“So, I met a girl while you were off hunting heifers down in South America,” I told my brother when we met for lunch that day.

“Good god, about fucking time,” he replied, cutting into his nearly raw steak with a relish that made me cringe, “she’s not a Russian spy this time, right?”

“She’s from Florida, so probably not,” I replied dryly. There was no proof that Ysenia had been a Russian spy either, but I let it slide. Poor woman could be lying dead in a KGB mass grave somewhere. I tried not to think about it.

“Congrats bro,” David said, raising a forkful of sickeningly red, dripping meat to his mouth, “here’s hoping you don’t end up in the tabloids this time. This is the first time you’ve had more than a one-night stand in how long? I’m proud of you.”

“Gee thanks,” I said, taking a bite of the niçoise salad David had whipped up like it was no big deal.

We were eating in his latest trendy restaurant. It was closed on Wednesdays, which was nice, since it meant that I got to have a chef-prepared meal without the usual two-month wait for a reservation. David was obnoxious, conceited, and just as snobby as me, but he cooked like a motherfucker. It was unfortunate that he’d transitioned his career into television. I could tell it was weighing on him to be out of the kitchen.

“What’s going on with your whole data breach thing?” David asked, looking worried for the first time in god knows when, “Is it safe for you to go forward with the manned launch?”

Of anyone, David was the closest person to me that was against me being both the CEO and the test pilot for Durant Astronautics. I knew it came from a place of love—we were twins, after all—but it irritated me. Everyone else in the family understood that this was both a smart economic and personal decision. But not David. He thought I was just being an egocentric jerk who needed to fly spacecraft in order to feel virile and manly. He was only half right.

“The data breach is coming along,” I replied evasively, not really wanting to get into the technical details with David. He wouldn’t understand any of it. David was perfectly intelligent, but he didn’t know shit about computers. It’s not like I asked him about the finer points of cutlery.

“And the test launch?” David pushed, “Have you considered at least delaying it a few weeks until the investigation is totally done?”

I shrugged. He wanted me to delay the launch. If it were up to David, I’d delay the test launch forever, or at least until I was too old to pilot it.

“Ok,” he finally said, shaking his head and sending his stupid beard that I was secretly jealous of shaking from side to side, “if you won’t tell me about the investigation or the launch, tell me about the girl. What’s her name? How’d you meet her?”

This was a much better topic. I grinned.

“Zoey Atkinson, and I met her at Angelica Hunt’s if you can believe it,” I replied happily.

“You’re dating one of Angelica’s friends? Gross dude,” my brother replied, “I bet she’s hot, but you gotta’ watch out. She might have the clap.”

“She’s not one of Angelica’s friends,” I answered, grinning, “she’s a journalist. She was interviewing Angelica when I went to cover for you at the board meeting.”

“Why would anyone interview Angelica?” David asked, rolling his eyes, “Her nude selfies aren’t exactly breaking news. Nice tits though.”

“Yeah,” I admitted, “Angelica’s the worst. Poor Zoey has to interview her for a contract she has with some gossip site. I guess it’s not easy to be a reporter these days.”

“So, she’s less of a real journalist and more of a, um, tabloid writer?” David said carefully, raising an eyebrow at me, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You haven’t had the best historical relationship with the press. You even have a framed article sitting right next to your computer at home to remind you not to fuck up.”

“Look,” I replied angrily, “don’t start. I like her. She’s a working journalist and she takes what she can get. She’s actually the one that wrote the article you’re talking about. I’m not going to judge her because she isn’t working for the Washington Post or New York Times right now. She’s young and just starting out.”

“How young?” David asked, his eyes widening, “And she’s the one that wrote your shame-article.”

“Please don’t call it a shame-article, and I think, like, twenty-three or twenty-four. She’s not underage or anything,” I said, frowning at my brother that he’d think I’d date someone too young.

“Hmm. Yeah, ok,” David said, yielding the point and choosing not to dig further, “that’s fine. Just be careful you don’t say anything that she’s gonna be too tempted to publish. Don’t send her any dick pics either; your junk is already all over the internet.”

“Don’t remind me,” I groaned, “I still get fan mail from some creepy people about that. It’s the stuff of nightmares.”

That was probably the most disturbing thing about becoming instantly famous for having sex in space. There were a small number of people out there that were incredibly turned on by the video that got released. An even smaller number of those were happy to admit that space-sex was very much their fetish, and I’d become something of a celebrity in their circle. I regularly received letters, pictures, orgy invitations, and the occasional, horrifyingly unwanted tribute video.

“That’s the price you pay for dick stardom,” David managed through his giggle, “shoulda’ kept it in your spacesuit.”

“We don’t wear spacesuits inside the ISS,” I replied snidely, “we just wear regular pants.”

“Yeah but ‘shoulda’ kept it in your regular pants’ doesn’t sound nearly as snappy,” David said, “you gotta’ give me some artistic license here.”

I took another bite of the freakishly good tuna atop my salad. I knew I shouldn’t be eating it as tuna was dangerously overfished, but it was too delicious. David was an artist, and his medium was edible (despite the fact that he was more of celebrity chef than a real chef these days).

“Yeah but you aren’t an artist anymore,” I sneered sarcastically, “you’re just a glorified talk show host.”

“And you’re just a kid with too many toys,” David snapped and then softened, “seriously, will you just think about not flying that thing? It’s fundamentally just a tin can strapped to a large bomb. If you really like this girl, you don’t want to blow yourself up, right?”

“I’m not going to blow myself up,” I snapped right back, ready to get off this subject entirely, “can we just move on? Tell me about your trip to Argentina, or your new talk show, or something.”

“Oh!” David exclaimed, and put a hand to his forehead in realization, “I totally forgot. Hold on.”

He got up from the table and ran off to the back of the restaurant. He returned a moment later with two mugs of green, grainy, slimy drinks with metal straws sticking out of them. They had a bit of smell.

“It’s yerba mate,” he said, setting the drink in front of me, “it’s made from the leaves of the holly tree in the rainforest. It’s said to have great rejuvenating effects, increasing focus, energy, and nutrition. I know you don’t like tea, but I know your palate and you’re gonna like this.”

I took a drink of the strange concoction through the metal straw to find that it tasted very unique. It was actually pretty good. It tasted only slightly like tea, and more like wood, weak coffee, and tobacco. David was going to make a tea drinker out of me after all. I really wanted Zoey to try it.

“Do you have any more of this stuff?” I asked, “I think Zoey would really like it. She drinks tea.”

“Yeah,” David said, “I’ll give you a bunch of it. Let me know when I get to meet this Zoey. You sound like you’re falling in love with her.”

Maybe I was.