Page 16 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
I may just nail this girlfriend shit yet.
Five
Systems Check
Jules
I’ve been staringat my laptop for an hour.
Okay, it’s been like ten minutes. But still. How many flower arrangements does one need to look at? ’Cause Jackie has about a hundred pictures to scroll through, and the hooker actually wants my thoughts on every one. Seriously. Every. One.
Pick the colors you want and boom, done deal. Let the florist come up with the final product. I mean, that’s their job, right? And when did Jackie put all this together? Makes me think those two lovebirds have been keeping this engagement quiet until I got back. Which is uber sweet, but then totally annoying because I could’ve had more time to deal with this. This is Jackie’s big day. If she’s going to trust me with this, then I’m going to make all her freaking dreams come true. One freaking flower arrangement at a time if need be.
A long sigh escapes, but I continue clicking through Jackie’s PowerPoint. I’ve already checked the other files on the flash drive I got from Trish today. There’s one for bridal gowns, one for cakes, one for decor and one for bridesmaid dresses. I’m definitely opening the bridesmaid dresses last. Just thinking of having to wear frilly, foo-foo shit in pastel colors has me sweating like I’m flying an F-15 Eagle at Mach 2 speeds.
Ah… good memories.
A knock on my door offers me a welcome break from maid of honor duties. A knock is unusual. Unless it’s Jackie. She’s the only one on my list of personal guests that doesn’thave to call up before being allowed on the elevator. But when I open my front door, the hallway is empty. Just as I’m about to close the door and get back to bouquet ribbon wraps, my eyes catch on the box at my feet.
It isn’t a large box. Maybe eight inches square. Plain. No address. It isn’t even sealed, the flaps just folded in on each other to keep it closed.
This sets off my internal alarm. True, I’ve been known to late-night Amazon, the modern-day equivalent to QVC’ing, since I hate the mall with a passion. But all of those purchases arrive through the mail, stamped with barcodes and labels from the good old United States Postal Service. And they are most certainly always sealed.
This is glaringly unmarked.
Slowly, I squat down and lift the box. Light. Not even a pound. I take one more look down both directions of the hallway. No one.
I close the door, lock it and place the box on my counter.
Maybe I’ll just throw it out.
My unwashed Air Force Academy mug next to the box reminds me that I’m no wuss, so I take a deep breath and pretend the goosebumps on my arms are from the a/c of my condo and not the mysterious package. I spin the box on the counter a few times before wrenching the top open with one hard yank.
Confetti. Huh. Didn’t see that one coming.
I laugh at myself, embarrassed that I let a few dirty pictures and messages on my social media get me so riled up. This is probably more wedding-related stuff from Jackie.
But isn’t she off somewhere with Flynn?
I shake the confetti out, shiny, multi-colored moons and rocket ships floating down on my countertop. In the middle of the pile is an envelope. My hand reaches for it, and I curse myself when I see a slight waver in my fingers. I rip open the envelope and pull out… a newspaper article?
It’s a recent one about my co-worker Bodie and me, after our successful spacewalk that saved the International Space Station. I look back in the envelope and box, but there is nothing else.
Maybe one of my neighbors gave it to me as a welcome home.
But seeing as the only neighbor I actually knew and liked, Flight Surgeon Rebecca Sato, recently moved out of the building and in with her firefighter boy toy, that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.
I open the cabinet under the sink, prepared to toss the whole thing in the trash when I catch the writing on the back of the article.
Enjoy the beer I sent last night? I bet it made you feel real good afterwards.
What. The. Fuck.
* * *
HOLT
Sunday nights suck.
