Page 61 of The Love Simulation

It’s a small desk, really meant for one, but we’ve managed to squeeze in two chairs. Roman inspects a specimen under a microscope and answers questions about its properties on a form provided, while a magnifying glass sits forgotten in front of me. This busywork is boring, and I find my mind drifting all too easily.

Roman and I have found a good rhythm, so most of the past week has become boring and stagnant. We wake up, exercise, clean the dust off the solar panels, come inside, clean the dust off the furniture, perform any number of experiments with rocks, check the crops in the greenhouse, then call it a day.

I’m always counting down the hours until we can get away from the cameras and microphones and justbewithout worrying about being seen or overheard.

“I’m hoping the other shoedoesn’tdrop,” Roman says.

“But things have been so quiet and boring.”

When it’s quiet in the Hab, it’s too loud in my mind. There are too many hours in the day I spend thinking about After. How will it be going back to school. If—when—Roman and Iend things after this, how am I going to act normal around him? I know too much about him now. I know his taste buds aren’t picky in the least. Food for him really is just fuel, though he’s partial to meat. I know his drawing skills are trash. I know his body heats up like an inferno at night, but it’s still the perfect temperature to snuggle up against. I’m not likely to forget it either.

So yeah, I need something here to break up the quiet so I’m not going out of my mind and beginning to imagine a life that includes Roman in the After.

“It’s boring by design,” Roman says. “Life on Mars won’t always be about managing one crisis after another. There will be long stretches of time when nothing happens but routine. We’re showing them how people will handle it.”

“Why do you have to make so much sense?” I blow out a breath and pick my magnifying glass back up.

My worksheet is asking about the layers of the rock. I lean forward to inspect it, but my unbound braids fall in my face, blocking out the light coming from the lamp above us. I push my braids back, but they don’t stay in place when I lean forward again.

I jump when I feel Roman’s fingers brush my shoulders and my neck as he gathers the braids and acts as my hair holder.

“Thank you,” I say, able to find the pattern in the rock without the hindrance of shadows. It’s not until after I put my findings to paper that Roman releases my hair.

Instead of verbalizing aYou’re welcome, Roman moves his hand under the table, where the cameras can’t see, and squeezes my thigh. I’m only too pleased when he leaves it there as we complete our work.

After we’re done, when it’s too early and would look too suspicious if we both went to the bedroom, Roman sits atthe kitchen table, writing in his journal. I haven’t cracked mine open in days, but I love that he uses his.

“What are you writing about in there?” I ask, trying to be nosy but not really expecting an answer.

He looks up and smirks. “You.”

“Sure. And let me guess, it says, ‘The nerdy vice principal won’t stop complaining about being bored.’ ”

“Nope.” He clears his throat. “The nerdy vice principal kept me awake with her snoring again.”

I know it’s all in good fun, and while I love who I am, something about hearing Roman call me a nerd is a huge prick to my ego. And like so many things, it goes back to feeling like I’m not measuring up somehow. Does hereallylike this nerd, or does he only seem into me because we’re conveniently trapped here together?

“Ha ha,” I say, trying to save face. I rise from the table. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. I’m going to go check on the greenhouse again.”

I leave before he has a chance to respond or before I can do anything lame like let any tears escape. I haven’t had a good cry in what seems like weeks, and I’m clearly due for one.

But before I can make it more than five steps inside the greenhouse, Roman is there.

“Brianna, wait,” he says.

I glance at him over my shoulder but keep walking, going straight for the dandelions. Seeing that the things still won’t grow adds more frustration, and I know I’m reaching a tipping point.

Roman joins me at the plot, our shoulders nearly touching.

“What is wrong with these? Why won’t they grow?” I ask, hating the telltale quiver in my voice. “I think they gave us some bad seeds.”

“I don’t. Just because they’re taking a while doesn’t mean they won’t sprout and grow.”

If the dandelions are anything like me, they can have thirty years and still not do anything.

I sigh. If I’m comparing my life to that of a weed, I’m taking this pity party too far.

“I didn’t get to finish telling you about my journal entry,” Roman says.

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