Page 2 of Space Oddities

His breath is erratic, his eyes wild. A bead of sweat glides down his temple.

“Ian?” I repeat, placing my hands on either side of his face, turning his eyes to mine. But he isn’t there. The vacant, unblinking stare tells me he’s somewhere far away. “Ian!” I shake him slightly, enough to snap him back into the moment, his eyes blinking rapidly. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

He staggers back a step, his long legs taking him up against the other side of the trailer. The contact makes him jump, and he nearly crashes into the ceiling.

“I can’t.” He spins, grasping for the door handle, trying to push it open before it unlatches. He does it again. And again. Turning and pushing, until the trailer is rocking for all the wrong reasons. “I have to get out of here.”

The desperation in his voice spurs me into action, and I jump down off the counter. In my hurry, I land wrong, and pain shoots up my leg. “Ian, wait.” I limp toward him, wanting to reassure him, but afraid to touch him. “Give me a second.”

“No!” His roar echoes around the small space, the impact taking my breath away. “Get me out of this godforsaken hellhole!” On the last word, he finally manages to open the door, sprinting out into the night.

By the time I recover and make it to the doorway, I have to jump back so as not to be hit by the arc of stones shooting across the side of my trailer from Ian’s tires as he peels out of my gravel drive.

The taillights of his high-end sports car are all I see as he speeds away from me. And from me.

And though it’s a different time, and a different place, and a different man, it’s my past repeating itself all over again. And it hurts.

For some reason, it hurts much worse this time.

* * *

Ian

Shit.Fuck. Shit.

Whydoes Trish have to live in a trailer?

Making the turn out of the park, I push down harder on the gas pedal, the wind whipping through the car windows, reminding me that I’m not trapped.

Whenever Jules mentioned Trish’s silver bullet, I thought she was referring to her vibrator. I’d compete with a battery-operated boyfriend any day of the week rather than enter a coffin on wheels.

And that’s exactly what it felt like stepping into Trish’s Airstream. Even with Trish in my arms, her nails dragging down my back and her lips on mine, the walls had closed in on me bit by bit.Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doomstyle. I hadn’t lasted five minutes.

And my father wonders why I can’t just get over my “little problem” and become an astronaut.

I’m more upset over my “little problem” costing me Trish.

My dash lights up with a call. Speak of the devil.

Stopping for a red light, I accept the call with a press of the button on my steering wheel. “Father.”

“Are you in your car? Why are you driving around so late on a Saturday night?”

Wincing at his booming voice, I hold down the volume control. “I—”

“You can’t be fooling around in that fancy car of yours. You better not have been drinking.”

“I’m not—”

“I can’t afford any trouble. Re-election is coming up. Don’t be selfish.”

It’s laughable, the irony ofhimcallingmeselfish. “Did you need something?” I would never consider any dealing with my father are positive, but at least the distraction of conversation has already taken the edge off my waning panic attack.

My father grumbles, probably more upset that I won’t engage with him than anything. The one thing he hates more than my “little problem” is that I refuse to engage head-on in any fight with him. One more example of my weakness, he says.

“I’ll be in Houston in a few weeks.”

Shit.

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