All Our Almosts (NASA #1)

1

I love Boston, but I don’t know if Boston loves me back.

Especially on nights like this, when my friends are late and I just watched a biker almost die making an illegal U-turn in front of a 66 bus and my nose has frozen into a solid block of ice.

There’s a group of kids—no older than 15, I swear—blowing vape smoke at me and God now it’s starting to snow.

“Watch where ya goin’, ya fuckin’ lunatic!”

That was the bus driver to the biker, and you know what, he has a point.

You’d think I would be used to the cold. I grew up in Minnesota. Like deep north, rural Minnesota. But I always tell people: just because I’ve been cold before doesn’t mean I like it.

And actually, despite the fact that I’m freezing my butt off outside of a Chinese restaurant on a grimy block of Allston, counting double parked cars and getting frostbite, I’m in the best mood.

Because today was a good day. A great day, even.

Well, maybe “great” is premature, I wouldn’t want to jinx myself, but definitely a good day

Because about an hour ago I got a call—and yes I answer the phone for unknown numbers, because what if it’s something important and I miss it and then I never know what they were going to say?—offering me an interview with my dream grad school program.

I know! I’m so excited.

I went to Ashmore for undergrad, so I already know and love the campus.

That’s where I met my best friends, actually—the ones who should be here any minute.

And the Ashmore Graduate School of Education is one of the best in the country for what I want to do.

So the fact that I even got offered an interview is a good sign.

It makes me think maybe I’m not crazy for considering going for a PhD in the first place.

Even though it’s a little crazy. But I definitely want to do it.

(I definitely want to do it, right?)

A low voice rumbles from my right, “There’s the genius herself,” and I spin around to see one of my favorite people in the world.

“Andy!” I squeal as he pulls me up into a full off-the-ground hug.

He mutters “I’m proud of you” into my hair, and that means a lot coming from him. I love the guy, but he’s not exactly a words-of-affirmation kind of friend. He’s more of a stoic-silences kind of friend.

Maybe that’s not fair. He talks to me plenty, now that we’ve been friends for nine-plus years. And he talks to the rest of NASA too, just… no one else really.

Oh, I should explain. It’s kind of stupid, but my best friends from college call ourselves NASA because it’s an acronym for our names: Nolan, Andy, Sophie, and Amelia—even though Amelia only ever goes by Lia, but NASL is a bad acronym.

“Dr. Sophie Lindell,” Andy says, setting me down and pulling back to look me in the eye with a little hint of a smile that means more from him than a full smile means from anyone else. “Sounds good.”

“Well, I’m not in yet, so we’re not counting our chickens.” I lean over to the nearest tree and knock on the wood. “If Ashmore doesn’t take me my next best option is in San Diego, so please let me be superstitious for another month at least.”

“Did you tell your work you’re leaving yet?”

I grimace and shake my head. “That falls under not jinxing it.”

“Ah hah.”

“Besides, I don’t want to stress out the team until after the new exhibit launches. And I especially don’t want to give them an extra reason to scrutinize me during my first project lead.”

I love my job. I know people always say that and they’re usually lying because they’re usually a consultant for McKinsey or a mid-level grunt at Facebook or whatever, but I genuinely love mine.

I’ve been working at the Boston Museum of Science since the week after college graduation, when they hired me to guide tours for school groups at a generous $13.25/hour ($1.25 above the state minimum wage!)

. And even with the horrible pay, I still really love it.

I’ve been working my way up the ranks slowly over the last five years, and several months ago they finally promoted me to a Project Manager role on the exhibits team.

But exhibits take a long time to design and fundraise for and build, so the exhibit launch next month will be the first one under my supervision. I’m really nervous, but I’m really excited too. Sometimes. When it’s not eclipsed by the nervousness.

Also, remember the grad school interview I mentioned before? Well, in my PhD I want to research the effects of extracurricular education—like museums—on student outcomes, so I really want to be able to cite this as a relevant experience. In other words: it has to go well.

“They all love you,” Andy says in that deadpan way of his, referring to my work team even though he’s never met them and has no way of knowing that. “Don’t worry so much about their feelings and tell them when you want to.”

“Yeah, okay,” I reply, but it’s muffled by the click-clack of my chattering teeth. Yes, they literally chatter like a cartoon character. I wasn’t kidding before about not liking the cold.

“Should we go in?” Andy asks, eyeing me with an expression in his dark eyes that some would take as anger, but I know is just concern.

“Yes, please.”

“Do we have a reservation?”

“Ooh…” I try to grit my chattering teeth. “I totally meant to do that.”

“Don’t tell me.” Andy’s looking at me like I’m Saran Wrap—totally transparent.

“Shut up! Shut your mouth right now, Andrew. It’s a good system.”

“Even using the word system is generous. I’d bet 80% of your to-do notes get lost before they happen. I still don’t know how you got through college.”

“Beep boop. I. Am. Robot. Andy. I keep information perfectly organized in my brain without writing it down. It is so cool to be me.”

Andy rolls his eyes as he holds the door open, letting me walk in under his arm.

“Welcome,” chimes the woman at the hostess stand. “How many in your party?”

“Four—” Andy starts but I jump in with “Five, please.” Then, to Andy, “Elliot is coming too. Sorry, should have mentioned that.”

He swallows down whatever comment was really on the tip of his tongue, then says, “Got it.”

I’m not blind. I know Andy and Elliot have never particularly liked each other.

But there’s no open hostility there either, so it’s workable.

They’re just very different people. Elliot—that’s my boyfriend, by the way—is a perfectly good guy.

He works hard, likes art and music, has a good relationship with his family…

there’s nothing not to like. I think it just takes a certain personality to crack the eggshell that is Andy Walsh’s cold, hard exterior, and Elliot does not have that personality. At least, that’s my working hypothesis.

There’s no wait for a table, so the hostess walks us over to a circular booth with red pleather seats that some would call “well-loved” but I would call "disintegrating." The room is dramatically lit in reds and greens, and the pre-karaoke hype playlist is blaring.

Did I mention Fridays are karaoke nights here? We absolutely love this place. At least, Lia, Nolan, and I do—and Andy loves us.

“Should we get a pitcher of something?” I ask, opening my menu. “I definitely need some kind of fried noodle situation for food, but… oh I forgot they have mai tai bowls for groups! We have to do it.”

I look up at Andy in time to catch the tiniest twitch of his lips.

So miniscule that only a trained eye would notice it.

But I’ve been training for the Olympics of Decoding Andy’s Microexpressions for nine years and I know that means he wants the mai tai bowl as bad as I do.

In fact, I’m confident he’s opening his mouth to say so when a shrill “Ahhhhh!” echoes across the dining room.

Lia rockets herself into the booth and pins me in a hug. “Sophie, you did so good! I’m so happy for you.” Chaotic cheek kisses and laughter follow. I love her.

Lia is painfully gorgeous. Really. She has this long hair that curls just the right amount towards the ends, like little ringlets.

And she has these big brown doe eyes—that totally belie her true evil nature, by the way—mile-long legs, and olive-tan skin.

Her dad is Sicilian and her mom is French, but let me tell you: dad’s genes were strong.

We met as randomly assigned freshman roommates, and it’s a good thing we got along so well because otherwise I would’ve been extremely intimidated by her.

She’s a triple threat: smart, creative, and beautiful.

She double majored in business and fiber arts—which is so cool in and of itself—and now she runs a (lucrative!)

social media account that brings art school techniques to people without art school money.

Power to the people et cetera et cetera.

Her content is colorful and cheerful and unapologetically girly and I would genuinely be a huge fan even if I didn’t know her.

She was also an independent fiber artist in her spare time, because everything else wasn’t enough.

“Hey, save some of that for me!” a voice bellows from the edge of the booth, and I know it belongs to Nolan—the N of NASA and our last missing piece. He practically drags his little sister off of me, then takes her place and squeezes me in a hug of his own. “Great job, Soph. We’re rooting for you.”

Nolan is big. I’m going to guess at least 6’3” and bulky (the boy loves the gym). He has a strong resemblance to Lia—same tan skin, medium-brown curls, light brown eyes—but completely different energy. He’s like a great dane puppy: huge and innocent and lovable.

“Thanks,” I laugh as Nolan lets go. “I admit I feel a little silly calling you guys out to celebrate an interview. I realize it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Stop,” Andy says, blunt as ever. “It is a big deal.”

The waiter arrives then to take our drink orders—one Signature Mai Tai Bucket? plus waters for everyone—and by the time he’s delivered the drink monstrosity with five colorful straws, the missing mouth for straw number five is here. I look up at him with a smile.

“Hi honey, thanks for coming all the way out here.”

“Hey everybody,” Elliot nods to the group. “How’s it going?”

He’s dressed for work—blue suit, dark blonde hair combed to the side, and bags under his eyes that say it’s been a long week.