Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            “Oooh. A story!”

            “But you’d have to keep it secret.”

            “Because it’s embarrassing?”

            “A little.”

            I pout. “Then I can’t do that. You’re my archenemy—I have to slander you. It’s in the contract.”

            “No story, then.”

            “Oh, come on!” I roll my eyes. “Fine, I won’t tell anyone. But FYI, it will probably kill me.”

            He nods. “I’m willing to risk it. You know how my family isn’t happy with me?”

            “Still looking forward to kicking their collective ass at Thanksgiving.”

            “Appreciated. Once I started working for NASA, my mother took me aside and told me that I might be able to redeem myself in my father’s eyes if I applied for the Astronaut Corps.”

            My eyes widen. “Did you do it?”

            “Yep.”

            “And?” I’m leaning closer and closer. This is engrossing. “Did you get in?”

            “Nope. Didn’t even make it through the elimination round.”

            “No! Why?”

            “Too tall. They recently tightened the height restriction—can’t be taller than six two, or shorter than five one.”

            I briefly contemplate the notion that neither Levi nor I fall within astronaut height requirements, but for dramatically different reasons. Wild. “Were you heartbroken?”

            “My family was, yeah.” He looks me straight in the eye. “I was so relieved, my friend and I got passed-out drunk that night.”

            “What?”

            He tips back his head and downs the rest of his drink. I’m not staring at his Adam’s apple, I’m not. “Outer space is fucking terrifying. I’m thankful for the ozone layer and the gravitational pull of the moon and whatnot, but they’d have to tie me like a spit-roasted pig to send me out there. The universe keeps expanding and getting colder, chunks of our galaxy are sucked away, black holes hurl through space at millions of miles per hour, and solar superstorms flare up at the drop of a hat. Meanwhile NASA astronauts are out there in their frankly inadequate suits, drinking liters of their own recycled urine, getting alligator skin on the top of their feet, and shitting rubber balls that float around at eye level. Their cerebrospinal fluid expands and presses on their eyeballs to the point that their eyesight deteriorates, their gut bacteria are a shitshow—no pun intended—and gamma rays that could literally pulverize them in less than a second wander around. But you know what’s even worse? The smell. Space smells like a toilet full of rotten eggs, and there’s no escape. You’re just stuck there until Houston allows you to come back home. So believe me when I say: I’m grateful every damn day for those two extra inches.”

            I stare at him. And stare at him. And stare a little more, open-mouthed. I stare at this man who is six four and two hundred pounds of muscle and just vented to me for five minutes about the fact that space is a scary place.

            God. Oh, God. I think I like him.

            “There’s one single format in which space is tolerable,” he says.

            “Which is?”

            “Star Wars movies.”

            Oh, God.

            I jump out of my seat, grab his hand, and pull him out of the bar. He follows without resisting. “Bee? Where are we—?”

            I don’t bother looking back. “To my hotel room. To watch The Empire Strikes Back.”



* * *



            • • •

                         “YODA’S A BIT of a dick.” I lean over to steal a handful of popcorn from Levi’s lap. My own bag, sadly, is long gone. Should have paced myself.

            “All Jedi are dicks.” Levi shrugs. “It’s the forced celibacy.”