Page 65 of Space Oddities

Trish’s tinkling laugh calms my thumping heart. “Thanks, sugar.” She squeezes Rose tight once more before letting go. “For everything.”

Rose pouts dramatically. “Now I reallyamgoing home alone.” Trish laughs again while Rose points a deadly-looking red talon at me. “You owe me.”

I have no idea what I’m supposed to pay her back for or how, but I nod all the same.

“Okay then.” Rose slides into her car, a slick, gold-flecked Aston Martin that on any other day I’d drool over and wiggles her fingers out the driver side window. “Toodles, bitches.”

Trish returns her wave with a smile. A smile that dims when she turns back to me.

* * *

Trish

After my grandparentsdied and I didn’t know how I was going to make ends meet, I didn’t have any trouble sleeping. The first night that I ran away from home, tail tucked between my legs and tear tracks on my cheeks, I slept like the dead.

But tonight, sleep eludes me. Which is supremely vexing, as I would very much like to put an end to this day.

I sneak my hand out from under Ian’s arm that’s draped over me and tap the screen of my phone lying on the nightstand. Two-fifteen in the morning. Technically, the day has ended, but I’m still letting the events of yesterday mar today. I yawn, my dry, exhausted eyes watering.

Ian shifts on the mattress, pulling me closer against him, like if he can just hold on hard enough I won’t leave.

But I will.

Last night made me realize that.

I mean, I’ve always known I was going to skedaddle after the wedding, but my subconscious may have been hoping for an alternate ending, even when I told it not to.

My subconscious is a fool.

Ian talked the entire ride home last night. As the bright lights of the city faded into the dim overhead highway lights of suburbia, I heard him say things likefamily friend,lesbian,father’s side-piece, not all of it making sense. But I listened. I even nodded when he finally ran out of steam and told him I understood. And I meant it. I may not have understood the details of his night, but I very much understood the situation.

I am not a Brenda. I will never be a Brenda. And no matter what happens in the future, Ian’s parents will never want me posing in their family pictures, or even sitting at their table.

It’s better to end this now than continue to foster any hope for something more. Even my subconscious has come to terms with that. Probably why I can’t sleep.

Yee haw.

Ian huffs a breath against my neck at the sound, and I frown at my glowing phone screen. Since when did I havethatas a notification sound?

Reaching out once more, I slide my arm against the cool sheets and manage to one-handedly unplug my phone from the charger. I have to squint against the light of the phone to see clearly.

A text from Rose.

I smile. I gave her my phone earlier at the fundraiser as we got buzzed on gin and tonics while waiting for Ian. She hadn’t wanted to stuff her phone into her cleavage ’cause she thought that might be the straw that broke the evening gown’s seams, as it were.

It really shouldn’t surprise me that while looking something up, she’d taken the time to change all my ring tones.

Her text is a shocked emoji followed by a web link. Under that a second text pops up.

You sure you don’t need me to come get you?

I wait a moment more before clicking the link, checking to make sure Ian’s still asleep. The even rise and fall of his chest against my back tells me he is.

The link goes to the city news web page, where pictures of Houston’s elite in diamonds and gowns are posted from the fundraiser. Front and center is Ian, his arm held out for the woman he’d escorted into the ballroom. The caption reads: Senator’s son and NASA engineer Ian Kincaid shown here with date Brenda McGowan. Ms. McGowan is the daughter of former Dallas mayor Theodore McGowan, and according to an inside source, averyclose friend of the Kincaid family.

Rose sends me an emoji of a shovel.

I’m a writer. I know that words can insinuate and shape the reality of the situation. Nothing the reporter said, according to Ian, is untrue. A high school friendisa close friend.

---