Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Ugh.” I shuddered in irritation, drawing a frown from the guy passing me on my street.
Trying not to dwell on my dad’s message, I clicked on the next voice mail.
“Why aren’t you picking up your phone?” my mom’s voice snapped impatiently. “Are you too busy for me now? I have stretch marks on my stomach that I’ll never be rid of because of you, young lady.”
Jesus, my parents were so alike, and they couldn’t even see it, I thought as I climbed the stairs to my apartment.
“The least you can do is call me back. I know you saw a video that might have embarrassed you, but you’re an adult now. And your mother is a single, attractive woman. I get to let my hair down sometimes, you know. If your father can shack up with some bimbo fifteen years younger than him—what a fucking cliché!—then I can eat a banana while sitting on a male stripper’s lap. Now your aunt Kiera is rubbing it in my face that twerp he installed in that house in Ridgewood he cannot afford is throwing a family pool party for that bimbo’s sixteen-year-old brat. Are you going? Because Kiera mentioned something about you organizing it, and I know that can’t be true. My Hallie wouldn’t do that to me. You can be irresponsible and I know you like a party, but you would never willfully hurt my feelings like that. Would you?”
* * *
I stared into the computer screen, mentally and emotionally drained as I said to “Christopher,” “I’d like to point out that I haven’t partied since I was in college, and yet I still have this reputation as the party girl. Planning events for people does not make me a party girl. Irresponsible? Where did that label come from? And it feels weird watching my dad move on with someone else and playing father to some strange girl. . . . I’m worried he’s taking on too much with his new house, trying to impress Miranda and Alison. And I really do not have time to plan a party I’m not getting paid to plan.
“But I’m Hallie.” I smiled sadly at the camera. “So I’ll just grin and bear it and try to make it work for everyone else.” With a groan, I slumped over, laying my forehead against the desk. I waved at the screen in good night to my imaginary Chris and blindly ended the video.
And then, because something about watching his handsome face and listening to that deep, soothing voice relaxed me, I lifted my head, sent my video letter into outer space, and then clicked open one of Chris’s video letters to watch again for, like, the tenth time.
SIX
Chris
The Whipple shield took some debris last night. I felt it. Nothing major, nothing to worry about. Anything big, we’d steer the station out of the way. I was on repairs yesterday and had to overhaul the communications system. That kept me busy. Today I tested the crew’s blood samples. And I will not lie . . . before I started this video, Tom and Anton and I timed each other to see who could get from node 1 to node 2 the fastest. And I know you’re dying to know who won. I’ll give you a hint . . . you’ve had sex with him. Darce, I miss you. I’m glad everything is going well down there. When I return, I’m going to take you out on the town to celebrate you winning your case. Did you get my flowers? I ordered those flowers from space. There’s a conversation starter for you.
—CAPTAIN CHRISTOPHER ORTIZ, VIDEO DIARY #9
It had taken weeks to get the sound of humming machinery out of my head once I’d returned to Earth. I’d lie awake at night, my luxury mattress like a brick beneath my back compared to sleep in zero gravity, and I’d still hear that humming from the ISS. It was its own kind of silence. The night the Whipple shield took a hit I’d felt the station shake, waking me. But the machinery noise lulled me back to sleep and into dreams of Miguel. Like so many times before, I dreamed I’d lost him and I couldn’t find him, my panic rising. I’d woken up soaked in sweat and gasping for breath.
I didn’t confide in Darcy about the dream in the video I sent her the next day. She was uncomfortable when I talked about my mother or Miguel. She’d change the subject. That wasn’t a problem for me. Besides, I had been psychoanalyzed numerous times while training to be an astronaut. I had thoroughly discussed everything I felt about losing Miguel to war with my therapist.
And still I dreamed of him. As I did last night, and even though my mattress had grown more comfortable over the last few months, I couldn’t fall back to sleep again. Maybe I needed those humming sounds from the ISS to help me nod off.