Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            “I needed to drop off the equipment. The storm wasn’t forecasted. But then there was an avalanche nearby, I got scared that my mini-rover would get damaged, started running away without looking, and—”

            “No—why were you alone, Hannah? You were supposed to have someone else with you. That’s what the proposal said.”

            “Oh.” I swallow. “Merel was supposed to come for backup. But he wasn’t feeling well. I offered to wait for him, but he said we’d be losing valuable days of data and that I should just go alone, and I . . .” I squeeze my fingers around the material of Ian’s shirt. “I went. And then, when I called in for help, he told me that the weather was turning, and . . .”

            “Fuck,” he mutters. His arms tighten around me, nearly painful. “Fuck.”

            I wince. “I know you’re mad at me. And you have every right—”

            “I’m not mad at you,” he says, sounding mad at me. “I’m mad at fucking—” I study him, skeptical, as he inhales deeply. Exhales. Inhales again. He seems to cycle through a few emotions that I’m not sure I understand, and ends with: “I’m sorry. I apologize. I usually don’t . . .”

            “Get mad?”

            He nods. “I’m usually better at . . .”

            “Caring less?” I finish for him, and he closes his eyes and nods again.

            Okay. This is starting to make sense.

            “AMASE didn’t send you,” I say. It’s not a question. Ian won’t admit it to me, but in this bunk, next to him, it’s so obvious what happened. He came to Norway to keep me safe. Every step of the way, all he did was to keep me safe. “How did you know that I was going to need you?”

            “I didn’t, Hannah.” His chest rises and falls in a deep sigh. Another man would be gloating by now. Ian . . . I think he just wishes he could have spared me this. “I was just afraid that something might happen to you. And I don’t trust Merel. Not with you.” He says it—you—like I am a remarkable and important thing. The most precious data point; his favorite town; the loveliest, starkest Martian landscape. Even though I pushed him away, over and over, he still came in a rocking boat in the middle of the coldest ocean on planet Earth, just to get me warm.

            I try to lift my head and look up at him, but he presses on it gently and keeps stroking my hair. “You really should rest.”

            He’s right. We both should. So I push a leg between his, and he lets me. Like his body is a thing of mine. “I am sorry. About what I said to you back in Houston.”

            “Shh.”

            “And that I’ve put you in danger—”

            “Shh, it’s okay.” He kisses my temple. It’s wet from the slide of my tears. “It’s okay.”

            “It’s not. You could be working with your team, or asleep in your own bed, but you’re here because of me, and—”

            “Hannah, there is nowhere else I’d rather be.”

            I laugh, watery. “Not even—not even literally anywhere else?”

            I hear him chuckle just before I fall asleep.





Eight


            Before we can leave for Houston, we spend one night in a hotel in Longyearbyen, Svalbard’s main settlement. It offers a bottomless breakfast buffet and keeps the rooms’ temperature about ten degrees higher than needed for comfortable inside dwelling—truly the stuff of post-crevasse-Hannah’s dreams. I’m not sure whether Ian shares my bliss, as he disappears as soon as I’m settled in. It’s fine, though, because I have stuff to do. Mostly writing a detailed report updating NASA on what happened, which doesn’t mention Ian (at his request) but ends in a formal complaint against Merel. After that, I stumble upon a rare moment of grace: I manage to connect to the mini-rover out in the field. I let out a squeal of delight when I realize that it’s collecting the precise type of data I needed. I stare at the incoming feed, remember what Ian said on the boat about how valuable my project would be for future missions, and nearly tear up.

            I don’t know. I must still be shaken up.

            We leave the following day. I’ve done what I came to AMASE for (surprisingly successfully), and Ian needs to be at JPL in three days. The first plane ride is from Svalbard to Oslo, on one of those minuscule aircraft that take off from minuscule airports with their minuscule seats and minuscule complimentary snacks. Ian and I don’t get to sit next to each other, nor do we from Oslo to Frankfurt. I pass the time staring out the window and watching JAG reruns with Norwegian subtitles. By the end of the third episode, I strongly suspect skyldig means “guilty.”