Binary Systems [Complete, Slice-of-Life Sci-Fi Romance]

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Vera: Once you're honest with yourself, you'll start to see a contrast between what you tell yourself and what you hear from other people. That's a good first step.

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Sol 512 FY 26, 11:00 Mars Time, Bonestell Crater Colony, Hab Layer, 9.32.002.B

Marie handed over the tray and slid into the seat across from Vera, brushing a damp curl out of her face. The cookies were a bit too moist from the pressure-baking—still soft, still good—but their touch left a thin sheen on her fingertips. She licked them absently.

Vera blew on her tea and watched her with that same faint smile she'd worn since Marie started explaining. Encouraging. Not indulgent.

"So," Vera said, voice low and warm, "you told him to make a choice."

Marie nodded.

Vera took a sip of tea. "Are you ready for what happens if he chooses you?"

Marie opened her mouth, then closed it again. "That depends."

"On?"

"I need to know what he did," Marie said. "Not just. . . vaguely. I want to know what actually happened."

Vera tilted her head. "Do you?"

Marie frowned. "Yes. Obviously."

"That's not obvious," Vera said, tapping one neatly manicured finger against her mug. "It's your choice, of course. But let's seek clarity. What is it you think the facts will give you?"

"I don't know," Marie muttered. "Maybe it'll help me decide. Give me clarity."

The gingerbread was warm in her mouth, but she scarcely tasted it. The conversation was making her stomach feel hollow.

Vera arched a brow. "Then let's make that decision clearer. What would you need to know to not forgive him?"

Marie fell quiet. The smell of cardamom and yeast clung to her shirt. The hab was warm. Too warm. "I guess. . . if it was something really bad."

"Define 'really bad,'" Vera said, insistently. "Not out loud. Just for yourself. Picture it."

Marie did. The first broadcasts with the second picture hadn't taken their censorship duties very seriously. She could picture exactly what she was afraid of.

Vera let the silence stretch. "All right," she said softly. "If that's what happened—your worst-case version—what would you do?"

Marie stared at the half-eaten cookie in her hand. "I . . . I think I'd still forgive him."

Vera didn't react. Just sipped her tea.

"If he actually comes to Mars," Marie went on. "If he gave up everything to be here, to be with me—it pretty much could only be because he wants me—so yeah. That's enough. That would mean something. Maybe not to Ma, but it would to me."

Vera nodded slowly. "And if it's not the worst case? Suppose he'd done something milder? Something you could almost laugh about in ten years?"

Marie gave a brittle little huff. "Then obviously I'd forgive him."

"Then here's the real question," Vera said. "Do you actually want to know what he did?"

Marie looked up.

"Not in theory," Vera went on, tone quiet now. "Really think about it. Do you want to know? Or are you afraid that knowing the truth will only make it worse to live with, not better?"

Marie didn't answer. She just turned her cookie over in her fingers, gently pressing crumbs back into its main mass, smoothing it.

Vera leaned back slightly. "Sometimes," she said, "it's better to make up your mind ahead of time, for clarity's sake."

Marie swallowed.

After a moment, she said, "I'll think about it."

Vera smiled. "That's all I wanted. Whether or not there's a right choice, I wanted to be sure you remembered this was a choice."

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping tea, the cookies going sticky in the warm air. The hum of the hab systems was the only sound, soft and even.

Marie wasn't sure when she made the decision.

But she didn't want to hear another word about it.

–––❖–––

The call connected.

"Marie, I—" Gordon began.

"Don't speak," she said. "Just listen."

She heard the silence settle in. That was good. He was listening.

"You do this thing," she said, keeping her voice steady. "When someone asks yes-or-no, you try to explain. Add context. I get it. But if we're going to have a future, you can't do that now."

Another pause. Still listening.

"So just answer this," she said. "Do you want me?"

A beat passed.

"Yes," he said. "I do."

She closed her eyes. Let herself breathe.

"Okay," she said. "Then I don't want to hear what happened. I don't want to think about it ever again. I don't need the details. I don't want to picture it. I don't want those memories."

Her voice caught for a moment, but she pressed on.

"I already forgave you," she said. "And I don't blame you for giving up hope. I nearly did too—and I knew I was trying to come to Earth."

Her hand was trembling, though she hadn't noticed until now. She gripped the edge of the counter.

"I didn't tell you," she said quietly, "because I didn't know if I'd make it. The therapy's brutal, Gordon. And if I failed, I didn't want you looking at me like I was fragile. Or broken."

She swallowed, hard. "But now I've said it. So it's real. I want us to have a future."

A breath, steadying. "I'm trying," she said. "I'm coming to Earth. I don't want to live in Montana–but we can find somewhere to be together until the UN waiting period is up. And then I'm going home. And I want you to go with me."

There was a long pause on the line. Then:

"You won't have to," Gordon said. "Go through all that. I'm going straight to Mars."

Marie burst into tears.

–––❖–––

"Ma!" said Marie. "I've got great news—he's coming back. This time he's going to stay."

Adya flopped back into her office chair, one hand coming up to press against her forehead, back to front.

"This is a terrible idea," she told her daughter. "He's proven that he can't be trusted. You cannot trust him. He's done it once—once is too many times. The question isn't 'Will I forgive him next time?' The question might as well be 'Can I forgive him the next several times?' Because a cheater keeps cheating."

Marie stared at her.

"Your father," said Adya, "bless him for all his faults, has never once cheated on me. And if he did, I would leave him. And I would be right to."

Marie felt some—not most, or even much, but some—of her enthusiasm drain away. Her mom was going to be like that.

Okay. Fine.

"All right, Mom," said Marie. "What do you actually know? We have a picture. Of Gordon and Karen—two lifelong friends—sharing a meal. In the picture, it looks like she's passing him a ranch packet. They're not sitting next to each other. Fingers not intertwined. No kissing."

"And if they were," she said, "he would still be my choice. What I did with that—what I do with him—that's my decision. I decide where my boundaries are."

"There were two pictures," argued Adya. "The one they had to censor is the one I would focus on."

"He told me she drank too much, passed out, and threw up on his bed. He didn't tell me she was naked. But you'll notice—he wasn't."

"He was in bed with a naked woman, and he didn't tell you," said Adya. "Actually—even if he had told you, you still should have left him. He's just not right for you."

"And who is, Ms. Ramirez?" said Jillian, striding in like she owned the place. "You know the whole reason she even went online is because staying here means dating someone her dad's age—or one of the few single adults—which, let's face it, means me or Jaz. And only when we're single."

She grinned.

"As honored, ready, and willing as I am to be the backup plan—she's not into that, and I hadn't realized you were suddenly a fan of our lifestyle."

She met Marie's eyes. "You're allowed to want who you want. Even if he's messy. BUT I'm keeping two eyes on him."

–––❖–––

Karen's voice crackled through the speaker, distant but steady. "Hey—thanks for taking my call. I'll keep it short, I promise."

Marie stayed quiet.

"I just wanted to wish you both well," Karen continued. "I know he cares about you—I want you to know he bolted for the door the instant he realized he hadn't lost you irrevocably. I wish. . ." She hesitated. "I wish you every happiness together. And if I'm not quite sorry for shooting my shot, I'm sorry I did it where it wasted everybody's time and caused needless pain."

There was a pause, then Marie said, "That was. . . honest."

"I never lied to you," Karen said.

Marie thought back to that first awkward video call—Karen's easy grin, that offhand joke: "I wouldn't kick you out of bed." At the time, she hadn't known what to make of it. Perhaps she still didn't.

"Thank you for the well wishes," Marie said at last. "And I guess, while we're being honest—I plan to spend my life with him. I expect you to support and respect that."

Another breath. Another beat.

"But you're also his oldest friend," she went on. "And I've heard the good news about Harry and Claire—so. You're family. And I'll accept that. I'm sure we'll see you online sometime."

"You'd better," Karen said. Her voice softened. "And. . . you will, as long as you still want to."

Marie nodded to herself. "It's a big game. There's room for both of us."

No promises. No smiles.

"Well," Karen said after a pause, quieter now, "it is. But there's only one potion dispenser I'd trust with my back."

She wanted to be friends? Now?

"When the servers merge," Marie replied, "we'll—see."

–––❖–––

Marie scowled at the portable. I had wanted to be friends, she thought bitterly.

The call was over, and she sat in silence, her feet not quite touching the floor as she spun her rolling chair this way and that.

"That bitch," she muttered. "Why can't I hate her?"