Page 90 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
I take a sip of my own. “After each operation, it’s good to review what happened so that future operations can be more successful.”
“I’m in on the next operation. I don’t want to miss out again,” Rose says.
“You were a pretty big part of this one,” I tell her. “Even if you didn’t know it.”
“Damn straight.” She nods.
“Well, you met us,” Trish starts. “So that’s a success.” She raises her beer bottle toward us.
“Hear, hear!” Rose shouts and we all clink glasses before knocking them back. “And you stood up to that douche-hat Hampson,” she continues after we lower our glasses.
“Yes, there was that. Don’t think I ever would’ve had the confidence to do that if it weren’t for you guys and Fly—” My breath catches. I cough and take another sip of my drink, trying to play it off.
Seeing the look Trish and Rose give each other, I have a feeling I’m not fooling anyone.
But surprisingly, Rose doesn’t jump on my Flynn slip-up. Instead she squeals and shouts, “And now you’re an ASTRONAUT!” She throws her head back on the last word, her voice ringing out over the music. People stop and stare. Rose stares right back, then balances her heels on the last rung of her stool, standing up.
Hurriedly I grab her hips, steadying her.
“Did you hear that, Big Texas? My girl here is a freaking astronaut!”
People cheer and raise their glasses in my direction. A couple of young men catcall Rose and she blows them a kiss.
Laughter ensues, and Trish grabs Rose’s drink out of her hand before she spills it as she retakes her seat. Well, spill it any more than she already has, at least.
Then we drink to the success of Operation Social Life the rest of the night. Every time our glasses clink I feel triumphant.
I don’t count the time I spend scanning the crowd for Flynn. I pretend my heart doesn’t lurch each time I see a couple revolving on the dance floor. And I refuse to acknowledge how often I glance at my phone.
Roughly eighty percent of the mass of the universe is made up of material that scientists can not directly observe, which they call dark matter. It does not emit light or energy. Though the concept is pretty much accepted, there’s no solid evidence to support dark matter’s existence. Flynn is my dark matter. Therefore, I feel no guilt not including Flynn in my operation success chart.
I search the faces in the bar once more. Nope, no guilt at all.
* * *
I wakeup with a hard length pressed up against my back. For a moment, I smile thinking of Flynn. But when the rest of my body spasms in pain, I realize it’s the metal bar from the pull-out couch.
Hazy memories of line dancing to David Bowie’s Space Oddity and saying the lift-off countdown to each shot we did come to mind as I smack my lips together, trying to find moisture. I’ve been hungover more this month than I have in my entire life.
I hear someone moving around and open my eyes a millimeter. Long, dark hair. Trish.
“Please tell me you don’t sleep on this thing with any regularity,” I mumble.
“Hey, that couch was free, I’ll have you know,” she chirps, far too awake-sounding after the night we had. “Found it on the side of the road.”
“What?” I jack-knife off the mattress, whacking my head on something above me.
Trish laughs so hard I barely hear her gulp out the word ‘kidding.’
“That was seriously a horrible thing to do to a friend,” I admonish.
“I don’t know, that was pretty freaking funny,” she says, wiping her eyes.
“If I had known what a cruel person you were I never would have agreed to crash here.” I rub my head and search for my glasses. “Why did I agree to crash here again?”
“When Rose found out you’d never been to a slumber party, she felt we needed to correct that childhood slight.” Trish leans against her galley kitchen counter and takes a sip of coffee. “I guess she forgot that my home is a trailer.”
Rose flings open the narrow bathroom door, adjacent to the kitchen. “Don’t go in there,” she says, closing the door behind her. “For at least five to ten minutes.”
