She turned and left the kitchen ahead of me, but I was on her heels. Her hand swept down to flick off the light switch. The room was cast into darkness.
And without a thought, the breath caught and froze in my lungs, and my head spun. Without fully realizing what I was doing, I clamped my hand around her wrist. She gasped, turning to me and spilling water from her glass, sloshing it onto the floor.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ground out between clenched teeth before flinging her hand away and turning the light back on before the darkness could take hold.
She froze in place, staring at me wide-eyed and visibly swallowing. That heartbeat—
click, click, click—came fast.
I’d scared her.
Well. Good.
She blinked, staring at me. “I, ah, turned off the light.”
“And what was the rule?”
She frowned, something changing in the quality of her gaze. Moving around me, she grabbed a wad of paper towels and stooped to mop up the mess on the floor. She didn’t look up when she finally talked. “You told me to leave everything as I found it—”
“That means the lights too.”
“Yeah, you gave me that example at the time. I…forgot.” She straightened, dumping the wet paper into the trash and taking up her now half-empty glass. She filled it again, and I waited by the light switch while she walked around me and out into the hall toward her room. Before I could turn the opposite way to head toward the stairs, she stopped me.
“Uh, do you mind if I ask what’s up with the lights?”
I turned my back on her. “Yes, I mind. Keep them how you found them.”
They’d turn off automatically according to the timer—long after I was holed up in my room and wouldn’t be coming down again until the morning. But her flicking them off meant they wouldn’t come on tomorrow night, and I couldn’t have that. Everything had been set up perfectly according to my routine. And I wasn’t about to have her mess it up.
She was already messing up enough shit as it was.
Chapter 12
Gray
After a roller coaster weekend of photo ops, a fake dinner date, and one astronaut hissy fit, we were ready to hit the runway on our way to Houston for the Make-A-Wish Foundation event.
Getting out of the town car at the private airfield near LAX, I scratched at the scab on my palm where my stitches had been. Ryan had dutifully removed them on Sunday during one of the rare instances I’d seen him all weekend. He’d said maybe ten words during that entire conversation.
Since his blowup over the kitchen light switch on Friday night, he avoided me the entire day Saturday by working out for hours in his gym, swimming in the pool and walking in the canyon. A very active day. On Sunday afternoon, he’d hung out with his astro-buddies until it was time to get ready for his dinner date with Keely, which he—thankfully—showed up to completely sober.
I’d made sure not to touch a single light switch, to the extreme of leaving my bathroom light on all night as well. I’d puzzled over the intensity of his reaction, and of course, I’d documented it in my notes. Obviously, my flipping the light switch was a trigger—but for what, exactly, I didn’t quite know. Neither did I know what exactly the trigger was.
Did he not like the darkness? Or did he dislike not having control over the lighting in his home? Was it a PTSD issue?
Well, that was a dumb question. Obviously, it was. But I didn’t know enough yet to make an assessment about how serious it was or what exactly it was. I’d noted it, reserved my judgment and tried not to do anything else that would push him any further away than he’d kept himself for the rest of the weekend.
I boarded XVenture’s private jet behind Ryan, Keely, her assistant Sharon, and the Russian cosmonaut, Kirill Stonov. Our flight time to Houston would be just under three hours.
Watching Ryan’s back as we climbed the steps into the plane, I wondered about how this trip might be affecting him. There was a good chance that going back to NASA’s most important center within a month of being sent packing was awkward for him. He showed no inkling of it. Then again, he was an expert at veiling his inner thoughts and emotions.
Not unusual in astronauts. They played everything so close to the vest due to the highly competitive nature of getting flight assignments. One of the most famous stories involved celebrated test pilot, Colonel Chuck Yeager. He broke the sound barrier in his experimental plane within hours of cracking his ribs during a horseback ride. He’d neglected to divulge that little detail to his flight surgeon before the life-risking flight.
I was familiar with this mentality, having had the opportunity to study many hopeful astronauts during my graduate program. Fully experienced astronauts with their gold wings were exponentially guiltier of this same mind-set. Never show a weakness. Ever.
Ty was greeted enthusiastically by the private jet’s flight crew, pumping his hand with wide smiles and fawning over him. They asked for autographs, selfies, and offered him a tour of the cockpit.
None of them could have any inkling their hero was hiding some seriously dark, deep suffering.
But I did. And he was so damn afraid of me right now, that I’d figure it out, he could barely look at me.
I could feel the animosity sloughing off him in waves.
Hours later, our cars rolled to a stop at the VIP drop-off at Johnson Space Center in Houston. NASA had allowed us entrance away from the prying eyes of the hundreds of tourists who regularly visited.
Exiting the car, we were hit by a wall of summer humidity that was so unlike the dry heat of Southern California. My clothes stuck to me during the short walk from the driveway to the door.
Despite Ryan’s recent dismissal from NASA, they had allowed this event to take place for the sake of a sick boy’s wish. Our group was met by a tall and thin NASA outreach representative and vice director of public relations. He pumped Ryan’s hand, a grin on his lips. “Ty, welcome back! We miss you around here.”
“Thanks, Ron,” Ryan intoned flatly and then proceeded to introduce the rest of us before disappearing into a nearby locker room. When he emerged, he was magnificent in the dark blue flight suit of a NASA astronaut, complete with his name stitched in over the left breast pocket and flight patches on the front and sleeves.
Blank-faced, he led us to a predetermined meeting place. The photographer had Ryan and Keely pose in front of a few displays for shots to release to the Associated Press and news blogs.
Keely snuggled to his side, and he slung an arm around her hips. For the hundredth time, I admired how amazing they looked together. And how weird it made me feel inside to notice it. Though I tried not to examine that feeling too closely, even as she leaned up and whispered something in his ear, kissed his cheek, laughed at something he said. Ryan seemed affected, smiling back at her as he made her laugh, adjusting his hand on her back.
Something gripped me then, with barbed claws and razor-sharp fangs sinking into my chest. An ugly, heated feeling that made me feel like I might combust.
Jealousy. But not simply a pang. Oh no. This was a full-on flaming-eyed monster that wanted to rip itself out of my chest, Alien-style, and spit acid everywhere. I took a deep breath and made myself look away until the pictures were done.
Ryan wasn’t mine, and I had no right to be jealous. This weird reaction was purely irrational and emotion-based. I blew out a breath. There. Nothing like psychobabble to cool my jets. Emotional intelligence for the win.
The Make-A-Wish Foundation Ambassador appeared with the young family of the sick boy. Ryan asked Keely and the rest of us to stand back and allow the family to be photographed with him.
Francisco Martinez, about six or seven years old, had recently finished chemotherapy. He was adorable—and far from frail. His black hair was thin, but growing back, and he had the most heart-melting, bucktoothed smile.
Looking at him, I couldn’t help but think about my own hopes with Make-A-Wish when I was a child. I’d been despera
te to be chosen, having decided, like Francisco, to meet an astronaut—though in my case, it was to meet Dr. Sally Ride.
But that chance had never come for me. Dad had convinced me to turn it down. He’d given me two reasons—one, we were too privileged to take the chance away from another child who didn’t have the resources our family had, and, two, I wasn’t sick enough to think about something like final wishes.
I was sick—very sick—but Dad had refused to acknowledge that. He’d told me that accepting a wish would be like giving up. Like putting a knife through his heart. And after he’d said that, how could I go through with it?
So I hadn’t, even though I’d cried about it when he wasn’t around. And he never knew.
I clenched my jaw and reminded myself to be present in the now and not lost in the past. Besides, watching Francisco and Ryan together was magical and made it easy to forget old hurts.
The boy gazed up at his hero with wide eyes. Then he snapped to attention, offering him a salute. In response, Ty sank to one knee in front of the child, holding up a hand. “Give me a high five, Francisco. I heard you made it through your last round of chemotherapy with flying colors.”
Francisco’s parents shared a look. His mom smiled and said something encouraging to her son in Spanish. The boy enthusiastically slapped Ryan’s hand. “My dad said if I can do that, I can do anything, like go to Mars someday. Do you think I can do that, Commander Ty? Can I be an astronaut and go to Mars even though I’ve been sick?”
Ryan grinned wide “You should never give up on your dream, Francisco.” His gaze flicked toward our group, meeting mine before he turned back to the boy.
“I have a friend who was sick when she was little, and she told me she never gave up on her dream. And you shouldn’t give up on yours. In fact, going through everything you have proves that you’re strong—and a fighter.”
I blinked, listening to his words, remembering our conversation in the little pub in Long Beach when I’d told him I’d refused to give up and decided to work with astronauts when it became apparent I’d never be able to become one.
He’d had a look in his eyes then—an admiration.
I swallowed a lump in my throat and fought prickling tears as Francisco’s smile widened at this new hope given to him. He hopped up on his toes and gave Ryan another high five, and I tried my hardest not to blubber like an idiot.
Ryan stood and took Francisco’s hand, and they moved toward the full-scale model of the Harmony node of the ISS, where the crew living quarters were located.
“We’re going to need a lot of new astronauts in about twenty years. By then, you will have concentrated on getting better and staying healthy. And spending a lot of time getting good grades. That’s super important if you want to be an astronaut. You have to study a lot.”
He led us all through the module, and we got to explore. I had been here once before—years ago—but I was thrilled to be back nonetheless. Some were fascinated by the tools velcroed to the workbench, others were trying to figure out the exercise equipment.
Me? I’d shut myself inside the tiny phone-booth-sized crew sleeping quarters where the astronauts slept standing up and strapped to the wall because of weightlessness.
Francisco was continuing his conversation with Ryan. I could hear it right outside the door. He seemed determined to reject Ryan’s plea to study and do well in school.
The boy’s tone was downright skeptical. “Do you study every day?”
“I have to take care of myself, both my mind and my body. If I don’t, then I don’t get to fly. And flying is the most important thing in the world to me.”
“Hmm. That doesn’t sound as interesting as having fun. Don’t you drive cars real fast and fly your fighter plane?”
I tried hard not to giggle at Francisco’s questions. Don’t forget to mention guzzling vodka and punching out flat-earthers, I felt like prompting. I put a hand over my mouth to muffle the giggles.
Ryan’s voice came from right on the other side of the canvas wall from me. “I have fun too. But not too much fun.”
“I think you should have more fun. Being an astronaut is hard work.”
Oh, believe me, kid, he has plenty of fun. Too much fun. My other hand went over the first when my laughter couldn’t be held in.
Abruptly the cloth “door” to my little cubby was ripped aside. Ryan and Francisco both peered inside at me.
Ryan’s mouth quirked. “I can’t have too much fun, or else I get in trouble with Ms. Barrett here.”
I rolled my eyes at Ryan and was rewarded with a cheeky smile from him.
“Are you his boss?” Francisco asked, squeezing by me to look inside the crew quarters as I made my way out. I looked shyly up at Ryan before glancing away.
When I would have returned the cheek and said yes, Ryan answered for me. “No, definitely not my boss. More like…my babysitter.”
Now I scowled at Ryan, and his grin grew exponentially.
“Your babysitter?” Francisco said, turning back to look at me while Ryan velcroed him inside the sleeping bag that held him to the wall. “You’re too old to need a babysitter. Only kids like me do.”
Ryan straightened and turned back to me, still amused. “See? Even Francisco thinks I’m too old to have a babysitter.”
With my hands on my hips, I muttered quietly so the boy couldn’t hear me. “That’s because Francisco doesn’t play Slam the Headboard with his ‘trainer.’”
Oh, how satisfying it was to see the cheeky smirk melt off his face. I turned and exited the module with the rest of the group.
Next, I made straight toward my favorite display—the one that let visitors touch a moon rock. I shoved my hand in and ran my fingers over the smooth surface of a polished cross-section, lost in thought until I saw the boots standing beside me.
“Your babysitter likes the moon rock,” Francisco said.
I straightened, blushing, and pulled my hand out.
“Your turn, Francisco,” I said with a smile and made a wide berth around the astronaut, proud I hadn’t looked up into his face, and thus, his mocking smile was wasted. That time, at least.
By this time, our group attracted the attention of other visitors to the Space Center. A crowd formed near the astronaut as people held up their phones and took pictures of Ryan, calling out to him. But both the NASA rep and the Make-A-Wish ambassador were keeping the crowd at bay.
As it was, Ryan ended up staying almost a full hour after the tour ended to sign autographs, not refusing anyone when he very well could have.
I blinked back an unexpected sting in my eyes when, upon saying goodbye, Francisco broke ranks from his parents on the way to the car to run back and give Ryan a big hug.
“I will never forget this day. This is the happiest day of my life, Commander Ty.” Ryan wrapped his arms around the boy’s thin shoulders.
“You’ll have many more happy days, Francisco. And after you go to Mars, I will ask for your autograph, okay?”
“Anything for you!” He snapped off a salute and ran back to his parents’ sides, talking eight-hundred miles a minute while Ryan watched them go, his face unreadable.
He’d never shown any indication that he disliked or was uncomfortable with all the hero worship. I’d seen firsthand how he was constantly subjected to it.
But what was all of it doing to him, deep inside?
Maybe someday I’d have the courage to ask him. Provided that didn’t qualify as “shrink talk.”
We’d be returning home early the next day. But Ryan had requested the evening to attend a small get-together with a few friends here in Houston. And surprisingly, we were all invited. He mentioned the advantages of being seen with Keely enjoying some Houston nightlife, but I suspected a deeper reason.
Maybe we were there to act as a cushion. There could be no other reason for Ryan to want us along with him. We were there to protect him against anything emotionally untoward. I doubted anyone else had perceived that as the reason
, but I sure had. I’d probably have to ask Ryan about it at some point. If I ever got the chance to talk to him alone, that was.
At our hotel, I took a long nap, then showered off the Texan summer humidity and dressed for the evening.
On my way to the elevator, I ran into Keely in the hallway, her hair still in curlers, holding a diet soda from the vending machine. “I’m not sure why I’m bothering with all this.” She waved at the curlers. “The humidity here is insane.”
I laughed. My hair had a special kind of unique curl here, too. And it was big. If it were any longer, it would look like eighties hair.
Her eyes slid over me. I was wearing dressy black jeans, a nice button-up blouse, and my Doc Martens. “You’re going to the thingy tonight, right? You have to go. I need you there.”
I nodded. “I’ll be there. Was headed down to the lobby a little early.”
She frowned at me. “Don’t you have a dress?”
I shrugged. “Not with me, no.” I didn’t add that I maybe owned two dresses, if that, hanging, almost never-worn in the back of my closet at home.
Her brows arched. “A skirt?”
I shook my head again.
“Girl! I know everyone’s got their personal style, but get your butt in here. We can dress this up.” She hooked her hand around my upper arm, and I let her pull me into the two-bedroom suite she was sharing with her assistant.
“Sharon where is that maxi dress you kept insisting I bring? Gray, how tall are you?”
“Five eight. Look, I—”
“Perfect! We are the same height.” She turned and gazed at me again. “A maxi dress with those Doc Martens might look kinda cute. Grunge retro.”
Sharon was expressing her doubts, but Keely interrupted her. “Just tell me where the dress is.”
When she pulled it out of the closet, I knew it was a hard pass—strappy with a scooped neckline. I mentally grasped for excuses. “I don’t have a bra that will go with that.”
Keely glanced at me for a moment, but she held the hanger up to me, letting the dress drape down my front. She pointed to a nearby mirror. “Look at that color on you. Dusty rose. Perfect with your complexion. No matter how much of a tomboy, a girl’s gotta try a dress every once in a while, you know?”
High Risk (Point of No Return Book 1) Page 15
