Loathe to Love You (The STEMinist Novellas #1-3)(85)

He blinks at me. “What?”

“How many times have you been to Longyearbyen?”

“I’ve been on two expeditions—”

“Then you’ll understand why I take the opinion of someone who has been on a dozen missions over yours. Plus, we both know what the real reason of the veto was.”

Ian opens, then closes his mouth. His jaw hardens, and I’m finally sure of it: he’s mad. Pissed. I see it in the way he clenches his fist. The flare of his nostrils. His big body is just inches from mine, glowing with anger. “Hannah, Merel is not always trustworthy. There have been incidents under his watch that—”

“What incidents?”

A pause. “It’s not my information to disclose. But you shouldn’t trust him with your—”

“Right.” I scoff. “Of course I should take the word of the guy who went behind my back over the word of the guy who went to bat for me and made sure my project was funded anyway. Very hard choice to make.”

His hand lifts to close around my upper arm, at once gentle and urgent. I refuse to care enough to pull away from his touch. “What did you just say?”

I roll my eyes. “I said a bunch of things, Ian, but the gist of it was fuck off. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“What do you mean, Merel made sure that your project was funded anyway?” His grip tightens.

“I mean exactly what I said.” I lean in, eyes locked with his, and for a split second the familiar feeling of being close, here, near him crashes over me like a wave. But it washes away just as quickly, and all that is left is an odd combination of vengeful sadness. I have my project, which means that I won. But I also . . . Yeah. I did like him. And while he was always just in the periphery of my life, I think maybe I’d hoped . . .

Well. No matter now. “He found an alternative, Ian,” I tell him. “Me and my inability to carry out the project are going to Norway, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

He closes his eyes. Then he opens them and mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like fuck, followed by my name and other hurried explanations that I don’t care to listen to. I free my arm from his fingers, meet his eyes one last time, and walk away swearing to myself that this is it.

I will never think of Ian Floyd again.





Seven


Svalbard Islands, Norway

Present

He’s not wearing NASA gear.

By now it’s nearly dark, the snow falls steadily, and whenever I look up to the edge of the crevasse, huge snowflakes hurl straight into my eyes. But even then, I can tell: Ian is not wearing the gear NASA usually issues to AMASE scientists.

His hat and coat are the North Face, a dull black dusted with white, interrupted only by the red of his goggles and ski mask. His phone, when he takes it out to communicate with me from the edge of the crevasse, is not the standard-issue Iridium one, but a model I don’t recognize. He stares down for a long moment, as if assessing the shitfuck of a situation I managed to put myself in. Flurries circle around him, but never quite touch. His shoulders rise and fall. One, two, several times. Then, finally, he lifts his goggles and brings the phone to his mouth.

“I’ll send down the rope,” he says, in lieu of a greeting.

To say that I’m in a bit of a predicament at the moment, or that I have a few problems on my hands, would be a vast understatement. And yet, staring up from the place where I was positive I’d bite it until about five minutes ago, all I can think about is that the last time I talked with this man, I . . .

I told him to fuck off.

Repeatedly.

And he did deserve it, at least for saying that I wasn’t good enough to carry out the project. But at the time he also mentioned that my mission was going to be too dangerous. And now he’s shown up to the Arctic Circle, with his deep-set blue eyes and even deeper voice, to pull me away from certain death.

I always knew I was an asshole, but I’d never quite realized the extent of it.

“Is this the most massive I Told You So in history?” I ask, attempting a joke.

Ian ignores me. “Once you have the rope, I’ll build an anchor,” he says, tone calm and matter-of-fact, not a trace of panic. It’s like he’s teaching a kid how to tie their shoelaces. No urgency here, no doubt that this will go as planned and we’ll both be fine. “I’ll prepare the lip and haul you up over my shoulder. Make sure everything is clipped to your belay loop. Can you pull on the fixed side?”

I just stare up at him. I feel . . . I’m not sure what. Confused. Scared. Hungry. Guilty. Cold. After what’s probably way too long, I manage to nod.

He smiles a little before throwing down the rope. I watch it uncoil, slither down toward me, and come to rest a couple of inches from where I’m huddled. Then I reach out and close my gloved hand around its end.

I’m still confused, scared, hungry, and guilty. But when I glance up at Ian, maybe I feel a little less cold.



* * *





    It’s just a sprain, I’m pretty sure. But as far as sprains go, this is a bad one.

Ian is true to his promises and manages to get me out of the crevasse in barely a couple of minutes, but the instant I’m on the surface, I try to limp around, and . . . it’s not looking good. My foot touches the ground and pain spears through my entire body like lightning.