Page 3 of Love Below Zero

3

99 PROBLEMS

BECKY

@b_baxter

Repost of the mission announcement

“I’m going to Mars! I’m so grateful and excited about this opportunity. More information to come soon!”

@reidmorescifi

Reply to @b_baxter

See you on Mars, Baxter.

@yourwordsmyink

Wait a second ... Rebecca Baxter and James Reid are going to be locked in a small room together for four months? This is going to be hilarious. Will it be livestreamed?

I stare at my phone like it might transform into an alien and bite my face off. I recognise the words on the screen, but they’re not registering in my mind. Error 404, comprehension not found. Somewhere out there in the cosmos, a god or an alien beyond our comprehension is fucking with me.

This cannot be happening.

I must have opened and closed the Operation Below Zero press release a hundred times. I even redownloaded Threads on my phone (not my proudest moment) just to make sure I didn’t hallucinate the post from Reid.

It’s still there, the tiny pixels on the screen mocking me.

I’m going to Mars with James Reid. James Reid and I are going to Mars. We’re going to be stuck in extremely close quarters for four months, on a continent with a population of under one thousand people. I’m so blindsided by this that I haven’t been able to form a single coherent thought today. The only thing on my mind has been James fucking Reid.

I let out a slow exhale before snapping like a glow stick.

Me

Any chance you’re actually going to Mars? I hear there’s a colony of condescending assholes up there. You can be their leader.

I hit send on the message before I can think myself out of it, stuffing my phone back into the pocket of my jeans.

It’s not a good day to be plagued by thoughts of a man. I pulled myself out of bed exceptionally early this morning, washed my hair, and put on actual trousers before catching a taxi to my publisher’s office in central London. I’ve come to grovel, and very politely ask for an extension on the deadline of my next book.

My publisher is not pleased with me.

“I know it’s not ideal, but Becky has the opportunity to do some incredible research on this mission,” Mac is saying, her hands resting atop the large conference table of the room we are in. Usually visits to my publisher’s offices are fun. They are filled with bookish goodies or exciting cover reveals and book tour stops. But today we are in the serious boardroom, the one with all the serious books arranged on the bookshelves that take up three walls. The fourth wall is all window, looking out over the Thames in a view I usually appreciate. Not today, and especially not with all the non-fiction book covers glaring at me, probably offended that a romance author is in their midst.

Anne taps her perfectly manicured fingers against the wooden table. She’s a very serious-looking woman with an impressive shock of grey hair and eye for detail. I’ve been working with her since my first book, and while she can be strict, she’s not usually unreasonable. I came in person because talking to her over Zoom or the phone scares the shit out of me. She always speaks in the same tone of voice, so I can only really judge her emotions by seeing her face. And right now her face is telling me she’s pissed, even though her voice is calm.

“Truthfully, when you said you wanted to see me in person today, I was expecting you to hand me a half-decent manuscript. Not to tell me you’re going to be spending four months playing astronaut.”

I do feel bad about my lack of progress on Traverse 4 . I should have been knee-deep in the second or even third draft by now, but every time I open the document, James Reid’s voice rings in my ears: unoriginal . I know where the story is supposed to go, I know what’s supposed to happen—I just can’t bring myself to put words on the page.

I’m usually very singularly focused. The moment I start a project, it’s like blinders have been clapped over my eyes. I immerse myself in it, working only on that project until my brain is begging for release. Some people might call it obsession, but I prefer hyper-focus. The first three Traverse books were like that for me. I spent months—years—perfecting every word, researching wormholes, reading nothing but science fiction and romance. I was hyper-focused to the point that it became detrimental to my health, but I did it. The sci-fi romance of my dreams is out there, and people love it.

Well, some people.

“I might have a small case of writer’s block,” I admit. Mac gives me a sharp look. We weren’t going to admit that to Anne.

Her brows raise in surprise. “That’s very unlike you. Have you had a flare-up?”

“No, I’m fine.” It isn’t an outright lie, but I really don’t want to rehash my health issues with Anne. Her no-nonsense approach extends to my personal well-being as well, and I don’t have the energy for the “losing weight won’t magically cure my disease” conversation again. “I’m just in a rut.”

Anne isn’t convinced. “You’re not still hung up on what that scientist said, are you?”

“No.” Yes. I can’t get his stupid green eyes out of my head. Faded, like prehnite, and shot through with gold like the sun shining through the trees. Or like an upper respiratory infection, the asshole.

Of course I’m still hung up on it. We’ve only met once and he’s managed to completely unmask me. He took all of my fears and insecurities, arranged them in alphabetical order, and meticulously pulled them apart. The thought of another person seeing me so clearly makes me want to crawl out of my skin. I don’t like being perceived.

It’s like he somehow knows I failed at being a scientist, and he’s mocking me for it.

I wasn’t a space kid growing up. I didn’t have glow-in-the-dark stars plastered on my ceiling, and I didn’t have to build a model of the solar system for science class. I was never obsessed with planets or stars. In fact, I didn’t know you could study them until my 10th grade teacher informed me of it when I was choosing subjects.

I grew up on a farm, in the middle of nowhere, South Africa. There were really only two options for me growing up: accounting or agriculture. Neither of them seemed appealing. The only thing that really hooked me were books, and those were hard to come by in rural Eastern Cape. We didn’t even have the internet until after I moved to university.

I was a restless child, and would only really sit still when I had a book to devour. So my mother did everything she could to keep me occupied, including buying me a set of the Fifty Shades of Grey books before I was actually old enough to read them. Eventually, through means I am not willing to disclose, I discovered fan fiction and it went downhill from there. Just the mere thought of fanfiction.net gives me war flashbacks.

My father was a different story. He looked down on the romance books I read, and would often encourage me to pick up science or non-fiction books. I enjoyed those, from time to time, but at sixteen I really was more interested in Edward Cullen’s hair than the mysteries of the universe. Still, my dad tried. On Sundays we would play chess and talk about the books we read. On warm, clear nights he would take me outside and point out all the visible stars and constellations, telling me their stories. Without any light pollution, you could see a whole arm of the milky way from the farm.

Then he died, my first year away at university. And suddenly the chess games and the stargazing didn’t seem so silly to me anymore. It became everything, a way to keep my father close, spend time with him even though he left too soon. He never did see where I ended up.

A deep ache pierced my chest every time I thought of my dad. Would he be proud of me now? A failed physicist but successful romance novelist. One who couldn’t even muster up the courage to tell her publisher the truth about her writer’s block.

“The Traverse series is at a critical point, and I need to get it right,” I say. “This trip is invaluable research.”

“I don’t see how. The study is on food, yes? How does that relate to the story?”

“Frances Jemison is leading the trip,” Mac chimes in. “She’s actually been to space. She’s bound to have some great stories. Becky could interview her.”

“The others on the crew could also provide insights. There’s a geologist and engineer. Plus, it’ll be great publicity.” Anne won’t be able to resist some free publicity. “Few other sci-fi authors have actually had the opportunity to be part of an experiment like this. It’ll bolster my credibility as a writer.”

Anne is silent for a moment, mulling over our arguments.

“You’ll be writing about the experience?” she asks.

“Yes. My role on the team is to liaise with the media, do interviews, write blogs. My name will be mentioned a lot.” I don’t add that I’ll also be running some experiments of my own and assisting the rest of the crew with theirs. It sounds like a lot of work, but four months is a long time to be cooped up indoors in Antarctica.

Since the official announcement, I’ve been reading up on the previous studies done by NASA, as well as accounts from astronauts on their trips to space. I want to be prepared for anything, but most of all I want to be prepared for boredom. Almost every single article I read mentions how boring it is, both in space and on analog missions. I can’t fathom how space can be boring for anyone, but apparently there’s a lot of waiting. In the movie adaptation of The Martian , it seems like non-stop action for Mark Watney as he battles against the elements, but in reality, he did a lot of waiting. Waiting forty minutes for responses from NASA thanks to the communication delay. Waiting for solar panels to recharge. Waiting for potatoes to grow. Plenty of opportunities to be bored.

“And will you have time to actually write? It seems like you’ll be hard at work. This isn’t a vacation, after all,” Anne points out.

“For the first few weeks, probably not. But after we’ve settled, I will have plenty of time to write.”

Anne still looks sceptical of this whole thing.

“It’s asking a lot, but this will be good for me. And it’s something I really want to do. Please, Anne, grant me the extension.”

She sighs, her fingers stilling on the table. “Alright. But I want weekly updates, and I want you to prioritise interviews with literary and science fiction publications. In fact, Mac will make sure you get those interviews.” Anne levels her steely gaze on Mac, who nods. Then she turns that gaze on me. My relief at getting an extension is short-lived.

“Fail to deliver a completed manuscript at the end of the mission, and you’ll be in breach of your contract. We’ll have to consider terminating it at that point.”

I’m the type of person who eats my feelings. Brownies have always been my weakness. My therapist would probably have something to say about that, if I had one. I don’t know how it started, but I do know how it ended. With a pre-diabetes diagnosis and chronic migraines.

In times like these (see severe emotional distress at the thought of losing my publishing contract) all I want is the comfort of a brownie. And then my brain helpfully reminds me that eating gluten triggers my migraines, and I’m forced to find other means of coping with my feelings.

Not today though, because London offers a world of choices, and I know where to find the best allergy-friendly bakery.

Mac and I catch a taxi in silence, processing Anne’s conditions for my participation in the analog mission, and her reminder of what would happen if I breached my contract.

The bright purple exterior of Vida Bakery greets us as we exit the taxi. The smell of cinnamon and chocolate wafts on the breeze, pulling me toward the bakery like a cartoon mouse floating on air. The cheerful pink, purple, and yellow interior immediately makes me feel better. Mac is still bouncing on her feet, all nervous energy with no place to go.

“Grab us a table, and I’ll get your usual,” she says before making her way to the counter. I wander toward one of the tables in the back, sliding into the booth seating along the wall.

Right after my diagnosis, and the life-altering horror I faced in the hospital, I had to make some drastic lifestyle changes. I had been, for a lack of a better description, fat all my life. I’m tall, almost six feet, with broad shoulders and wide hips. My dad was also a big man, and I inherited his heavy bone structure and inability to make insulin.

Somewhere along the way I developed a sort of reverse body dysmorphia. When I looked in the mirror, I looked like I always had. But then I would see myself in photos next to other people, or I’d watch interviews that I had done, and I wouldn’t recognise myself. I still don’t recognise myself.

Mac comes back, setting a cup of tea and a brownie in front of me. “You’re in luck,” she says as she sits down, her own tea and brownie in hand. “They had the gluten-free ones.”

Being an overweight woman and finding a doctor who’s willing to help you with more than just the customary “lose some weight” advice is difficult. The neurologist who diagnosed me in the hospital just shrugged and told me she didn’t know why it was happening, but I probably should take better care of myself. I wondered if she truly believed that losing weight would cure me of my insulin resistance and migraines, as if it was the weight that caused those conditions in the first place.

None of the specialists I saw afterwards bothered to look any deeper. All they saw was a 260-pound woman presenting with migraines, and their seven to ten years of medical school knowledge could only offer “lose weight.” The underlying message of that statement was clear: lose weight and then you’ll be worthy of my time and attention. Lose weight, and if the problems don’t go away, only then I will treat you with actual medicine.

I was not human to them. Not worthy of empathy or care just because I carried some extra weight on my bones.

Eventually, I went back to the place I knew I would be treated more like a human: home.

My mom found a doctor in Johannesburg, and I made the trip back to South Africa. The doctor was kind, and not once did she make me feel like I was some sort of irredeemable, lazy monster just because I was fat.

The inflammation in my body was high, and that was her first concern. We first tried addressing it through the auto-immune protocol diet. It was extreme, especially in the beginning. I could only eat fruits, vegetables, and meat.

The first week was pure agony. I had nightmares of cupcakes chasing me, brownies eating me, and doughnuts trying to strangle me. I was shaky and felt like a herd of wildebeest had run over me. And then Mac, a woman I clearly do not deserve, showed up at my door with a plate of AIP-friendly brownies, and my will to live returned.

Eventually I discovered that a combination of gluten and sugar triggered my migraines, so I had to reduce my intake of both. Thank god for gluten-free bakeries though.

I bite into the brownie, savouring the rich chocolate and slightly nutty taste from the tiger nut flour. “That hits the spot,” I sigh contentedly.

Mac sips her tea, her chestnut brown eyes filled with concern. I’ve always had a hard time making friends. I sometimes hid behind my weight, using it as a shield to keep people at arm’s length. Who could ever love me when I clearly didn’t love myself enough to stay thin? My fatness was a moral failing on my part, and other people would soon discover that. Who would want to be friends with a bad person?

It took me a long time to understand that those thoughts weren’t right, that they weren’t true. I’m still trying to unlearn them.

“Are you okay?” she asks after I polish the brownie and turn to my tea.

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. There is a lot to work through. The mission. Reid. My book.

“Maybe this mission isn’t a good idea. You’re under enough stress as it is.”

I’m probably not the only one who has PTSD from my hospital stay. With my mom back in South Africa, Mac was the only one close enough to help me during that time. She brought me fresh pyjamas when the visit turned from overnight to a whole week, and she sat with me through most of the eight hours I had to lie flat and still after the lumbar puncture. It couldn’t have been easy on her either, seeing my pain like that.

Normally I wouldn’t have let her get that close, but eight hours was a lot of time to spend with nothing but your own thoughts, and I desperately needed a friend.

“That’s exactly why I need to do this mission. Nothing has worked for the writer’s block so far. I need to get out of this funk.”

“And spending four months with James Reid will help?”

I shrug, taking a sip of my tea. “Maybe sacrificing him to the writing gods is exactly what I need to do. And what better place to commit a crime than Antarctica?” I pause, thinking about it for a moment. “If I kill him there, can they prosecute me here? Or is Antarctica like international waters?”

“Don’t google that—MI6 probably already has you on some sort of watchlist. We don’t want you getting kicked out of the country on top of all our other problems.”

I laugh, leaning back against the booth. “But I do so enjoy planning his murders.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t planned his fourth book murder yet.”

“I’ve tried, believe me. Nothing seems to stick.”

Mac sets down her tea cup, brows furrowed. “Perhaps clearing the air between you two will be good for you.”

Mac is the type to take conflict head-on. I’m more the avoid-it-until-I-can-no-longer-contain it type. Expect when it comes to James Reid. I’ll fight him for free.

“We’ll probably have to, if we’re going to work together,” I sigh. The last time I saw James Reid, things did not go well. I try to avoid him, which isn’t hard. Since his video review of my book went viral, he hasn’t been active on any social platform. He put out a post a few months ago about how he was working on a research project in Spain, and that was the last anyone heard of him until the analog mission announcement.

I am definitely not wondering what he’s up to.

“He might even be willing to help you with this book.” The concern in Mac’s eyes is replaced by mischief, and I don’t like where this is going.

“I will not take advice from that man. I would rather be lobotomised.”

Mac snorts. “I’m not saying you should be best friends with him, but he has a lot of knowledge. Just give him a chance. ”

I’m not inclined to give him anything at this point, but Mac is probably right. “I’ll be civil to him, nothing more.”

“I’m also concerned about this study. Are you sure you want to participate in a food study?”

Mac knows how difficult this food journey has been for me.

I nod. “Positive. My food issues are probably why I was selected for the study in the first place.”

I wrote a very detailed essay as part of the application process. I had to answer a standard interview question: why do you want to participate in this study? I was only a few weeks into the diet by then, and had a lot of thoughts rattling around in my brain. So I put them on paper and sent them to the ESA. I must have made an impression to be the only non-scientist on the team.

I try not to let that fact rattle me too much.

It’s been months since my last migraine, and according to recent blood tests, my insulin is almost where it should be.

Mac still looks worried, so I reach over and squeeze her hand. “This will be a good thing for me.” Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll believe it.

She squeezes back. “I guess while you’re gone I’ll finally have some time to really work on Cosy Bakes.”

“You should take the entire four months to do that.” I nod eagerly. There was one good thing that came out of my diagnosis. Mac discovered a love for baking in her quest to satisfy my chocolate cravings. I’ve been trying to convince her to start running her own bakery, but between being my PA and finishing up her business degree, she didn’t have a lot of time. “There will be a forty-minute communication delay anyway, and I’ll be making any social media updates myself. You should take that time off, paid of course.”

“You should be more concerned with writing than anything else. Even if the first draft is shitty, just get it out of your head.”

Easier said than done, but my career and Mac’s career hung in the balance here. If I breached my contract, I wouldn’t be the only one suffering, and I couldn’t do that to Mac.

“I’ll write, I promise.” I really need to make a list of all the things I have to do on this mission. One, write the entire fourth book of my sci-fi series. Two, become a badass scientist. Three, avoid homicide.

Should be easy enough, right?