Loathe to Love You (The STEMinist Novellas #1-3)(97)

“There is no—” I try to ground myself. To find a place inside of me that is safe from the pleasure. I end up only digging my good heel into his thigh, trying to comprehend how such spectacular friction can exist. “We don’t know that there ever really was an ocean. On Mars.”

Ian’s eyes lose focus. They widen and hold mine, unseeing. And then he smiles and begins to move for real, with a little whisper in my ear.

“I bet there was.”

The pleasure crashes over me like a tidal wave. I close my eyes, hold on to him as tight as I can, and let the ocean wash over me.





Epilogue


Jet Propulsion Lab, Pasadena, California

Nine months later

The control room is silent. Unmoving. A sea of people in dark-blue polo shirts and red JPL lanyards who somehow manage to breathe in unison. Until about five minutes ago, the handful of journalists invited to document this historical event were clearing their throats, shuffling their equipment, asking the occasional whispered question. But that, too, has stopped.

Now we all wait. Silent.

“. . . expect only intermittent contact at this time. A dropout as the vehicle switches antennas . . .”

I glance at Ian, who sits in the chair next to mine. He hasn’t bothered to turn on his monitor. Instead, he’s been watching the progress of the rover on mine, his frown deep and worried. This morning, when I straightened the collar of his shirt and told him how good he looked in blue, he didn’t reply. Honestly, I don’t think he even heard me. He’s been very, very preoccupied for the past week. Which I happen to find . . . kind of cute.

“Heading directly for the target. The rover is about fifteen meters off the surface, and . . . we’re getting some signals from MRO. The UHF looks good.”

I reach out to brush my fingers against his under the table. It’s meant to be just a fleeting, reassuring touch, but his hand closes around mine, and I decide to stay.

With Ian, I always decide to stay.

“Touchdown confirmed! Serendipity has safely landed on the surface of Mars!”

The room erupts into cheers. Everyone explodes out of their seats, cheering, clapping, laughing, jumping, hugging. And within the delightful, triumphant, radiant chaos of mission control, I turn to Ian, and he turns to me with the widest, most brilliant of smiles.

The following day, our kiss is on the front page of the New York Times.





Bonus


   Chapter





Sometime later





LIAM


If Liam were asked to compile a list of the most momentous days of his life—the ones that’ll surely flash before his eyes when he’s death adjacent, even though in the meantime he’ll have to stash them in a corner of his heart, hidden and secure, because dwelling on the feelings they elicit is overwhelming, unmanageable, and just plain dangerous—today would make it to the very top.

Not number five, like that Tuesday two years ago when he tried to propose and Mara didn’t quite let him, bursting out with a “Yes, yes, yes!” after he barely managed a “Will you m—” (It allowed him to spend the following week pretending that he’d only wanted to ask her to mail out the census form: amusing for him; less so for her.)

And not number three, like the day Mara announced that she was planning to move into his bedroom, and to convert her own into a “The Bachelor blogging studio.” Approximately twenty minutes later, Liam’s walls were full of pictures of two girls he’d never even met in person yet, and his serviceable gray comforter had been replaced with a chevron rainbow quilt that should have given him a headache but instead had him craving cake pops for the first time in his life.

Today . . . today is number one. The most perfect day of his life. Mara in his arms, the words she just said in the air between them, and the promise of what’s to come.

It could be a boy. Or a girl. Or both, or neither. It doesn’t matter. Liam couldn’t care less. All he hopes for is carrot-red, curly hair and freckles. The baby should have Mara’s looks. And her understanding of numbers. And her temperament. Her love for broccoli, her ability to fix things, and Liam’s . . .

Okay. Ideally, the baby will take exclusively after Mara. Liam would be perfectly okay if none of his alleles made it into its karyotype. Liam is taller, which is useful when it comes to reaching for higher shelves, but legroom on planes is a bitch and a half, and he really wouldn’t wish the cramps on anyone, let alone his progeny—

“Hannah was right.”

He pulls back to look at Mara. Her legs are wrapped around his waist, because he picked her up the second he got home and she used the p-word. There’s something lodged in Liam’s fist—ah, yes. The test.

She showed him the second he got home, wagging it under his nose. There’s probably pee on it, and he should probably find it disgusting, but . . .

Yeah. No.

“Hannah? About what?”

“About your reaction.” Mara presses a kiss to Liam’s cheek, then grins, then disentangles herself from his arms. A steady, nimble descent. “She said you were going to buffer for fifteen minutes once I told you.”

“When you told me . . . ?”

“About this.” Her fingers splay against her abdomen, and for a split second his brain short-circuits in the best possible way. It’s happening. This is going to happen. This is his life. He doesn’t deserve it, but somehow this is his life, and—