me. He is just so hilariously, deliciously teasable. “Why did everyone want to be part of that team, anyway?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure why everyone else did. I assume because it’s challenging. Lots of high-risk, high-reward projects. But for me it was . . .” He glances out the window, at a maple tree on the JPL campus. Actually, no: I think he might be looking up. At the sky. “It just felt like . . .” He trails off, as though not sure how to continue.
“Like it was as close as possible to actually being on Mars? With the rover?” I ask him.
His eyes return to me. “Yeah.” He seems surprised. Like I managed to put something elusive into words. “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”
I nod, because I get it. The idea of helping build something that will explore Mars, the idea of being able to control where it goes and what it does . . . that does it for me, too.
Ian and I study each other for a few seconds in silence, both of us smiling faintly. Long enough for the idea that’s been bouncing in my head to solidify once and for all.
Yeah. I’m gonna go for it. Sorry, Mara. I like your cousin-or-something a little too much to pass this up.
“Okay, I do have a career question for you. To save our informational interview appearances.”
“Shoot.”
“So, I graduate with my Ph.D. Which should take me about four more years.”
“That’s a while,” he says, his tone a bit unreadable.
Yes, it feels like forever. “Not that long. So, I graduate, and I decide that I want to work at NASA and not for some weirdo billionaire who treats space exploration like it’s his own homemade penis-enlargement remedy.”
Ian’s nod is pained. “Wise.”
“What would make me look like a strong candidate? What does a great application package look like?”
He mulls it over. “I’m not sure. For my team, I would usually hire internally. But I’m almost certain I still have my application materials on my old laptop. I could send them to you.”
Okay. Perfect. Great.
The opening I was waiting for.
My heart rate picks up. Warmth twists in my lower stomach. I lean forward with a smile, feeling like I’m finally in my element. This, this, is what I know best. Depending on how busy I am with school, or work, or binge-watching K-dramas, I do this about once a week. Which amounts to quite a bit of practice. “Maybe I could come to your place?” I say, finding the sweet spot between comically suggestive and Let’s get together to play Cards Against Humanity. “And you could show me?”
“I meant—in Houston. My laptop’s in Houston.”
“So you didn’t bring your 2010 laptop to Pasadena?”
He smiles. “Knew I’d forgotten something.”
“Sure did.” I meet his eyes squarely. Lean half an inch closer. “Then maybe I can still come to your place, and we could do something else?”
He gives me a half-puzzled look. “Do what?”
I press my lips together. Okay. Maybe I overestimated my flirting skills. Have I, though? I don’t think so. “Really?” I ask, amused. “Am I that bad at it?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.” Ian’s expression is all arrested confusion, like I just suddenly started talking in an Australian accent. “Bad at what?”
“At hitting on you, Ian.”
I can pinpoint the precise, exact moment the meaning of my words sinks into the language part of his brain. He blinks a few times. Then his big body goes still in a tight, impossible, vibrating way, like his internal software is buffering through an unpredictable set of updates.
He looks absolutely, almost charmingly mystified, and something occurs to me: I’ve struck up flirtatious conversations with dozens of guys and girls at parties, bars, laundromats, gyms, bookstores, seminars, muddy obstacle courses, greenhouses—even, on one memorable occasion, in the waiting room of a Planned Parenthood—and . . . no one has ever been this clueless. No one. So maybe he was just pretending not to get it. Maybe he was hoping I’d back off.
Shit.
“I’m sorry.” I straighten and roll my chair back, giving him a few inches of space. “I’m making you uncomfortable.”
“No. No, I—” He’s finally rebooting. Shaking his head. “No, you aren’t, I’m just—”
“A bit freaked out?” I smile reassuringly, trying to signal that it’s okay. I can take a no. I’m a big girl. “It’s fine. Let’s forget I said anything. But do email me your application package once you’re back home, please. I promise I won’t reply with unsolicited nudes.”
“No, it’s not that . . .” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. His cheekbones look rosier than before. His lips move, trying to form words for a few seconds, until he settles on: “It’s just . . . unexpected.”
Oh. I tilt my head. “Why?” I thought I’d been laying it on pretty thick.
“Because.” His large hand gestures in my direction. He swallows, and I watch his throat work. “Just . . . look at you.”
I actually do it. I look down at myself, taking in my crossed legs, my khaki shorts, my plain black tee. My body is in its usual condition: Tall. Wiry. A bit scrawny. Olive-skinned. I even shaved this morning. Maybe. I can’t remember. Point is, I look okay.
So I say it—“I look okay”—which should sound confident but comes out a bit petulant. It’s not that I think I’m hot shit, but I refuse to be insecure about my appearance. I like myself. Historically, the people I’ve wanted to sleep with have liked me, too. My body does its job as a means to an end. It manages to let me kayak around California lakes without muscle aches the following day, and it digests lactose like it’s an Olympic discipline. That’s all that matters.
But his reply is: “You don’t look okay,” and . . . no.
“Really.” My tone is icy. Is Ian Floyd trying to imply that he’s out of my reach? Because if so, I will slap him. “How do I look, then?”