Page 7 of I Think I’m in Love with an Alien

Oh, I’ve done this at other hotels. I provide the info and sign off on my authorization of charges, and then she hands me a weighty key with a Jupiter key chain. Okay, that’s adorable.

“There are maps of the area in the rack. Water and coffee are available twenty-four seven. Ice and vending machines are in the outbuilding near Room 20. Oh, you’ll find a few brochures for local restaurants in your room. Enjoy your stay and let me know if you need anything.”

By coincidence, I’ve parked closer to my room, Room 16, than the office. I unload my bags and lock up, then make my way to the suite that will be mine for the duration of Space Con. I unlock the door and realize the photos didn’t do the place justice. The walls are mostly gray, with an accent wall behind the bed done in stripes that roughly match Jupiter’s tones. Though the furnishings are minimalist and IKEA-inspired, they allow me to focus on the little decorative touches.

The art is a blend of paintings and actual telescopic photos of Jupiter, along with some space-themed objects like a rocket ship telephone. I even like the padded armchair that must have time traveled from the seventies to achieve that shade of burnt sienna, matching the bedspread and curtains to an impressive degree.

There’s a mini fridge and a microwave next to the desk, which gives me some options. I don’t need to eat out for every single meal, though I probably will. Underfoot, the carpet is plush and gray, old-fashioned shag. I’m both pleased and relieved that the theme doesn’t continue in the bathroom. It’s the usual motel beige.

All told, it’s nicer than I expected and very clean.

I stash my suitcases in the small closet and stretch, rolling my neck and shoulders. It was a long drive, and I’m tired, but I’m also hungry and wired, so close to meeting everyone that I can taste it. I also didn’t come all this way to hide in my room.

Before I do anything else, however, I text my mother.

Me: Made it to the hotel safely. Getting some dinner.

Mom: Thanks for letting me know. Send pics if you spot any famous people.

Me: I will.

Mom: Have fun!

A remarkably efficient exchange. This is also why I prefer to text. My mom receives proof that I’m not stranded in a ditch. I don’t spend forty minutes hearing why every life choice I’ve ever made is a terrible mistake. Really, it’s a win-win for both of us.

Just in case, I check the chat, and sure enough, there are messages from JazzyPlum and SquidHead. Like me, they’ve arrived and are making plans to meet up at Bob’s Diner. Based on the time stamp, I can catch them if I get in the car now.

I don’t take time to second-guess myself. After running my fingers through my wavy hair and making sure I don’t have smudges on my face, I rush back to the car.

It’s a mile and a half to the diner, which is packed at this hour. They went by the book for the diner atmosphere with plenty of chrome, red vinyl, black-and-white floor tiles, and tiny little “jukeboxes” at each table that play mood music at a low volume.

I’ve never sent any candids, so I’m wondering how I’ll recognize Jaz or Squid. Then my phone pings.

SquidHead: I’m sending a pic. Don’t judge my lack of hair. OMG, so nervous.

I scan the restaurant and spot a lanky bald man. He’s the tallest person I’ve ever met, at least six-foot-six and maybe more. I’m pretty sure this is the right person, but then I’m positive when he produces a squid-faced tentacle alien plushie from behind his back.

A woman converges on us then. Jaz is in her late thirties, with short hair in a pixie cut. She has light brown eyes, golden skin, and a winning smile. She’s got a table for four already. I wave both hands in excitement, trying not to be a total dork as I rush over.

“Jaz?” I say cautiously.

“Jen?”

“Yes!”

I stand there grinning ridiculously for a few seconds, and then she says, “Are you a hugger?”

And I admit, “Normally, I’m not, but I kinda want to hug you.”

Jaz beams. “Me too! Let’s do it.”

It’s a quick one, just a little squeeze, but something about it feels odd. I don’t have any time to linger on that impression because as we pull back, she turns to the man waiting patiently to be acknowledged.

“Squiddy!” Jaz exclaims.

We check preferences and then exchange another round of awkward little hugs. Then I sit down to Jaz’s left, letting Squid take the right. I feel like dancing in my chair like a little kid; that’s how happy I am to be meeting my online friends in real life.

“First,” I say. “Are we sticking to online nicknames?”