Page 22 of Space Oddities

I’ve always avoided her, especially one-on-one conversations. Veronica makes me feel like I’m circling a viper. Because of who my family is, people end up wanting something from me. Sex, money, favors, power. I got enough of that false friendship growing up. I don’t need it here too, in my sanctuary.

I slow before the bump at my driveway. Unlike Veronica’s, mine is long and straight, aimed toward the two-car, one-boat garage.

I am well aware that my house is ridiculous in size, especially for a single guy. But I like the feeling of open space. I need it. Especially after days like today.

One of the main perks of being an EVA officer is that we’re rarely at our desks. We’re in Building 9, the warehouse that holds the life-size mock-up of the International Space Station, or at the Neutral Buoyancy Lab running practice spacewalks, or holding meetings in conference rooms.

But some days are cubicle paperwork days, and my ass gets stuck in my chair for hours at a time. Or days where I’m in someone’s windowless office trying not to pass out.

Reaching up behind my visor, I click the button to open the car garage door. Once parked, I glance at the silver Airstream to my right. It looks even smaller now that the boat garage door is closed. I fight a shudder.

Why does it have to be sosmall?

Disgusted with myself, I shake off my jitters and enter my house, the sound of silence welcoming me.

Even after Trish moved in, it’s been quiet. Which is disappointing. I was looking forward to a little noise. There’s nothing but the clink of my keys on the counter when I step into the kitchen.

Trish must still be holed up in the guest room with the door closed. Again.

I thought we’d turned a corner that day at the food truck park. But I should’ve known. It’s always one step forward, two steps back with that woman. I would think her cageyness would be a turn-off, especially with an upbringing like mine, but there is just something about her. Her smile, her friendliness. Even if she’s also frustrating. Aggravatingly shut off at times. When I offer to help, she won’t take it, or at least not willingly. I mean, it took the almighty power of the HOA to make her take me up on the offer of my guest room.

And yet… it feelsrightbeing around her.

Thirsty, I open the fridge and grab a bottle of water. Tipping my head back, I chug, eyes on the ceiling, right below where the object of my affections is hiding. I swallow nearly half the bottle before I drop my head back down, sighing in frustration as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

I get it. She had a secret, and I found it out. Between that and whatever else she’s running from, moving her trailer, quitting her bar job, and now having to live in someone else’s house, Trish hasn’t had it easy of late.

I understand that.

Even so, it wasn’t until recently that the phraseshake some sense into themstarted to sound logical. Although I still like the thought ofkissingsome sense into Trish better.

Leaning on the counter, I look out the window over the large yard. Time to mow. I wonder what Trish will think when she sees that this rich boy likes to mow his own grass.

Glancing down at my white poplin Tom Ford dress shirt and sapphire wool Kiton dress slacks, I know I’m one hundred percent to blame for her thinking I’m a quintessential rich boy. Besides liking nice things, I never told Trish why I left that night at the trailer park. Which is pathetic.

True, at first Trish ran her best defense— avoidance—but since then there have been plenty of openings, plenty of times when I could’ve explained—

Ding dong.

I narrow my eyes at the front door, visible from the kitchen thanks to practically no walls in my open concept layout. If it’s that moronic HOA representative, he chose the wrong day to show up again.

Marching into the foyer, I yank the double-wide oak door open, my bicep straining to keep it from slamming against the wall.

I’m near blinded by tan skin over silicone.

“Ian dear! How are you?” Veronica, the neighborhood alley cat, greets me with a feral smile, a flutter of thick lashes, and a plate full of cookies.

Fuck.

* * *

Trish

I can’t write.And I haven’t been able to since I moved into Ian’s guest room.

Writer’s block is the worst.

I’ve been lucky so far in my writing career that I haven’t gotten stuck too often. When it has happened, all it took was a shift working at whatever bar I happened to be hustling drinks in and I was recharged and ready to go. People watching is the best inspiration.

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