We’d told them what we were doing, but I felt terrified all over again as I set up the video on my monitor at work. Dad came toCora’s office so I only had to go through this once—after finding Ethan’s stage fright kind of cute, it was embarrassing to realize I, too, hated the idea of having anyone watch anything I’d produced. I’d considered emailing it to Dad and Cora, but then I worried I’d be in too much agony knowing theycouldbe watching it, but not knowing if theywere.
I pressed play.
“I can’t watch,” I said to Ethan a mere five seconds in, from the back of Cora’s office. “It’s killing me.”
“It’s only three minutes long!”
“It’s already been three hundred years.” I backed out the door and into the hall, unable to watch my face on the screen for the zillionth time.
Ethan followed me as I curled up into a little ball on the floor. “Do you think they hate it?” I asked my knees. “They probably hate it.”
I could hear him crouching down in front of me, feel his warmth and then his hand on my leg. “You stood up to Charles Gibson himself. I think you can handle a video.”
“No. I cannot. It has defeated me.”
Another three hundred years passed, then the door swung open. “There you are!” Dad said, a huge grin on his face. “What are you doing out here?”
My head jerked up so fast I swear I strained my neck. Ow. “What did you think?”
“It was great!”
My jaw dropped, weighed down by shock. “Really? You liked it?”
“I thought it was amazing,” Dad said, and maybe he was contractually obliged to think/say so, but a warmth still spread throughout my body. I glanced at Cora.
She smiled. “I’m impressed. Short, to the point—you got everything across in an interesting and informative way.”
“So”—I looked back at Dad—“you think we can post it?”
“I don’t see why not.”
I looked at Ethan. He looked at me. The video was loaded and prepped to go on my phone, and we were within the timeframe Iris had given me during which a video gained the most views.
“Are you ready?” Ethan asked.
I wasn’t sure. It wasscary, putting myself out there, not sure if the establishment would come yell at me or say I was a liar or be dismissive or put me down. But I had done the research. And I was right. Andrea Darrel had discovered that fucking comet.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.” I opened the app. “But. Yes.”
I hit post.
***
At first, there was nothing.
It was a letdown. Barely anyone viewed or watched it. It was tough to sit there, waiting for some grand finale, epic fireworks, and getting nothing.
“Come on,” Ethan said an hour after posting, when we’d only gotten a handful of views, not enough to engage any social mediaalgorithms. “Let’s go sailing. The important thing is, we know. And if Gibson makes his announcement, maybe the media will pay attention then, and notice our video.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, though I felt pretty down. Still, I pulled myself together and went out on the water with Ethan.
It had rained the night before, and the sky was that strange washed-out color that followed a storm—as faded as a pair of jeans, leached of color by the torrents of water. The clouds, though, had depth, a darkish purple on the bottom, the top a shimmery warm white, like the sunny glow of twinkle lights.
“Turn your phone off,” Ethan said when I kept glancing at it.
“I might die of withdrawal.”
He pulled me closer and kissed the breath out of me. “You don’t think I can keep you entertained?”
