Chapter 11
Leif
ONE YEAR LATER
“Here you are, sir.”
The ice clinks as the airport bartender slides me my drink. He’s dressed impeccably in his black suit and a holly-print ascot. He’s even got a waxed mustache.
“Thanks.” I’m still not used to traveling outside of coach.
In fact, all the red carpet treatment I’ve gotten since returning earth side makes me deeply uncomfortable most of the time.
But now that I get thronged by people when I’m trying to buy toilet paper at the grocery store, I can see the appeal of these private, secluded first class lounges.
Larry says the fans won’t last—not to this degree, anyway. He acts like this is a sad fact.
I nurse the drink as I read over the contract the university sent me, but I’m having trouble concentrating.
Normally I wouldn’t have a drink at all.
I always want to be clear-headed when I arrive back in Quince Valley.
But I’m going back early this year. I’ve wrapped up my work.
My apartment’s packed up, en route to California, and for once I have a whole month to spend there.
As for Noelle, just like every year before, we haven’t made plans. No commitments. No promises.
But nerves have made my chest tight since the minute I left my apartment. Hell, since I landed back on earth almost a year ago.
I want to make promises.
“Another, sir?” the bartender asks.
I glance at my watch. My plane doesn’t leave for another hour.
I’m good, I think. But am I? Part of me wants to drown myself in the dull numbness of booze. I’m not much of a drinker, but at times like this I can see the appeal.
I don’t even know how she feels. I know she cares about me. I know we’re best friends—the weirdest kind of best friends, but still.
But she didn’t go through the roller coaster of emotions I did up there.
She didn’t see the earth looking like a giant marble, knowing I could hardly breathe knowing she was there; so vulnerable in the vastness of space.
She also didn’t set foot on the powdery emptiness of a space rock and cry tears of joy while leaping in the place that felt like it should have been only for immortals.
“Sir?”
The bartender’s waiting for me to answer.
“Try a bitters and soda,” a voice says to my right, startling me from my thoughts. “It’s barely alcoholic but still feels like a treat.”
I glance over to see an older woman two stools down from me.
I take in a silver bob, and giant black rimmed glasses, and a long, gauzy leopard print jacket over a black turtleneck.
I’m ashamed to say I didn’t notice her earlier, even though she stands out.
An obscenely large green stone on her ring glitters as she takes a sip of her martini.
How the hell did I not notice her before?
Connie says older women become invisible at a certain age. That’s why I smile at her and nod at the bartender. “That sounds good.”
A moment later the bartender passes me the drink—she was right, it tastes like a fizzy cocktail.
I’m just about to thank her when she says, “They tell me you want to write a book about the great questions in the universe.”
My stomach drops. “Do I know you?”
The woman takes another sip of her drink. “Only you can tell me that.”
I frown. Is she government? Doesn’t look like it. Private contractor? Maybe.
She looks at me for the first time. Her lips are painted bright red, her eyes huge behind those thick frames. “Is there a special woman in your life?”
Before I can answer, she says, “I ask because there are other opportunities out there for space men than cushy professorships and elementary school tours. Not that those aren’t noble pursuits.”
“I’m sorry, we must have met.” Maybe I just don’t remember. Lots of people know who I am, despite my attempt at disguising myself by not letting scissors or a razor near my head
“There are people interested in the same things you are.”
“And what’s that?”
“The theoretical nature of the universe, of course.”
I blink. It’s like she’d somehow listened in on my conversation with Larry, who’d looked at me like I was nuts when I told him I wanted to write a book instead of return to space.
“You’re a man of science,” Larry had said, looking almost angry.
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to tell me who—”
“If you want my advice, I say put that big brain to better use than the trappings of higher education.” She tosses the last of her martini down her throat and steps off the stool. She strides toward me, then stops, peering straight into my eyes.
I feel like I’m failing her appraisal.
But she smiles after a moment, with a slight curl of her wrinkled lips. “Some of us are trying to change the world. And the help we need could be stationed anywhere within it.”
A moment later, she walks past me with purposeful but unhurried strides toward a man in a black suit standing in the corridor, his arms folded at his front. He fixes a cap on his head as she approaches. He’s a pilot, I realize belatedly. Her personal pilot.
“Wait!” I say, before I can stop myself. I don’t know what to ask. Who are you? How do I find out what the hell you’re talking about?
“Go to her,” the woman says, handing her purse to the pilot. “She’s waiting.”
Then in a sweep of leopard print, she’s gone.
“Do you know who that was?” I ask the bartender as he hands me my bill.
“Ever heard of Plush?”
I wrack my brain. There’s a brand of tissue and paper towel called Plush. I think they own a bunch of toiletry brands too. “The hygiene conglomerate?”
I’m half joking, thinking it must be a magazine or something, but he nods. “We get all kinds of VIPs in here. You’re the first guy I’ve ever met who’s been on the moon though.”
Then he asks me to sign a coaster for his niece. I’m getting better at not looking around and thinking me?! every time someone wants an autograph.
As I walk toward the gate, I search Plush on my phone.
It takes some digging, but I see that Plush’s parent company is LeMille Inc.
A few taps later and I’m stopped on the side of the hallway, looking at the woman’s face.
Her name is Lillian LeMille, the reclusive billionaire heiress of the LeMille conglomerate.
Her Wikipedia page says she’s 77 years old and estimated to be worth 87 billion dollars.
Her hobbies include rare plant collection and Tai Chi.
She’s also a huge philanthropist, and funds a number of research and development projects, and likely many more that aren’t named.
Larry said I’d get strange enquiries when I came back, but I don’t exactly know what her enquiry was. I wish, suddenly, that I had Noelle’s number. She’d love hearing about this, just like she lit up when I talked about Eleanor Cleary.
On the plane, I text Larry.
LEIF: Ever heard of Lillian LeMille?
LARRY: The billionaire? Why?
LEIF: Just curious.
LARRY: Did she offer you a job?
She didn’t. Just advice. I think. But before I can respond, he sends another text.
LARRY: These fucking billionaires. Don’t get tempted by their weird vanity projects, kid. If you’re not going back up, take the tenure position. I pulled strings for you. People would kill for what’s being handed to you on a silver platter.
I like Larry. He finally came around to me not continuing my career at NASA, and even put my name forward for the university position in California.
But I made the mistake of opening up to him a couple of years ago, after coming home from Christmas with Noelle. Ever since he’s taken it upon himself to act like a father figure.
He’s right, though. The university position will give me the time and funding for my research.
Guarantees of publication. Time to write a book if I want to, even if it won’t be the book I really want to write.
Security. And no elementary school tours, which is what I thought I wanted before.
Even though since the kindergarten cookies, I dropped the hint to the university recruitment team who I interviewed with that I might do a few of those after all. On the side.
I pull out the offer letter from the university, turning it around in my hand.
My plan right now is to say yes to the position, but only if I can split my time between California and New York.
Because I’m not spending another year wishing I was with Noelle and letting our lives get in the way of being together.
If she wants to be with me.
If they won’t let me do that, I’ll take a job at the community college in Quince Valley. I don’t care what I do, so long as I’m with Noelle.
I shove thoughts of teaching and billionaire heiresses aside and lean back in my seat, going to the happy place I gave up on avoiding while I was in zero gravity.
Noelle. Noelle smiling. Noelle laughing. Noelle diving behind me in the parking lot of the Rolling Hills when a crow flew in our path.
Noelle giving me her beautiful smile while I hold her in my arms and tell her all the things I was thinking when I was in space.
I just pray she wants me too.