Page 41 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
“Uh huh.” I hate how my sister has such a strong bullshit detector. “Did you even look at the picture I sent you? I mean, that’s the most flattering one of both of you, but even then you can see the death glare on Jules’ face.”
I pull the phone from my ear and manage to get back to my text messages without hanging up on my sister. She’s right. The photo, well-lit by the waning afternoon sun, was taken just after I managed to haul Jules off her saddle. The sunlight filters through the dust cloud swirling around Angelo’s hooves and my arm is locked tight across Jules’ abdomen, pulling her in close. It’s actually quite an amazing shot.
If you don’t count Jules’ glare, furrowed brow, and the mutinous set of her jaw.
Rose’s voice is muffled as she directs yet another question to a giggling Trish in the background. “I know, right?” Louder she asks me, “So, did you just call for insight on your screw-up, or were you after something?”
Truthfully, I was hoping Rose would tell me that she’d only gotten the picture through her many and varied connections around Houston and that it wasn’t, in fact, going viral like Jules had feared. But as that ship has sailed, and I still feel bad for blaming Jules for the reporters in the first place, I might as well hit Rose up for help with a peace offering. Just, you know, to keep things friendly for the wedding planning.
“I don’t suppose you know what kind of take-out Jules likes?” I ask, remembering Jules’ dinner request. Or demand, rather.
But the silence that stretches out over the airwaves has me shifting in my seat. There is nothing more disconcerting than a quiet Rose.
“Rose? You there?”
“Oh, I’m here. I’m just thinking.”
“I was afraid of that,” I mumble.
There’s some more unintelligible conversation between her and Trish before Rose finally answers me. “Pizza. You can’t go wrong with pizza. But not just any pizza. Boondoggles’ Florentini pizza.”
“Boondoggles? Are you kidding me? That’s an hour away.”
“Sure is. Quick question, though. Exactly how angry is Jules for this little impromptu PR moment? ’Cause I’m thinking it has to be pret-ty bad if you’re asking me for help.” Rose chuckles at my silence. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
The air conditioning on my old truck finally kicks in and I drop my head to the steering wheel, letting the cool air blow over my neck. Phone still at my ear, I ask, “What was the name of that pizza again?”
Twelve
Gravitational Waves
Jules
When haters going to hate,pretend you don’t care.
It’s a pretty simple concept and one I’ve adhered to my whole life. When your father is an Air Force general who wanted all boys and you grew up trying to prove that you were smarter, stronger and better than someone with a dick just to get a grunt of approval from a straight-laced, emotionally stunted, middle-aged man, you learn quickly not to let the hurt show.
Which, in the age of social media, comes in handy. Not only are trolls a-trolling from the anonymous safety of their homes with just a few thumb taps, but various news stations have spread the picture of Holt and me around like wildfire.
You bet your ass no one would troll Armstrong.
I’ve been holed up in my room for the past two hours. Just two hours since Holt’s regrettable rescue, and the picture of us on Angelo has gone viral. My social media accounts are exploding.
#SpaceCowgirl is now trending.
Icalled the public relations department at NASA to give them a heads-up. Said I wanted them to know there was a news story about me and a cowboy and a horse. Theylaughed, said, “You think?” and hung up on me to deal with it.The official story will be I’m still on vacation and the picture isn’t what it seems. Close enough to the truth, I guess.
My phone keeps lighting up with various text messages from Jackie, Trish, and most annoyingly, Rose. All asking for therealstory. They’re worse than the tabloids.I’m tempted to turn the damn thing off, but I’m pretty sureNASA would be pissed if they need to reach me and my phone is dead.
As if reading my mind, it rings. But it isn’t NASA.
Lying back on the bed, I close my eyes for a moment before answering.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie. You okay?” My mom’s voice is soft and lilting, like a songbird turned human. In fact, that could very much describe my mother entirely. She’s petite and skinny, bordering on frail, and perfectly packaged.
Obviously, I take after my dad.
