Page 56 of Space Oddities

“What did Jules tell you that you didn’t really want to know?”

The light returns to her face, and I’m glad I didn’t push. “She said she doesn’t need to worry about her panties getting into a bunch because she isn’t wearing any.”

“Yes,” I deadpan. “I definitely didn’t need to know that.”

Trish laughs, and the good feelings from before come back. But I recognize other feelings too. Feelings that I haven’t admitted to myself since the moment I saw her at the trailer park, gun in hand, packing up to leave.

Impatience. Frustration. Fear.

I’ve always been the man in the room with the most patience. It’s why I’m good at being a government employee when red tape and bureaucracy get in the way of projects, pushing back deadlines over and over again. It’s why I’m good at outmaneuvering my father, because I can see the long game. It’s why, despite always wanting to be armed with all the information well in advance, I’ve not asked Trish to explain the reason for a private eye to show up knocking on her door.

But I’m tired of that shadow in her eyes. I’m annoyed at her continued secretiveness. And I’m very much afraid that this woman, who holds everything I’ve ever wanted in the palm of her perfectly manicured hand, will disappear one day.

The sudden urge to say the hell with it and keep Trish home, keep her safe from… everything claws at me.

“Come on now, sugar,” Trish sing-songs, walking down the hallway, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “Don’t make me leave without you.”

The sashay of her hips under the textured white fabric of her dress makes all the blood rush from my head. My mind blanks as my crotch bulges.

It’s just a fundraiser. We’ll show up, get my father off my back, and leave. It’ll be fine. “Coming.”

And damn if I don’t wish I was.

* * *

Trish

You’reeverything I’ve ever wanted.

Am I? I glance at Ian as he talks to a couple standing next to us and replay his words from earlier over and over again. We’ve only just joined the line to enter the ballroom, and I’ve lost count of how many people have come up to him,knowhim, from past functions.

The Ritz Carlton is a cacophony of sound, glasses clinking, polite conversational murmurs, and a display of wealth I’ve never seen up close before. Not even in the prestigious part of Atlanta, where just thirty minutes away my lower-income trailer park helped increase city tax breaks.

Normally I’d soak up the atmosphere, storing away tidbits of conversation to use later in my stories, taking mental snapshots of what everyone is wearing, how they stand and move in their glitzy environment.

At the moment, though, everything is blurry, like I’m looking in through frosted glass. And isn’t that a great metaphor for my life?

There’s sudden movement ahead, and the crowd parts, letting a couple through. Instantly I recognize them as Ian’s parents. One, because after I discovered just who Ian’s father was, I googled him. And two, the way everyone tries to stop and chat, shake hands, nod in acknowledgement, it all screamed power and influence.

The senator stops, talking with the couple by Ian, but his wife steps forward. “Ian, dear. It’s so good to see you.”

I try to pull my arm out of Ian’s so he can greet her more effusively, but he holds me tight to his side.

“Mother, this is my girlfriend, Trish Garrett.”

I blink, not prepared for the declaration. “Uh, how do you do?” I curse myself for fumbling and offer her my free hand. When she takes it, I’m thankful for my bank-breaking dress and the fancy updo I managed thanks to a YouTube tutorial. But even with these, I still feel every bit of my low-income upbringing in front of Mrs. Kincaid. Ian’s mom isthatclassy. Maybe I should’ve splurged on something more than my cubic zirconia studs.

“I’m fine, dear. Good to meet you.” Her words are perfectly polite, but her eyes are oddly vacant, like she’s reciting a script as she takes my hand. A single diamond tennis bracelet slides down her slim wrist, reminding me of Veronica. But whereas the neighborhood Desperate Housewife paired her diamonds with spandex, Mrs. Kincaid chose Chanel.

Ian’s hand rests on my lower back as the man to the left of his mother, wearing a custom-fit navy tuxedo, steps closer to us. “And my father.” Ian nods at the man. “Senator Kincaid.”

The tall, handsome man flashes a well-practiced smile at me. “Ah, yes. My son did say he was bringing someone.” He looks me over, his jovial expression never wavering.

Thankful that my four-and-a-half-inch platform pumps mean he doesn’t towertoomuch over me, I extend my hand. “Trish Garrett, sir.”

His large hand engulfs my own. “Thank you for your support, Trish. And please, call me Richard, no sirs required.”

Heat rises in my cheeks. No wonder this man wins elections. He has charm for days.

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