Chapter 10 #2
Air whooshed past my ears as I lowered my head between my knees. I didn’t know how long I sat like that, but I had a vague sense that this guy was patting my back, asking over and over again, “Are you OK?”
All I could do was shake my head again and croak out, “I’m at least ten thousand light years from OK.”
“Oh jeez,” he said, still patting my back, though the gesture was feeling more awkward by the second. “I’m so sorry.”
I stayed in my crash-landing position, not trusting myself to sit up and face this moment of reckoning.
Think logically, Thea. There had to be a believable explanation.
And then it hit me: Maybe I was being punked.
I whipped up to sitting, and my eyes searched his worried face.
“Please tell me the truth. Did someone put you up to this as a prank?”
“Up to? Prank? Uh, no?” He furrowed his brows. “Usually when I tell people what I do for a living, they don’t believe me at first. I’ve even been accused of making it up as a really bad pickup line. But no one’s ever had a physical reaction like that. I’m really sorry if I upset you.”
I acknowledged his apology with a nod and took a careful inhale. “Are you really, truly an astronaut?” As I stared intently to gauge the sincerity of his answer, I couldn’t help noticing his eyes were the exact same shade of blue as Lucy’s—and Sam’s.
He nodded. “I assure you. I am really, truly an astronaut. Is that going to be a problem for you?” His eyes were alive with hope as he scanned my face.
My stomach did a triple backflip. How was it possible to be utterly stunned by a turn of events that, on some level, I’d been certain would happen?
Yet here I was. With synapses rapid-firing across all my neural zones, I looked him up and down.
I had zero bandwidth for subtlety. He was objectively gorgeous and looked a little like Sam.
And he was a freaking astronaut to boot.
Was it possible I had written my own reality yet again?
But how could I trust he was who he said he was?
“Quick. Tell me something astronaut-y.” I snapped my fingers.
He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Astro-naughty?”
“Shut up.” I waved him off. “I’m a writer. I’m allowed to make up words. Stop stalling.”
“A writer, huh? OK, I’ll play . . . Let’s see . . . there are more stars in the universe than grains of sand on Earth.”
From the research I’d done for my book, that sounded right. I stared at him. “Have you ever been lost in space?”
“Not lost, exactly. But late to return? Yes.”
“How late?” I leaned in.
“Five days.”
Five days, not five years. Still, on this exceptionally warm morning, I felt a chill.
“What do you write?” he asked. “Anything I might know?”
“Free tip alert.” I stifled an eye roll.
“Don’t ever ask a writer if she’s written something you might have heard of.
Think about it: How do I know what you might have read?
For all I know, you never made it past Harry Potter or you only read comic books.
But to answer your question: I just published a novel featuring a romance between a writer and an astronaut. ”
It took a moment for this to sink in. Then his eyes widened like flying saucers. “For real?”
“Yup.”
“I see,” he said, looking over at the dogs. After a few seconds, he turned to face me, beaming like a kid on his birthday. “I hope this won’t sound too forward, but I know exactly where we should go for our first date.”
“Oh, you do, huh?”
“Yes, Thea.” He grinned. “I mean, come on: Don’t we at least have to find out if this,” he said, pointing back and forth between us, “is written in the stars?”
My jaw dropped. I was trying to decide if he was perhaps a tad too smooth for me, when he reached into his pocket and fished out his phone. He held it out to me, his face eager.
I took it, tapped in my number, then screamed, “Sam The Dog!” at the top of my lungs, breaking my rule of not using his real name in public.
But this felt like an emergency, and there was only a small chance he would respond to Buddy on the first, or even the third, try and I didn’t want to risk summoning the two-hundred-pound Buddy.
I needed Frannie now. I scooped up my obnoxious beagle and made for the park exit without so much as a goodbye.
As I sprinted toward Frannie’s apartment, I refused to look back to confirm whether Max was watching my graceless escape.
As each step carried me farther away from the park and that shocking encounter, a feeling of dread descended.
What the hell had just happened? Had I really met an astronaut who resembled Sam on the official pub day of Love You to Mars and Back?
I arrived at Frannie’s apartment building and breezed past the doorman, who had a standing order to let me in. I hopped in the elevator and then banged on her door. She opened it and I whispered, “Emergency.”
Nodding, she pointed to her noise-canceling headphones to indicate she was in a meeting, then held up a finger and ran to hit the mute button in her bedroom/office. For a moment, I regretted interrupting her.
When she returned, she said, “Holy shit, Thee. Have you been running?” After one of our college roommates had likened my awkward stride to the equivalent of Elaine from Seinfeld dancing, Frannie knew that me running for any reason was a red flag. “Are you OK?”
Am I OK? No, definitely not. But I needed Frannie to help me figure out what degree of not OK I was.
Like, I’m a danger to myself or others not OK?
Or a little overtired and overstressed and in need of a hot bath and a nap not OK?
Or, don’t mind me I’ve just got a touch of the magical superpowers in me not OK?
Had I somehow done the impossible yet again and published my own reality?
But what I said was, “I’m pretty sure I met an astronaut in the park, and he was smoking hot and had absurdly good balance, which I know is neither here nor there, but it was definitely a thing, and I think he was a real live person and not a figment of my imagination, but he kind of reminded me of Sam—his eyes were the same color blue and his hair was brown and swoopy and he was wearing a pair of shorts from the same brand that sponsored Sam—and I’m not completely sure of anything and I’m sorta freaking out here. ”
Frannie stared at me for an uncomfortably long few seconds and then went back to her bedroom.
She spoke loudly, presumably for my benefit.
“Hey, team, I’m really sorry to do this, but I have a bit of a crisis here that I need to handle.
Yeah. An action-item memo would be great.
Yup. Thanks, I appreciate that.” Then she went straight to the kitchen, and when she returned, she handed me a glass of water and motioned to the sofa.
“I’m gonna need you to sit down, take three deep breaths, then three slow sips, and then tell me everything again. ”
And so I did.
When I finished, her response was classic Frannie.
“I don’t think we have enough data to accurately assess the situation.
I’m not too worried about the part where he seems like Sam.
I know you’re only just getting back out there, but you’re basically describing every dude in LA.
If he asks you out, you should definitely go. ”
“What if he’s some sort of weird literary stalker?” I asked, rubbing my temples.
“The coincidences are a bit uncanny,” Frannie admitted. “But your book came out today, so not too many people could have read it yet, right?”
“My publisher sent at least fifty copies out to the media and book influencers over the last couple of months. And it’s been up on NetGalley for a while so people could review it in advance of the launch.
So a fair number of people could have read it.
Anyway, this will probably all be moot. There’s no way he’ll text after how abruptly I left him there.
I’m sure he’s thinking he dodged a bullet. ”
“Well, if he does, let’s make sure we’re careful,” Frannie said. “I’ll track you on Find My Friends—and don’t give him your address, no matter what. And remember, if things don’t work out, there’s always Hot ER Doc.”
I rolled my eyes. “We’ll see.”
“Oh, we will see,” Frannie said with a sly smile.