Page 35 of Space Balls: Houston, We Have Liftoff
I’m left pants-undone and dismissed.
This is starting to become a habit of hers.
Ten
#TBD
Vance
How do you booty-call a billionaire?
I’ve been staring at my phone for longer than I care to admit asking myself that question. My cubical on the astronaut floor of building five is quiet, the silence broken by my intermittent typing and the sound of book pages turning. My phone rings, and I nearly throw it across the room in surprise.
A few cubicles down, Jackie, with various books and manuals stacked in front of her, is deep into the informational part of astronaut training, one of her black high-top Converse shoes bouncing like a jackhammer as she reads. At the ring, her foot stills, and she looks up, her head titled.
I hit the side button, silencing the phone. “Sorry.”
But Jackie’s already looking down at her books again.
My shoulders brace when I see the name on the screen. I slide my thumb across my phone and hunch forward. “Hello, Brittany.”
“Don’t you ‘hello Brittany’ me.” My older sister’s condescending tone, which she has perfected over my lifetime, comes across loud and impatient as ever. “Why haven’t you called me back?”
The better question is why did I answer her call now? I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Sorry, I’ve been busy.” Busy trying to smooth talk a billionaire.
“You’re always busy.” Brit’s tone is swimming deeper into annoyed territory. “Every holiday, every birthday, every soccer season and family get-together—you’rebusy.”
I rub the hand at my nose down my face. “Well, I am.”
“Bullshit.” I hear someone over a loudspeaker talk about turkey prices.
“Where are you?”
“Grocery shopping for Thanksgiving.”
Ah, fuck. That’s this week.
“You remember Thanksgiving, don’t you?” Her voice gets sweet, letting me know I’m in for Brit’s classic sarcasm. “Your favorite holiday. The one where you show up just as dinner’s ready and leave before pie is served.”
“I’m watching my diet.”
“You’re such a girl.”
“How chauvinistic of you.”
She groans, causing me to pull the phone away from my ear. “Listen, bro.”
I very much doubt that other forty-year-old women with two children use the term ‘bro.’
“I want to see my brother. Your nephews want to see their uncle. So tell me you are coming to Mom’s this Thursday andnotjust for an hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Uh huh, sure.” Brit tests her heavy sarcasm skills. “I’ve heard that before.”
As my sister grumbles about past holidays and other get-togethers where I was a no-show, I glance back at Jackie, wondering if she can hear my sister from her desk. She’s still studying with a furrowed brow of concentration, so I doubt it. I notice a black-and-white picture of Neil Armstrong in a pilot jumpsuit, wearing the same shoes she’s wearing, pinned to her corkboard. Next to it, a picture of Flynn and her at the wedding, standing in front of the West mansion where Rose rocked my world.
“Are you listening?”
