Page 72 of I Think I’m in Love with an Alien

“I didn’t consent to any such plans,” they protest.

The teasing light in her eyes fades, and I think she’s genuinely hurt. “Fine. Then you can wander around alone.” She gets up. “See everyone later!”

“Wait! I didn’t say I was entirely opposed to the idea.” To my surprise, Ravik gets up and goes after her, a move that seems to startle everyone else.

“My treat this time. You two can get moving too, if you like,” I add to Tad and Jaz.

A few minutes later, after I pay the bill, I wink at Seeker. “Alone at last.”

26

Seeker

I share Jen’s delight over our outing encompassing only the two of us, though I’m less transparent about it.

She drives us to the UFO Museum, housed in what must be a historical structure. Not hundreds of years old; this nation doesn’t possess many such edifices. I estimate that this place dates back perhaps fifty years, and is a square, stoic place built of red brick. There is a nominal admission fee, which I cover using my card.

“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” Jen whispers.

They herd us into the gift shop first, both the initial and last stop on the tour, where they vend models of flying saucers and alien creatures from various human creators. Even at this hour, there’s a small crowd, some wearing T-shirts emblazoned with little green men. I overhear snippets of conversation with humans arguing the credibility of abduction stories.

Jen slides me a measured look. She might be wondering if those tales hold any truth. But I cannot claim to speak for all interstellar travelers. My only certainty is that my people would never remove other sentient beings from their homes without consent. The same cannot be said of humans, who quarrel over territory more than most beings I have encountered. Perhaps that is why humans always think they’re being stolen by others from beyond; it shifts the blame away from their home planet. The news reports I’ve scoured while learning the customs of this world indicate that humans who go missing have probably been taken or harmed by other humans.

97-B can be dangerous. I was fully apprised of the risks before I ventured forth.

Jen heads toward the first exhibit, a timeline etched into aged wood. “It looks like Rellows started as a makeshift camp along the river.”

“Resourceful,” I comment.

“Jedidiah Rellows must have been quite a character. Imagine packing your stuff and deciding to start a town.”

“Twelve saloons and fourteen liquor stores,” I read from a nearby display.

“Work hard, play hard?”

My concept of recreation doesn’t align with the human penchant for inebriation. I find it baffling that humans choose to consume toxins in limited quantities, though it is akin to the religious rites of beings I visited on another world. But the denizens of that planet do it to prove devotion to their goddess, who is said to devour those who displease her.

“That is the goal, I suppose.”

Jen smiles slightly. I’ve become attuned to minute shifts in her expression, and I wish I dared to study her secondary colors in this setting. But someone might notice the nictitating membrane, and no costume is that complete.

Toward the heart of the museum, the walls are adorned with newspaper clippings and personal testimonies, the ink faded but the stories vibrant as ever. I scan the headlines: “Mysterious Lights over Green River” and “Rancher Sees Unexplained Phenomenon.” Jen points to a black-and-white sketch of a man with weathered skin. Below it, a caption reads: “J.J. Martinez—First Witness of the Mountain Lights.”

“J.J. Martinez ‘didn’t know what to make of those lights,’” Jen reads. “He saw them slicing through the night sky, too fast for anything back then. What do you think they were?”

Perhaps one of the agency’s shuttles. But I can’t say that. Not here.

She gives me a look that seems to suggest she knows what I’m thinking. It’s an unusual sensation, but everything has been different since I trusted her enough to share my secret. Rounding a corner, I take in a diorama depicting a scene from Rellows’s history. A human vehicle sits next to scattered debris that looks nothing like terrestrial machinery.

“Clarence Banner found the wreckage in 1938,” Jen says. “But the military stepped in. They claimed it was an experimental plane.”

I speak quietly, but it’s a pity she can’t hear the subharmonic frequency I use with Jaz and Ravik. “If I had a data uplink, I could check if any shuttles went missing from the Galactic Union. I’d be able to address your question.”

Jen turns to me to whisper, “But then you wouldn’t be stranded. You could call for help and arrange a pickup.”

How interesting that her mind went immediately there while I was only thinking about pleasing her by satisfying her curiosity. Clearly I need to ponder the implications of how precious and vital she’s become to me in a relatively short time. That might be the first time I didn’t envision leaving 97-B at the first possible opportunity.

I still miss my family. Sometimes the regret is so strong that it mirrors pain. But I have only myself to blame for those choices. I thought time and opportunities were infinite.