Page 80 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
Jackie
He gave me an ultimatum.Choose between Flynn and becoming an astronaut. Choose between the dream I’ve chased my entire life and the man I’ve come to love.
Love. It’s almost as unbelievable as the ultimatum. Both no less true the more I repeat the words in my head.
I haven’t seen Flynn in a week. Not since I looked at him, stunned, eyes probably as wide as those flying saucers people think the government hides in the desert of New Mexico. When he remained stoic, jaw set, fists clenched at his side, immovable, I simply stepped back and walked away. To my crappy car. Drove to my crappy apartment and picked up where I’d left off in my crappy life before Flynn.
And that’s the kicker. As smart as everyone tells me I am, I’d never realized just how crappy my life was, until it wasn’t.
Oddly enough, as my love life has been imploding, my occupational life is taking off like the proverbial rocket. I’m back at my console in Mission Control, my personal problems crammed into their own little compartment in the back of my mind. Sean is currently on his seventh cup of coffee of the day. Jules and Bodie are safe, with the ISS back in full working order.
I even had my astronaut interview yesterday. I was able to break free from the haze that Flynn’s conditional demands had thrown me into long enough to answer the questions Roger McAllister, the Chief of the Astronaut Office and Jorge Salazar, the Director of Flight Operations Directorate threw my way with a modicum of intelligence.
And though it’s been two weeks since the NASA EXT emergency, news outlets and reporters are still camped out at NASA. I’ve done all the sound bites HR has required of me, and that’s it. But my reticence hasn’t prevented reporters from referring to Jules, Bodie and me as thesaviorsof the ISS. I gave myself a headache when I eyerolled after I heard that one. Whoever came up with that headline should have their journalistic credentials stripped.
But I’m sure that’s not what the PR team I just spent a few hours with wants me to say in my upcoming interview on Fox News. The one NASA insists I do.
Deep breath.
I’m going to ignore everything in my life that doesn’t involve this moment in Mission Control. I’ll pretend everything is back to normal. Normal, everyday real-time decisions with the crew and the station’s technology. No imminent space junk, no hotwiring, no car honking text notifications and most assuredly, no more tears. Just my normal, everyday life, crappy or not.
“Jackie?”
I swivel in my chair to hush whoever’s calling my name only to have the words stick in my throat.
“Itisyou!” Walking toward me is Brian Hampson, the new shortstop for the Houston Astros and the man who popped my cherry.
This is sonotnormal. But still very crappy.
He’s with a group of four very tall, very large men. To round out their group is a woman with a camera and a press badge around her neck. Brian pulls me to my feet and engulfs me in a hard hug before I have a chance to respond. A camera flashes.
“No flash photography!” Sean whisper yells. The journalist shrugs, but adjusts her camera.
Brian leans back, looking me over, all while keeping a perfect angle for the photographer. “How’ve you been?”
“Um, great?” A quick glance around MCC has me wishing I called in sick, or took that vacation everyone said I deserved. I try to will away the blush that’s threatening and clear my throat. “You?”
He turns us so that we’re facing the photographer, with the Mission Control sign behind us. “Fine, thanks,” he says, talking to me but posing for the camera.
And he is. Fine, that is. He’s always been, but the past few years have broadened his shoulders and sculpted his arms into steel bands. Steel bands that are still around me.
I adjust my glasses and step back. “What are you doing here?”
He gestures to the men in front of us. “I’ve been signed to the Houston Astros, so they wanted me to see the sights.” He poses again, slightly shifting his weight, and I think… yes, he’s flexing his arm. His hair is longer. Gone is the buzz cut from college, replaced by a man-bun. He has more hair styling ability than I do. “A few of the boys on the team are taking me on a tour of NASA. Good PR, what with the recent news coverage.” He scans around the room, much like a socialite probably does at banquets, trying to find more important, wealthier people. Brian seems resigned that I’m all he has to talk to at the moment.
“I see.”
“You’re the big hero at NASA! It’s all over the news,” Brian says, drawing a lot of attention from my co-workers.
Before I can shush him and maneuver back to my console, the photographer jumps in, corralling me over until I’m in the middle of all the baseball players, and takes more pictures.
“As much as I love all this bullshit reunion crap—this is Mission Control, and you guys need to shut your traps. Some of us are working here,” Sean says from his console.
“Sorry, Sean,” I say.
“Can’t get too mad at thehero,now can we?” Sean winks and I feel my face heat. “Besides, your shift’s over.” He motions all of us toward the door. “Go take your celebrity friends out to eat, Jackie.”
“I really don’t think—”
