Цитаты из книги Below Zero

Мужчина–инженер, который не засранец. Планка довольно низкая, но, тем не менее, я впечатлена.

— Сколько пальцев на ногах ампутировано?
— Три.
— Неплохо, — говорит Мара, фыркнув. — Дешевле педикюр.

представляю, как говорю что— то кокетливое и неуместное в ответ— Вау, красивый и умный— и думаю, как он отреагирует. Наверное, не очень хорошо.

— Ребята. Соберитесь. Я даже не умерла.

— Так вот почему ты вырос, не зная Мару?— Кто такая М… О. Да. По большей части.

Проблема в его волосах. Потому что, несмотря на то, что сказала Мара, они точно не коричневые. Может быть, на долю оттенка темнее, чем ее яркие морковно-оранжевые, но… точно не коричневые. Я уже готова набрать ее номер и потребовать рассказать, по какой нелепой рыжей шкале работают Флойды.

He is, physically, the opposite of me. Of my small bones and tanned complexion. My hair, eyes, sometimes even my soul, are black-hole dark. And here he is, Martian red and ocean blue.

Wow. A male engineer who’s not an asshole. The bar is pretty low, but I’m nevertheless impressed.

“I was just afraid that something might happen to you. And I don’t trust Merel. Not with you.” He says it—you—like I am a remarkable and important thing. The most precious data point; his favorite town; the loveliest, starkest Martian landscape. Even though I pushed him away, over and over, he still came in a rocking boat in the middle of the coldest ocean on planet Earth, just to get me warm.

“Why are you guys here?”

“Because,” Mara says against my shoulder. They are both full-on crying—so weak, so tenderhearted. God, I love them.

“Guys. Get it together. I didn’t even die.”

“What about frostbite?” Sadie murmurs into my armpit. I’d forgotten how fantastically short she is.

“Not much.”

“How many toes amputated?”

“Three.”

“That’s not bad,” Mara says with a sniffle. “Cheaper pedis.”

“I see why you love them so much,” he tells me while driving back to my place.

“I don’t. Love them, that is. I just pretend to avoid hurting their feelings.”

It’s scary, how attractive I find him. The depth of this crush of mine. I liked him since the very start, but my feelings for him have been growing steadily, then exponentially, and . . . what do I even do with them? It’s like being handed an instrument I never learned how to play. Being asked to step onstage at a concert hall utterly unprepared.

“I want to fuck you. Obviously. Always have. I just don’t want to fuck you once. I want to do it a lot. For a long time. I want you to come to me for sex, but also want you to come to me when you need help with your taxes and moving your furniture. I want fucking to be only one of the million things I do for you, and I want to be—” He stops. Seems to collect himself and straightens, as if to give me space. To give us space.

A choked laugh bubbles out of me. It’s stupidly nice to have someone compare my body to a topographical feature of Mars. Or maybe it’s just nice to have someone who knows the Columbia Hills tugging at my nipples and staring at them like they’re the eighth and ninth wonders of the universe.