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As I watched Sergei climb into his formfitting spacesuit, I couldn’t help but wonder: Did I want a white Russian cosmonaut—or just a White Russian and a Cosmo?
Meanwhile, back at base camp on Olympus Mons, Samantha was experiencing her own volcanic eruption.
What really took my breath away: Was it Big’s spontaneous proposal as we orbited the moon, or the air leak that was rapidly depleting our oxygen supply?
The problem was that Charlotte and Harry were like Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong. Buzz did all the grunt work—but Neil always came first.
Did I actually want to go on a two-month solo voyage into outer space? Or, after three years of intensive training with Aidan at NASA, did I just need some space?
What could go wrong with this coupling? Miranda, the universe’s first interstellar lawyer, and Jackie, a nonbinary space pirate who smuggled rocket fuel (and the occasional pair of Manolos)?
Big’s rejection was crushing—and it didn’t help that his breakup signal from Cape Canaveral arrived just as I was dealing with a 4-g liftoff.
And just like that, I went from the V.I.P. section of the hottest planet in the solar system, Venus, surrounded by the brightest stars and starlets, to having my matter undergo spaghettification inside a black hole.
Afterward, as we cuddled in Zelgon’s lair, with it enfolding me tightly in all thirteen of its muscular, ooze-covered tentacles, the irony hit me like an asteroid: it was only with an alien from a galaxy I’d never even heard of before last week that I finally felt . . . at home.
Steve had mostly adjusted to the atmosphere on Neptune—and to life as a bachelor. But that night, on his first date after his split from Miranda, he suffered a catastrophic failure to launch.
I needed to process everything that had happened, so I met the ladies at our favorite brunch spot, in the kitchen core module, for thermostabilized tangy quiche—and a pitcher or three of Tang mimosas.
After the explosion in the command bay and losing contact with ground control, I finally had some time to think. We’re all just hurtling toward the infinite void in our own escape capsules. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, you find the person you want to spend the rest of your days with, tapping out Morse code from their escape capsule, until you’re both induced into centuries-long cryogenic sleep. And, sister, could I use a good nap. ♦
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