by Fay Irwin (@fantasyscience.bsky.social)
Adult Sci-Fi Rom-Com
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Query
If Ali Hazelwood and Andy Weir co-wrote a book, it would be CHEMICAL SOLUTIONS FOR LONELY HEARTS. This 88,000-word Adult Sci-Fi Rom-Com blends the humorous romance of The Love Hypothesis with the scientific fun of Project Hail Mary.
Nat Reznik joined ChemSolutions to make the world a better place. She expects the company to step up when Earth is threatened with a fertilizer shortage, but they don’t seem to care, and her boss (so hands-off she’s never met him) keeps tasking her with pointless projects. So, Nat starts researching methods of developing fertilizer on her own.
George Ramos’ life revolves around his job, but a subordinate—with her profanity-laden lab notes and penchant for causing explosions—is a constant source of anxiety. When his concern over ChemSolutions’ apathy toward impending global starvation reaches a breaking point, he decides to take matters into his own hands. But someone keeps checking out the books he needs from the company library.
By day, Nat and George exchange passive aggressive memos. By night, they exchange nerdy banter at Toronto nightclubs, not realizing their crushes are actually their work nemeses. Once they do, they resolve to never speak again (except via increasingly vitriolic memos). But when they realize they share the same goal, they reluctantly team up to save the world. They face dangerous reactions, greedy corporations, and unpredictable death cults, but the greatest danger of all might be that other type of chemistry, which threatens to explode like one of Nat’s experiments.
I’m a chemistry professor who loves to anthropomorphize molecules. I’ve published 60+ scientific papers and an essay on academic motherhood (all decidedly non-fiction). I have a strong track record in science communication, including guest spots on news programs, podcasts, and the NPR television show Home Diagnosis. I’ve also consulted for various media, including the commercial film Ashgrove. My characters are pieces of me: Nat’s demisexuality and George’s neurodiversity draw from my own way of relating to the world.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
First Five Pages
Chapter 1
The first rift appeared in downtown Wellington, New Zealand sixty years ago. It took two years for anyone to notice.
We still don’t know why the rifts exist. All we know is that they occasionally transport a single book or magazine from another Earth into this one.
- Science, Society, and Rifts, T. Kuhn
Nat (Friday, May 30)
This is a rescue mission, I remind myself, placing my shoes on the mat by the door. Don’t engage.
I plunge into the tangle of giant sculptures that crowd the hallway, giving myself a mental high-five when I make it through unscathed, then square my shoulders and step into the dining room.
“Nat!” My older sister leaps out of her chair. She’s gorgeous as always, her clothes immaculate and her buzzed pink hair a sharp contrast to her sepia skin, but her eyes are wild. She envelopes me in a crushing hug, leaning close enough that her lip ring grazes my ear as she whispers, “Get me the fuck out of here.”
I snort and peel away, then turn my gaze to the table, where the rest of my family sits, assessing me quietly. They won’t like what they see, but then, they never do. That’s the problem with trying to shove your kids into square holes—they’ll never fit.
“Natre, dear,” Cixi begins. My stepmother emphasizes the first syllable in that weird way of hers, turning “Nah-tray” into “Not-Ray.” The difference is subtle, like a bow drawn over a violin vs. nails on a chalkboard. My muscles seize every single time. She’s been part of the family for sixteen years, and I still don’t know whether she does it purposefully to piss me off, or if she’s oblivious and thinks her speech affectations make her sound sophisticated. “Are you headed to your job? Dressed like that?”
I breathe through my nose, mindfully unclenching my jaw before I respond. “There’s no dress code, and I’ll be wearing a lab coat all day, so no one will be offended by my outfit.” Said outfit consists of loose pants and sneakers; my cotton U2 tee-shirt is hidden under my windbreaker. Perfect for long days of standing in front of a fume hood.
Cixi leans back in her chair, dissatisfied but willing to let the matter rest for now. She’s accomplished what she wanted, anyway; my father’s expression has transitioned from bland aloofness to slight distaste. He hates that I’m no longer his devoted little acolyte, soaking up everything about the cutthroat world of corporate real estate. My success as a scientist―that my research has unequivocally improved the world―means nothing to him.
Our little sister, Nuwa—Nunu to family—watches silently, an enigmatic smirk on her face. I can’t tell if she’s enjoying the scene, or just relieved she’s not on the receiving end for once. I try to give her the benefit of the doubt—at seventeen, she has to suffer being a teenager and living with Dad and Cixi. Taking pity on her, I say, “Do you want to join us, Nunu?”
Her eyes light up, but she slumps at her mother’s glare. I’m struck by how alike the two of them look—blonde hair, peach skin, and big blue eyes. That’s where the similarities mostly end. Cixi’s an annoying, domineering woman, and Nunu’s cool, even if she is currently pouting.
“We’ll hang out soon,” I promise, then turn my attention to Ange, who’s shoving items haphazardly into her oversized purse. “Let’s get some breakfast, Sis.”
Ange responds by grabbing my arm and hauling me out of the dining room, just as Cixi calls out, “I do hope you’re considering your financial precarity, Ange. You won’t be able to live off our charity indefinitely.”
I push my sister ahead of me to keep her from saying something she’ll regret, and look back at my family. “I’m paying. And Ange will be fine; she’s plenty resilient.” From dealing with you, I don’t add.
We’re two tree-lined blocks away before Ange’s (fully justified) rant about our family winds down. I give her a brief hug, then release her and hold out a hand. “Pay up.”
Ange stops walking. “Seriously? You’re going to hold your destitute sister, who’s living off the charity of her loving family, to a drunken bet?”
I grin at her. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
Ange’s glare, which has brought grown men (including her ex-husband) to their knees, has no power over me; I obtained immunity from frequent childhood exposure. I stuff my hands in my jacket pockets to combat the early morning chill and wait patiently while she digs through her purse. Finally, she fishes out a crumpled five-dollar bill and slaps it petulantly into my hand. “There. Are you happy?”
My smile is smug. “Thank you so much, dear sister. I don’t know what compelled you to bet you’d last a week in that house. Next time, maybe you’ll listen to me. You can’t expect him—either of them—to change.” My expression softens and I add, “You’ll stay with me for a bit, right? For as long as Ben’s got Taf, at least?”
Ange nods as she zips her purse back up. “Yeah, I’ll crash at your place.” She frowns. “I keep hoping it’ll be different. It’s like, I know they won’t change, but I want them to.” She looks lost as she adds, “I just want a functional family, you know?”
I hug her again, but she pushes me away with an eye roll. There’s only so much sentimentality us Rezniks can handle. Though I guess Ange is a Smith now. I wonder if she’ll change her name back when the divorce is finalized. “At least you have me, right?”
Ange snorts. “I said functional, doofus. But yeah, I’m lucky to have you.”
I scowl in mock offense. It’s great having my big sister back in town. “Let’s talk about more pleasant topics than Dad and Cixi.”
We chat about Taf, Ange’s son—a delightfully chaotic ten-year-old—as we skirt pedestrians and puddles on Bloor Street. Once we’re settled at a window table in a cute café named ToronTea, congee and beverages in front of us, Ange asks how work is going.
My face scrunches. “Ugh. It’s fine, I guess.”
Ange raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound fine. What’s the deal? You used to be so excited about ChemSolutions. You wouldn’t shut up about it.”
I take a spoonful of congee, savouring the contrast of the crunchy, spicy chili crisps against the subtle garlic flavour of the creamy rice. “It’s just become meaningless, you know? When I started, it was all about improving the world. Curing diseases, developing materials to help us in everyday life, finding solutions for agricultural problems…but it’s not like that now. My rift scribe is always assigning us stupid projects designed to make corporations rich.”
Ange grimaces in sympathy. “That sucks. But the money’s good, right? And it keeps you out of Dad’s clutches.”
“Sure, but what’s the point?” I sip my tea, grounding myself in the floral flavour and the warm tickle of aromatic steam. “I didn’t want to work for Dad because running a real estate empire is pointless. I don’t want to be like him—obsessed with money and prestige. I want to make a real difference. Developing formulas for longer-lasting lipstick isn’t what I signed up for. I keep wondering…”
“Wondering what?” Ange prompts.
I pin my gaze on my empty bowl, unable to meet Ange’s eyes. “Wondering if I should just join Dad’s company. At least then he’d be proud of me. Right now, I feel like I’m rebelling for no reason. Like I’ve traded one devil for another. The devil in this case being my rift scribe. I can’t cling to the moral high ground or whatever anymore, so why bother?”
Ange smirks. “‘My rift scribe,’ eh? You sound kind of possessive.”
My jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? My boss is so reclusive I don’t even know what he looks like, and I’m sure it’s mutual. But his memos provide a very clear picture of his personality. Which is atrocious. The man is an uptight, micro-managing twat.”
Ange’s smirk hasn’t faded. “He writes you memos? That’s so sweet!” She laughs as I try to hit her with my spoon. “Sorry, I’ll stop. But seriously, don’t give up. You’re unstoppable. You’ll find a way to save the world. Don’t give in to Dad, and don’t give in to your corporate overlords.”
“Thanks, sis.” I appreciate her words, but I can’t bring myself to believe them. With a sigh, I gather up my dishes and rise to my feet. “Well, my corporate overlords call. I’ll see you this evening?”
“Sure thing, roomie. Now that I’m back, you’ll never be rid of me again.”