I frown. “Wouldn’t they know that you already—”
“Right now. Please.” He stares pointedly until I compose and send a message to the entire AMASE group, in a way that reminds me that he is very much a leader. Used to people doing as he says. “We have a space heater, but it’s not going to do a whole lot in this temperature.” He takes off his jacket, revealing a black thermal underneath. His hair is messy, and bright, and beautiful. Not nearly as disgustingly hat-squished as mine, an inexplicable phenomenon that should be the object of several research studies. Maybe I’ll apply for a grant to investigate it. Then Ian will veto me, and we’ll be back to Mutual Hate square one. “The winds are more severe than I’d like, but on board is still a safer option than ashore. We’re anchored, but the waves might get nasty. There’s anti-seasickness meds next to your bunk, and—”
“Ian.”
He falls quiet.
“Why are you not wearing a NASA survival suit?”
He doesn’t look at me. Instead he drops to his knees in front of me and begins to work on my brace. His large hands are firm but delicate on my calf. “Are you sure it’s not broken? Is it painful?”
“Yes. And yes, but getting better.” The heat, or at least the lack of freezing winds, is helping. Ian’s grip, comforting and warm around my swollen ankle, doesn’t hurt, either. “This isn’t a NASA boat, either.” Not that I expected it to be. I think I know what’s going on here.
“It’s what we had at our disposal.”
“We?”
He still doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead he tightens the brace and pulls a thick woolen sock over my foot. I think I feel the ghosts of fingertips trailing briefly across my toe, but maybe it’s my impression. It must be.
“You should drink. And eat.” He straightens. “I’ll get you—”
“Ian,” I interrupt softly. He pauses, and we both seem simultaneously taken aback at my tone. It’s just . . . pleading. Tired. I’m usually not one for displays of vulnerability, but . . . Ian has come for me, in a small rocking boat, across the fjords. We are alone in the Arctic Basin, surrounded by twenty-thousand-year-old glaciers and shrieking winds. There is nothing usual about this. “Why are you here?”
He lifts one eyebrow. “What? You miss your crevasse? I can take you back if—”
“No, really—why are you here? On this boat? You’re not part of this year’s AMASE. You shouldn’t even be in Norway. Don’t they need you at JPL?”
“They’ll be fine. Plus, sailing is a passion of mine.” He’s obviously being evasive, but the cold must have frozen my brain cells, because all I want right now is to find out more about Ian Floyd’s passions. True or made up.
“Is it really?”
He shrugs, noncommittal. “We used to sail a lot when I was a kid.”
“We?”
“My dad and I.” He stands and turns away from me, starting to rummage in the little compartments in the hull. “He’d bring me along when he had to work.”
“Oh. Was he a fisherman?”
I hear a fond snort. “He smuggled drugs.”
“He what?”
“He smuggled drugs. Weed, for the most—”
“No, I heard you the first time, but . . . seriously?”
“Yup.”
I frown. “Are you . . . Are you okay? Is that even . . . Is that a thing, smuggling weed on boats?”
He’s tinkering with something, giving me his back, but he turns just enough for me to catch the curve of his smile. “Yeah. Illegal, but a thing.”
“And your father would take you?”
“Sometimes.” He turns around, holding a small tray. He always looks big, but hunched in the too-low deck he feels like the Great Barrier Reef. “It would drive my mom crazy.”
I laugh. “She didn’t like her son being part of the family criminal enterprise?”
“Go figure.” His dimple disappears. “They’d yell about it for hours. No wonder Mars began sounding so attractive.”
I cock my head and study his expression. “Is that why you grew up not knowing Mara?”
“Who is M— Oh. Yeah. For the most part. Mom isn’t very fond of the Floyd side of the family. Though I’m sure he’s the black sheep by their standards, too. I wasn’t really allowed to spend time with him, so . . .” He shakes his head, as if to change the topic. “Here. It’s not much, but you should eat.”
I have to force myself to look away from his face, but when I notice the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he made, my stomach cramps with happiness. I wiggle in the bunk until I’m sitting straighter, take off my jacket, and then immediately attack the food. My relationship with eating is much less complicated than the one with Ian Floyd, after all, and I lose myself in the straightforward, soothing act of chewing for . . . for a long time, probably.
When I swallow the last bite, I remember that I’m not alone and notice him staring at me with an amused expression.
“Sorry.” My cheeks warm. I brush the crumbs from my thermal shirt and lick some jam off the corner of my mouth. “I’m a fan of peanut butter.”
“I know.”
He does? “You do?”
“Wasn’t your graduation cake just a giant Reese’s cup?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, taken aback. It was the one Mara and Sadie got me after I defended my thesis. They got tired of me licking frosting and peanut butter filling off the Costco sheet cakes they usually bought and just ordered me a giant cup. But I have no recollection of ever telling Ian. I barely think of it, honestly. I remember about it only when I log into my barely used Instagram, because the picture of the three of us digging in is the last thing I ever posted—
“You should rest while you can,” Ian tells me. “The storm should ease up by early tomorrow morning and we’ll sail out. I’ll need your help in this shit visibility.”
“Okay,” I agree. “Yeah. But I still don’t understand how you can be here alone if—”
“I’ll go check that everything is all right. I’ll be back in a minute.” He disappears before I can ask exactly what he needs to check on. And he’s not back in a minute—or even before I lean back in the bunk, decide to rest my eyes for just a couple of minutes, and fall asleep, dead to the world.
* * *
The bark of the wind and the rhythmic rocking of the boat rouse me, but what keeps me awake is the chill.
I look around in the blue glow of the emergency lamp and find Ian a few feet away from me, sleeping on the other bunk. It’s too short, and barely wide enough to accommodate him, but he seems to make do. His hands are folded neatly on his stomach, and the covers are kicked to his feet, which tells me that the cabin is probably not as cold as I currently feel.
Not that it matters: it’s as if the hours spent outside have seeped into my bones to keep on icing me from the inside. I try to huddle under the covers for a few minutes, but the shivering only gets worse. Perhaps strong enough to dislodge some kind of important cerebral pathway, because without really knowing why, I get out of my bunk, wrap the blanket around myself, and limp across the rolling floor in Ian’s direction.