“Never heard of her.”
“I don’t know.”
“Who?”
Then me. I sat in Cora’s office, wearing my glasses, in front of a bookcase with a few astronomical trinkets arranged aesthetically. “My name’s Jordan Edelman.” My voice blasted from the speakers. “I’m an intern for astrophysicist Cora Bradley. Over the course of this summer, I uncovered a century-old tale about a female astronomer, a stolen discovery, and a romance that ended in heartbreak and betrayal.”
Rose, the writer triplet, sat at the table over from me. She nodded along as the words she’d crafted came from my mouth on-screen, then turned and gave me two thumbs up.
Thank god the video was so short. I couldn’t have taken the agony of me speaking any longer. I focused on the triplets and on the feel of Ethan’s hand around mine as we once more watched the video.
“Andrea Darrel was born on this street on Nantucket, to a fisherman and a homemaker,” I said on-screen, standing in a quaint, windy street downtown. I explained how she’d been inspired by Maria Mitchell to study astronomy at Vassar; Helen Barbanel, in her polished elegant-lady voice, read excerpts of Andrea’s diaries as images from the diaries drifted across the screen.
We laid out what had happened: the astronomy classes, the romance, the engagement, the night when Andrea had written the position of the comet in her diary and woken to find it filed with Harvard under Frederick’s name. The recognition Frederick had received, the welcome with open arms into scientific society, the renown to create his own foundation. The legwork we’d done to figure out what happened. Dr. Trowbridge delivered a clip, too.“My great-grandmother always said she’d discovered the comet. It was an open family secret.”
We cut to a shot of Ethan and me in front of the conference hotel, dressed formally: Ethan in a suit and me in my star-studded dress—the same dress I wore right now. “When we brought our research to the Gibson Foundation, they agreed with us and promised to put out a statement about Andrea’s discovery,” I said, wide-eyed and innocent, before quickly moving on. The less time spent on them, the better.
“Like so many women before her, Andrea Darrel didn’t get credit for her discovery in her lifetime. But her family knew, and celebrated with her,” I said in a voice-over as a photo filled the screen of Andrea Darrel in the 1940s, laughing with her family, a grandchild on her lap. “And we hope this time, as the comet crosses through the skies, everyone will know.”
The video ended with a shot of the last time the comet had passed by Earth. The credits rolled.
Everyone burst into applause. I covered my head with my arms, peeking sideways at Ethan, who grinned at me broadly. “Pretty good,” he said.
“I might be dead now. I think I hate public attention.”
“Well, everyone loves you,” Ethan said. His expression was so bright and gorgeous that though I knew people were looking at us, I didn’t care. I scooted closer to him. Hooking my fingers inside his neckline, I tugged him down and kissed him. Long enough that some of the cousins let out hoots. Laughing, I let go.
“Look at you, you’re blushing,” Ethan said. “You almost never blush.”
I cleared my throat. “I’m overwhelmed and happy and I guess you make me blush.”
“Yeah?” He grinned at me. “Good. I think making you blush is a decent life goal.”
I bit the inside of my cheek so I didn’t smile too hard. “Cool, mine’s going to be revolutionizing the way people think about space debris.”
“I’m happy to be the supportive partner in this relationship.”
This relationship.I studied him quickly. Summer was almost at an end, and we were both headed to separate parts of the country in the next two weeks. It was one thing to date on the island, in the bubble of summer and sea, and another to extend it. Which we both clearly knew, given how we hadn’t talked about it. “Ethan…”
We were interrupted as the triplets bounded up. “It went brilliantly,” Iris announced. “Obviously we already knew it was brilliant from our view count and comments, but this is a very different demographic. A donor demographic, if you will. We should start thinking about future content immediately.”
“Also, we’ve compiled the media requests we want to reply to,” Rose said, pulling up notes on her phone. “A bunch of the big outlets want to interview you. Especially with the Gibson Foundation putting out their statement.”
I froze. “They did? When? What did they say?”
“A few hours ago.” Iris frowned at me, as though to sayWhere have you been?I did not respond because a few hours ago, I’d been making out with Ethan. “Same thing you did, basically, but tried to make it more about them. Don’t worry. Their public metricsdon’t look as good as ours, and we’re still coming up first on search.”
“Um—great?”
“Rose will send you a list of follow-up steps for review,” Iris said, then turned and strode into the crowd, Lily and Rose following, to receive their just rewards. Ethan and I glanced at each other and started laughing as quietly and motionlessly as we could.
All night, people kept coming up to us to congratulate us on the video and to ask questions. “Why did you even decide to investigate?” they wanted to know. “Is the comet’s name going to be changed?”
“I have no idea,” I said, over and over. “I hope so.” And I did, but for once, I was too busy being happy in the moment to worry about the future.
And I was happy, really truly happy. Happy and settled and secure. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I had toproveI was stable and steady: I felt good. I felt like I had control of what I was doing, like I knew how to take steps to get what I want. Because I’d done that, after all. I’d told my dad about all my anxieties, and I’d gotten a job I loved, and I’d put myself out there with the boy I liked even though it terrified me.
And, it turned out, the more I did things that scared me, the less scary they became. So I turned to Ethan. “Hey. Thought I should tell you. I like you. A lot.”
