Page 21 of Space Oddities

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I can’t help but raise my eyebrows at his observation. It’s true I never volunteer to travel internationally like a lot of my co-workers, but I didn’t think it was noticeable. I’m always swamped with the numerous domestic aspects of NASA space flight.

“But I want you on this Bart thing.”

I smile at the nickname. Pretty sure the Europeans wouldn’t like their billion-dollar enterprise trimmed down to a Simpson character.

“But not only are you the best man for it, I also want it on your resume.”

“My resume?” I glance between him and the door he stands next to, trying to follow his train of thought while I fight the urge to rip open the door.

Dom shrugs. “Well, it isn’t like you necessarily need it. What with your background and already formidable work experience.” He moves around to sit behind his desk, his oversized leather chair looking terribly out of place among the cheap space race era desk and file cabinets. “But you’re young, and there are plenty with more time here than you.”

“Okay…” I have no idea where he is going with this.

Leaning forward, he points a finger to himself. “I’m out at the end of this year.” He points to me. “And I want you in.”

“You’re out?”

“I’m heading to the Darkside.”

I smirk. “Commercial side, huh?”

He shrugs. “What can I say, commercial pays.”

“Yes, it does.” Salary is the biggest downside of working at NASA, a government agency, besides fighting through the red tape of bureaucracy to get projects started. Commercial space flight companies have no such thing as salary caps. I’m lucky that I have enough money of my own that I don’t have to worry about it. Even in this tight office space, or after hours of cubicle work, with my hands shaking and feeling slightly out of breath, I still can smile knowing that I work atthespace agency, NASA.

“When I leave, I’m putting your name down as my replacement. And though you’ve already pitched and developed much-needed spacewalks in the past, and your co-workers and all the astronauts always want you on console and have nothing but great things to say, you haven’t led an international team before.” He quirks an eyebrow, pointing at me again. “You do this, the job is as good as yours.”

This is unexpected. Dom isn’t that old, so I never thought of his position as something to strive for. And with this job comes a lot more travel, something, as he so aptly figured out, I don’t do. I mean, I’ve made the trip to Space X headquarters a few times, and to the closer NASA campus at Marshall, but I took vacation time and drove to California and Alabama those times, claiming I preferred road trips.

Which I don’t.

But just as with the Bartolomeo project, EVA director means unavoidable flights. Canada, Europe, Russia, Japan.

I get up and open the office door before sitting back down. At Dom’s questioning glance I shrug apologetically. “It’s hot.” Before he can respond, I lean forward, now better able to focus with the door open. “Tell me more about the lead job and your position.”

And with every word out of Dom’s mouth, I realize I want it. I want it bad.

I glance at the open door.

But can I do it?

* * *

I inhalethe fresh air blasting through my open windows as I drive home, calming my anticipation.

After the talk with Dom in his office, I cut out of work early. One, his office got to me, and my hands were unsteady. And two, if anything was going to make me feel better, it would be the sight of a southern lady playing hide and seek in my house.

If there were gold medals in avoidance, Trish would win them all. She’d be the Michael Phelps of avoidance.

It’s been two days since the iron fist of suburbia, a.k.a. the homeowner’s association, made their declaration against Trish’s trailer. Two days of Trish hiding up in the guest room, pretending to “work.”

Or maybe sheisworking. I just don’t know, as her door is always closed.

Waving to the security guard at the gate, I wind through my neighborhood, a collection of ten-thousand-square-foot homes on double lots in prime Clear Lake territory. Veronica’s red brick, white-pillared colonial style house is visible behind her oversized Italian-style fountain in the circular driveway as I drive down my street.

I have no doubt the HOA instigator was Veronica.

When I met her, the day I moved in, it was clear she was cut from the same cloth as my father— manipulative.