Page 41 of Anyone But the Superstar

Twenty minutes later, workout complete, I sit poolside under an umbrella/mister, sunglasses on and my ball cap pulled low over my eyes.

My muscles are relaxed from fatigue, the guilt from being here instead of nearer my mother has been lessened by Jack’s planned visit, and besides an older gentleman swimming laps, there is no one here to recognize me or disrupt my peaceful solitude.

And yet.

My thoughts keep going to Anne and her walk back to the condo in what my weather app tells me is Houston’s hottest summer in the past five years.

Distracting myself, I download an app I never thought I’d find use for – Pinterest – and lose myself in finding recipes comparable to the ones my mother used to make.

I make it twenty minutes, three boards and fifty pins before I switch apps and get out my wallet.

Liz

My phone buzzes for the umpteenth time today.

Ignoring it, I continue to rest my eyes. I’ve been finished with my drawings of Mission Control for about an hour, and yet I’m making use of the quiet space to gather enough energy and determination to go back to the condo.

I’d like to blame my exhaustion on the lack of sleep from my unexpected roommate last night, but honestly, the walk to NASA this morning nearly killed me. I still feel sweaty in places I’d rather not even after four hours of sitting in arctic-like air conditioning.

Another buzz.

I don’t need to look to know who it is.

Even my family isn’t this relentless.

After I woke to Felix Jones making me breakfast, even though he didn’t need to be up until much later, I felt bad enough. But now that he’s spending his morning asking me about any food allergies I may have, my spice level preference and even sending me recipes to yay or nay, I feel particularly troubled.

Or at least I would if my mental energy hadn’t been turned into physical energy and flittered away on my mile and a half walk through hell carrying a twelve-pound brimstone.

I didn’t admit to him that on my previous commutes over the past few days, I frequently stopped and rested. Or that today, on Mike’s first outing, I was planning to make Mike walk on a leash when he got too heavy for me to carry.

It was a hell of a lot of pride and my sheer determination not to look weak in front of Mr Action Star that kept my feet moving and my mouth shut. Even then, I don’t think I would’ve made it if Felix hadn’t carried my computer bag for me.

But all that went out the window once we reached the security gate and Felix turned around tojogback to the condo like our morning’s slog through heavy humidity was nothing. I cursed and complained the whole time to Mike while I stumbled from bench to bench along the remaining distance to building five, stopping multiple times just to stretch out my back and wipe sweat – and probably tears – from my eyes.

So much for being a hardened New Yorker who can walk blocks upon city blocks in a day. All that goes out the window when you add in the Texas weather and a hairless pussy.

‘What is that?’

My body jerks, the stylus still in my hand skidding across my open tablet. Shifting in my seat in the back room of Mission Control – an elevated room with a glass wall that overlooks the larger communications room – I open my eyes to see a horrified Em gazing down at me and the previously mentioned brimstone,who I’m planning to put on a strict diet, in the chair next to mine.

‘This is Mike Hunt.’

She chokes on air. ‘I’m sorry, what?’

My brother really is a perverted genius.

I fight to dim my smile. ‘This is the cat you were warned about.’

Em squints, leaning over me to get a better look at Mikey, who’s laid out diagonally on the seat, his back left leg dangling off the edge. ‘That’s a cat?’

At her incredulous tone, Mikey lifts the skin wrinkle above his left eye.

‘Oh. Wow.’ Em tiptoes closer. ‘It is.’

The only good thing about the hot walk to work is that it seems to have zapped Mike’s energy along with mine. The ball of tension that was lodged in my chest from me imagining the kinds of chaos Mike could cause in a government secure facility was thankfully unwarranted, as he’s spent the past few days laying limp under an air-conditioning vent while I draw. He hasn’t so much as even licked himself, probably disgusted by the taste of feline sunscreen.

‘Just so you know—’ I summon up the energy I’ve reserved for the even hotter trek home and pull out the notarized emotional support certificate from my bag ‘—my brother wasn’t lying when he said he’s certified.’

---