Page 11 of The Kiss Countdown

My lips twitch, then I continue applying makeup while Gina goes back to her phone.

“Vincent Rogers. Age thirty-four. Six feet, one inch. Unmarried with zero children,” Gina reads. “It says here that he graduated from UCLA with an engineering degree as well as a degree in geology. He did Search and Rescue for three years, got his pilot’s license, and was teaching at UCLA before being selected for NASA’s training program.”

I make a small humming sound, like these are facts I’m hearing for the first time. In actuality, I spent more time than I care to admit reading up on Vincent through NASA’s web page and Wikipedia. I even watched some of his interviews on YouTube.

In the media he comes across as the stereotypical astronaut—capable, knowledgeable, and brave. A hero working toward the advancement of humankind. He’s one of four astronauts who will go on a historic six-month mission to the moon. They’ll study its surface to help NASA understand how humans will survive in deep space long term.

Vincent always seemed passionate yet humble in the interviews. In not one did he interrupt or give unsolicited advice. Or antagonize his interviewers.Notlike he did around me.

Derrick claimed I had a bubbly persona in public that was perfect for engaging people on a superficial level, but then in private I was too closed off. Clearly, Vincent also has an alter ego for the public, while in person he’s irritating. Hot, but irritating.

“He’s had more careers than most people I know,” Gina says. “Who does he think he is, Barbie?”

“Don’t you mean Ken?”

She shakes her head. “Nope. Do you know what Ken is mostly known as? A beach bum. Barbie’s been the one bringing home the bacon since the 1950s.”

“Why are we even talking about Barbie?”

“I have no idea, because what I really want to know is why a man like Astronaut Hottie even needs someone to pose as his girlfriend?”

I pause from considering which eyeshadow to pick and shake my head. “Your guess is as good as mine. He said he had his reasons.”

“Don’t we all?”

When I can’t decide which color to go with, I finally give up and throw my head back.

“What’s wrong?” Gina asks.

“I don’t know about this. Do you think I should even be going out with him tonight? This is crazy, right? It’s crazy.”

“Hell yes, I think you should go out there! It’s been forever since you loosened up and had fun. What else are you going to do if you don’t go? Hole up and watch Times Square?”

It’s eerie how well Gina knows me.

“You already made the commitment, so you need to see this date through.”

“It’s not a date,” I correct her. I need Gina to get that fact straight. “It’s a favor. A onetime deal to pay him back for helping me with Derrick, and that’s it. And you’re right.” I sigh. “I did make a commitment.”

Gina waves a hand in the air. “Favor. Date. Whatever you want to call it. Just go.” She slides from the counter and grabs the eyeshadow palette, pointing to the shimmering gold square. “Put this one on.”

“You don’t even know if this will match what I’m wearing.”

“Let me guess, the green dress with one shoulder?”

I snatch the makeup back and grudgingly admit, “Yes. I swear, either you know me too well or you’ve been spying on me through some crystal ball.”

Gina narrows her eyes. “Have you been talking to Mack’s mom? Because you know she thinks I’m a vixen who’s warped her son’s mind with my magical vagina. I mean, yeah, in the immortal words of Mya: ‘My love is like... wo.’ But I’m only human.”

“I take it that the recent visit didn’t go too well?”

“Can you believe Mack’s mom is still complaining that I haven’t gotten rid of my dog? She thinks it’s disrespectful to have an animal around with the same name as her precious son.” Gina makes a gagging motion. “Never mind the fact that I adopted Mack Jr. before I even met her son and that my pooch is as sweet as can be. At this point, I don’t even think her dislike of me is about the names.”

I shake my head but notice how Gina runs her thumb over the large area on her arm where brown turns cream. I know it hurts Gina that Mack’s mom hasn’t fully accepted her. I don’t know if she thinks Gina’s vitiligo is some kind of defect that reflects badly on her son or if she’s simply upset over the fact that her son has a new number one in his life. I’m glad to have met the woman only once. Seeing my best friend sad raises all my hackles, and I don’t know if I’d be able to maintain civility around her. She reminds me of the grandmother I haven’t reached out to since we left San Antonio all those years ago, with her antiquated mindset that women, Black women especially, should be infallible. Strong, hardworking even at the expense of their health, and looking perfect while doing it.

“Hey,” I say softly. “You do know it’s her loss if she doesn’twant to get to know the future mother of her grandchildren. I mean, I can’t speak to the state of your vagina and if it’s some cauldron of magic, but I’ve known you more than half my life and can confidently say the real magic is in your heart.”

“Aww, thanks, Mimi. You know you’re the queen to my bee,” Gina says, using the silly saying we made up in middle school when we started a girl band called the Queen Bees. We had convinced ourselves we’d someday tour with Beyoncé. These days we use it whenever one of us is feeling particularly sappy, or as a placeholder forI love you.

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