Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            “By the way, I sent you my cousin-or-something’s contact info a while ago,” Mara tells me one night. We’re at the cheapest grad bar we’ve been able to find. She’s on her second Midori sour of the night. “Did you get it?”

            I raise my eyebrow. “Is that the random string of numbers you emailed me three days ago? With no subject line, no text, no explanations? The one I figured was just you tracking your lottery dream numbers?”

            “Sounds like it, yeah.”

            Sadie and I exchange a long look.

            “Hey, you ungrateful goblin, I had to call about fifteen people I’d sworn never to talk to again to get Ian’s number. And I had to have my evil great-aunt Delphina promise to blackmail him into saying yes once you reach out to ask for a meeting. So you better use that number, and you better play the Mega Millions.”

            “If you win,” Sadie added, “we split three ways.”

            “Of course.” I hide my smile in my glass. “What’s he like, anyway?”

            “Who?”

            “The cousin-or-something. Ian, you said?”

            “Yup. Ian Floyd.” Mara thinks about it for a second. “Can’t really say, because I’ve met him at, like, two Thanksgivings fifteen years ago, before his parents split. Then his mom moved him to Canada and . . . I don’t even know, honestly. The only thing I remember is that he was tall. But he was also a few years older than me? So maybe he’s actually three feet. Oh, also, his hair is more brown? Which is kind of rare for a Floyd. I know it’s scientifically unsound, but our brand of ginger is not recessive.”

            Great-Aunt Delphina’s emotional manipulation game is clearly on point, because when my assignment’s deadline approaches and I text Ian Floyd in a panic, asking for an informational interview—whatever the hell that is—he replies within hours with an enthusiastic:

                             Ian: Sure.

                Hannah: Thanks. I’m assuming you’re in Houston. Should we do virtual? Skype? Zoom? FaceTime?

                Ian: I’m in Pasadena at JPL for the next three days, but virtual works.



            The Jet Propulsion Lab. Hmm.

            I drum my fingers on my mattress, pondering. Virtual would be so much easier. And it would be shorter. But as much as I hate the idea of writing a report for Helena’s class, I do want to ask this guy a million questions about Curiosity. Plus, he’s Mara’s mysterious relative, and my curiosity is piqued.

            No pun intended.

                             Hannah: Let’s meet in person. The least I can do is buy you coffee. Sound good?



            No reply for a few minutes. And then, a very succinct That works. For some reason, it makes me smile.



* * *





            My first thought upon entering the coffee shop is that Mara is full of shit.

            To the brim.

            The second: I should really double-check the text Ian sent me. Make sure that he really said I’ll be wearing jeans and a gray t-shirt like I seem to remember. Of course, it would be a little redundant, especially considering that the coffee shop where he asked to meet is currently populated by only three people: a barista, busy doing a pen-and-paper sudoku like it’s 2007; me, standing in the entrance and looking around, confused; and a man, sitting at the table closest to the entrance, gazing pensively through the glass windows.

            He’s wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt, which would suggest: Ian. The problem . . .

            His hair is the problem. Because, despite what Mara said, it’s most definitely not brown. Maybe a fraction of a shade darker than her bright, carroty orange, but . . . really not brown. I’m ready to dial her number and demand to know what ridiculous ginger scale the Floyds operate on when the man slowly stands and asks, “Hannah?”

            I have no idea how tall Ian is, but he’s much closer to eight feet than to three. And I find it very interesting that Mara claims to barely know him, considering that they look like they could be siblings, not just because of the aggressively red hair, but also because of the dark-blue eyes, and the dusting of freckles over pale skin, and . . .