Page 42 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
“Yeah, Mom, I’m fine.”
There is some noise in the background, like pots clanking. Makes sense, she’s probably getting dinner ready for her and Dad. Heaven help the man if he ever needed to cook for himself.
“I didn’t know you rode horses, dear.”
“I don’t. I mean, well, I didn’t. Just decided to try it out today.”
My mom is notorious for her long sighs. They can take on various meanings, and the one I’m hearing right now is loaded with resignation. “I don’t know why you need to do dangerous stuff all the time, Julie. There are perfectly safe hobbies to take up.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Did you know Mrs. Gilman’s daughter, Silvia, has started an online book club? Such a lovely young lady. Did you know she just had her third child? A sweet baby boy.” More clattering. “I could put in a word, get you an invite?”
Stupid Silvia. “Mom, I haven’t seen Silvia since high school.” And even then we hated each other. I was the Rizzo to her Sandy. “If I wanted to join a book club, I’d start one with my friends here.”
Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Maybe aromance book club. I could even be a part of it when in orbit. The wonder of e-books means I don’t have to weigh my pack down with actual paperbacks. NASA is pretty strict on weight limits. And electronic, dirty, sexy romance novels are lighter than a vibrator.
Just saying.
“But maybe if you spent some time with women who were more… well, what I mean to say is… that maybe you could…”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “What? Get married, knock out some babies and live the 1950s American dream?”
Another sigh.
“Mom, I know you don’t get it, but that isn’t me. Never was, never will be.”
“What about that man with you on the horse? The newscaster said his name was Holt. Is he your fella?”
“Mom, no one says ‘your fella’ anymore. Get with the times. I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman, living her dream job as an astronaut. I don’t need afella, okay?”
“I just don’t want you to be lonely, sweetie.”
I hear her setting an egg timer. God love her, she is so old-school.
“I’m not lonely. I have friends. Work. I’m happy.” I catch myself rubbing that spot on my chest.
“You have too much of your father in you,” my mother mumbles.
I bark out a laugh. “If you say so. But if that were true, I’m pretty sure we’d get along better.”
“Now, Julie, you know your father loves you. He just has certain opinions on—”
My hand tightens on the phone. “Where women belong?”
Sometimes I fear my mother might hyperventilate from all her sighing.
“Listen, Mom, I gotta go.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I promise to call her later in the week, hang up and snuggle deeper into the bed.
I’m more exhausted after her phone call than after my morning run. But despite the comfortable bed and quiet room I commandeered for my little escape from stalkerville, my mind is on overdrive.
That’s a no-go on sleep. Even with my meditation mantras.
Outside my window, a bunch of ranch hands shout back and forth at each other, calling it a day. I wonder if Holt’s down there, still trying to make his mouth form the wordfuck.
