Rocket Man

by Melanie Greene

  She got so caught up sketching ideas to turn her new second bedroom into a studio with enough space left over for a futon for her half-brother’s visits that she had to dash over to the house to meet Natalie and the inspector.

  It was an overcast day, but the rain held off long enough for the guy to check the roof and the attics and the crawl space under the house. The floors were, predictably enough, not level, but that and the degraded insulation were easy fixes. More problematic were the critters under the house, the rotten boards all along the north wall, and the wiring that was only updated in the remodeled kitchen and living areas.

  “They have to get it up to code, right?” Serena asked Natalie once Carter and the inspector had left.

  “Well, they don’t have to. But the report will go with the house now, so even if they try to back out of it with you, any other buyer would see that and not offer as much as you did.”

  Serena put a hand to her racing heart. “Don’t talk about other buyers, you’re freaking me out.”

  “Well, sweetie, I’m just telling you the truth.” Natalie’s pretty green eyes were laughing at her, Serena was sure of it. “Don’t go into a frenzy. We discussed this. This is the next stage. Let’s figure out how much you want to ask them to do, how much you’re willing to let them do or if you want to get bids and ask for the money to do it yourself, all of that. Come on, I’ll buy you a sandwich and you can take a deep breath and we’ll make lists. I know how you like your lists.”

  Blowing out a growl of a breath, Serena nodded. “Okay, fine. You’re the expert. But I want soup. It’s about to rain and my house has a raccoon family under it, so I want soup.”

  Dillon’s whole weekend had been shot to hell. He’d been close to scoring Rockets tickets online, but the guy never called him back after they’d gone back and forth a few times. Then his cable was out so he didn’t get to watch the game from the comfort of the deep sofa in his townhouse. And the rain screwed with his plan to surprise Shannon by planting some spring flowers at her house. She wasn’t exactly up for a lot of bending and shoveling, and Justin, for all his fine qualities, sucked at gardening. Not that Dillon was a complete natural, but he’d spent more weekends than he’d liked helping his mom with her over-abundant flowerbeds, and had picked up a basic skill set. Plus, getting in spring annuals was the kind of thing his mom would have done during Shannon’s last trimester, if his mom were around.

  It was weird, sometimes, trying to imagine what his parents would have been like as empty nesters. When Shannon had gone to UCLA, she’d lived on campus, so of course the house was quieter with just the three of them there. None of Shan’s girlfriends stopping by, or boyfriends for that matter, and a dramatic decrease in the number of stupid shows on TV. But Dillon’s sister had still come home every couple of weeks to do laundry, and was apt to swing by to pick up random items or grab a meal when the dining hall options got boring.

  But Dillon was only sixteen when they died, so even though his parents hadn’t really been tied to child care or driving him everywhere or any of that, they never made the leap to being on their own. They’d talked about it sometimes, but it was mostly joking stuff, like that if Dillon left town for college, they’d quit their jobs and move to wherever he was, or that they were going to remodel the house like a giant play-land so the grandkids would always want to be with them.

  He figured if he and Shannon had ended up both in Houston like this—if he’d moved to Texas on his own accord and not just because she was the only family he had left in the world until he made a family of his own—his parents probably would have sold the house in LA. Especially with the baby on the way. Dillon had been old enough to have known them as adults who were not just parents. Dad’s eye-rolling acceptance of Mom’s beloved Broadway shows; the fact that they went out for Indian food practically every time they had a meal without their kids; their mutual dislike of organized group travel—all of it sketched in the shape of their older age together. But they’d also clearly imagined being close to their kids when Dillon and Shannon were adults making their own ways in the world.

  None of that was possible anymore. So Shannon gave Dillon a good deal on her old townhouse and always made room at the table when he dropped in, and Dillon planted flowers in her front garden. Shannon hadn’t ever explicitly said it, but Dillon knew, because for him it was the same: he nurtured Shannon out of genuine brotherly love, but, also, because Mom and Dad didn’t have the option to do it themselves.

  He hiked his jacket up to mostly cover his neck and the back of his head, and jogged through the Lanigan parking lot, arriving in the lobby dripping only slightly. The forecast called for fairly steady rain over the next few days, which presumably meant no lunchtime bball, no gardening, no going for runs.

  Good thing his cable was working again.

  “Why so glum, Toots?”

  Janice stopped on the landing on her way downstairs, looking not in the least bummed out by the weather or life in general.

  “You know of any good gyms around here?”

  “Do I know of any good gyms? Toots. I know the best, the worst, everything in between. What are you looking for? Lifting? Training? Circuit?”

  He shook his head. “I just want to be able to run when it’s raining, and maybe some weights. I guess I could just get a treadmill.”

  She tapped his arm with her trusty clipboard. “Bite your tongue, Toots. You’re not getting any younger, you know, and running doesn’t build strength.”

  “That’s what the hoops are for.”

  “Did you forget the part where you were about to drop after half an hour last week?”

  “You sound like Coach Fairbairn.”

  “Well, Coach Fairbairn was a wise man. I’ll hook you up with a pass to my place, then when you want to work with a trainer I can make sure you’re with the best.”

  Dillon sighed. “I should have just Googled it.”

  “Too late now, Toots. Come downstairs with me, and you can take the stairs two at a time—three at a time, your legs are long—on your way up.”

  “You’re not going to just let me pass, are you?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Dillon grumbled, but only so he didn’t have to admit to Janice that it felt good to let her harass him a bit about working out. Dropping basketball after his parents died had been, his counselor and Coach Fairbairn and half the team had told him, a dumbass move. Even Justin, who he hardly knew at the time, pointed out the advantages of the workouts and the time with guys who knew him well enough to not treat him like Sad Orphan Boy.

  Now that he was smarter than the average teenager, he wasn’t going to walk away from friendships, exercise, or anything else that made him feel good.

  A long week divided between new work responsibilities and stolen time preparing for her move meant Serena was more than ready for Friday’s happy hour.

  “Toots!” Janice popped up and gave Serena a hug, then nudged her into the booth next to Dillon. He gave her his appraising half-smile. She returned the look, a little surprised to note that he’d for once thrown off his blazer and rolled up his shirtsleeves, baring long lean forearms. Great. As if the eyes and the cheekbones weren’t enough for her to notice, now she had a detailed visual on his forearms. Reminding herself that Dillon checked practically every box on the ‘Joey taught me never to do this again’ checklist didn’t mean Serena was indifferent to the occasional male charm. And more than occasionally, Dillon was charming.

  Janice had pulled up a chair to the end of the booth, and over the rim of her mug was scrutinizing Serena. “Toots, you look like last week’s chili reheated and then gone cold.” With a nod at their other coworkers, she said, “Someone get this one a drink.”

  Jorge already had the pitcher of margaritas in hand, but at Janice’s words he’d stopped pouring and examined her. Serena ran her hands through her hair and shook it out behind her, rolled her shoulders, and smiled at him.

  “Are you sick? Is that why you we
re out this afternoon?” Jorge asked, still not handing over her margarita. He seemed to be holding his breath waiting for her answer.

  “No, Jorge, didn’t you read my email? I took off so I meet an electrician at my new house?” Serena’s tired smile turned into a suppressed grin as she reassured the hypochondriac photographer. “No germs, I swear it. I even went home afterwards for a shower since that attic is far from dust-free.”

  “Give her alcohol, that’ll kill anything in her system,” Eddie said, taking the margarita from Jorge and handing it across. “Did my guy Dan work out for you? I grant you that gold front tooth and the constant pit stains don’t always inspire confidence, but he’s smart about wires and all that shit.”

  “Yeah, he was great. Thanks—well, thank Magnolia, since I know you never talked to a subcontractor in your life.”

  Eddie laughed. The only time Eddie laughed at his own expense was when the joke pointed out good things about his wife. It was one of the reasons Serena tolerated his jackal personality so affably. Also because Magnolia really was excellent, and if she loved Eddie—and to all appearances she really did—he was worth tolerating.

  Especially when he was handing over a much-needed margarita. And nachos. She grabbed one of the bright side plates and scooped a few chips onto it, topping them with more than her fair share of the guacamole. Before she could dig in, Eddie asked what she was doing about the additional problems the foundation contractor had found, and Serena heaved a deep breath. “You guys, enough with the inquisition. I can’t think for one more second about problems with the house, it’s stressing me out. Now, can I please chug this margarita and find out if Mooney threw any last-minute curve balls?”

  “Poor Toots. Getting a little grumpy, are we?” Janice asked, ruffling her still-damp hair. Laughing, Serena leant to the side to evade her, almost landing against Dillon, and noticing for the first time that he’d removed not only his omnipresent blue blazer, but also his tie. So informal! Dillon was almost always in jacket and tie, which secretly amused Serena, since the rest of them on the creative side tended to go as casual as they could get away with. Dillon had to be one of the only men at Lanigan to even own more than two ties. He might dress down as he got more comfortable with the job, but until then she was keeping an unofficial tally. She was up to eight ties, but always just the one jacket.

  “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “The Spanish Inquisition? You know, from—oh, never mind.” He glanced at Jorge, who smiled in apparent appreciation but didn’t speak. Dillon turned back to Serena. “Mooney went great. And more importantly, we’re done with it.”

  “Cheers to that,” Eddie said, and they all lifted their mugs for a toast.

  "Cheers, y'all," Dillon semi-drawled, which just about made Serena choke on her tortilla chip.

  "What on earth was that?" she asked, after a quick clink of her margarita against Janice's. "I don't know how long you've lived in Houston now, but it's not long enough for you to get away with that accent."

  He grinned. "Come on. It wasn't so bad."

  "Janice? You're our resident country gal, what's your vote?" Janice had grown up in an East Texas town, that was, as she liked to say, too small even for a stoplight.

  "Dude, hang ten, like, the voice is totally tubular. Like, you know?" Janice said. Or tried to. She was snorting by the end of her recitation, but so were the rest of them.

  Serena, Janice, and Jorge were Texans from childhood, and Eddie had moved to Houston for college and never left. But while Dillon’s love for Tex-Mex was all it really took to fit in with his coworkers, it didn’t stop Serena from saying, “My point is made. I know all the unfortunate souls not native to this fine state just want to fit in, but butchering our favorite word won’t get y’all anywhere with us.” Serena, of course, said ‘y’all’ properly.

  “Fine, no accent," Dillon said. "As long as Janice lays off whatever hybrid surfer-valley nonsense that was." He split the last of the margarita pitcher between Serena and Janice, which earned him smiles from both.

  Not two minutes after the waiter delivered their second pitcher Miguel showed up, necessitating a badly choreographed shuffling of appetizers and drinks. Janice shoved into the booth next to Serena and suddenly Serena was shoved up next to Dillon. They somehow ended up thigh to thigh more often than not. He reached over her to get to the salsa verde, and she pressed into him while grabbing the salt for her chips. Maybe Serena was off-kilter from all the mental exertion of late, but she found herself rather intently focused on the space between her body and Dillon's. It was...humming. A bit electric. And very nice.

  She self-consciously smoothed down her hair, wishing she’d put it up or taken the time to dry it before joining the gang. Not that it made a difference. They’d seen her frazzled and put-together and everything in between, and it was stupid misplaced vanity for her to worry about it now.

  Like the most useless mantra ever, Serena reminded herself she didn’t even believe in workplace flirtation. It could totally undermine her whole management campaign, making her look unprofessional and maybe like she wouldn’t be able to effectively lead a team with Dillon on it. She’d already had to turn into an enforcer for Mooney, not that he hadn’t come through, but it was the principle of the thing. Besides, she had enough to occupy her time, what with the house and everything.

  Still. As Janice held court with one of her crazy-lady-next-door stories, prompting more of Eddie’s hyena laughter that set them all off more often than not, Dillon tilted his mouth close to her ear to ask what she’d heard about an injury to the Rockets’ star forward. And oh, he did smell good, and his breath warmed her cheek.

  “Nah, it’s just rumors,” Serena replied, telling her body to stop with the shivers of awareness. “You know everyone’s all ‘the sky is falling’ the second he stops to retie his shoes. Hey, how did you become such a Rockets fan, anyway? I always figured you for a Lakers guy.”

  “Oh, in my misguided youth, sure. But I was always more of a Bruins guy than a Lakers guy. And my sister moved to Houston when I was in college, so I visited a lot.”

  “After playoffs, though.”

  “After playoffs,” he agreed. Reaching for another chip, which entailed leaning across her airspace, Dillon threw a smile Jorge’s way then refocused on Serena. “Shannon—that’s my sister—her company contracts some work for the Rockets, so she is a little up close sometimes. One Christmas I drove here for the break and since I had my car, she hired me as messenger boy for a couple of weeks. I guess you could say I was star struck by Charles Barkley.”

  She couldn’t help it. She sniggered.

  “No, listen, he was really nice to me. I mean, the one time I met him.”

  “Sir Charles?”

  “The very one. Come on, tell me you wouldn’t be taking his side against Shaq and the Lakers if he’d told you that determination was the key to success.”

  She laughed outright then. “Was he reading you his fortune cookie?”

  Of course Eddie had stuck his nose in then, unable to abide a joke he hadn't instigated. Serena didn't get Dillon alone again (or as alone as a plate of nachos shared by six at a table for four allowed), but there were some serious vibes thrown her way during a story involving Dillon, his high school teammates, two bicycles and a starlit night.

  If Serena spent the weekend remembering those vibes, it didn’t matter. If the Brackenbridge kids’ sleepover meant Serena woke every ten minutes to juvenile wrestling next door, it didn’t matter. If Serena’s dad’s birthday card arrived a month late, it didn’t matter.

  The odd flash of Dillon’s laughter floating through her head was just a distraction. On Saturday he’d emailed the group: “Sis had the baby! He’s a giant and all are well and happy”—and her reply, despite how many times she’d re-drafted it, had still been over-effusive. No power on earth could get her to admit how often she’d checked her in-box since then for a reply from him. At t
hirty, she was for sure too grown up for that kind of foolishness. Plus she didn’t need it.

  She’d saved for her house for years—certainly she didn't get any help from either of her parents, though she did get a big laugh out of the mortgage people posing the question—and Serena was determined to focus only on getting her promotion, getting out of the scummy-butt apartment, and living the long-desired life of solitude where everything was just the way she wanted it.

  Her colors on the walls, her furniture where it suited her, her music playing at whatever volume pleased only her. No parent or stepparent or landlady making her move the moment she got used to the night noises of a place.

  Exactly how she wanted it.

  Chapter Seven

  Monday morning, just as the elevator prepared to lift her up to the Lanigan offices, Serena heard Dillon’s “hold up,” and before his blazered arm snaked through the closing doors she was fighting back an instinctive grin. She had yet to figure out how a guy who consistently wore the same jacket and sedate rotation of button-downs could manage to look refreshingly cute each morning.

  She found herself edging aside just a little as Dillon squeezed up against her, his arm rubbing, then settling against, her shoulder. Serena reminded herself that she was too busy for a man in her life, and also that she should stop smiling before her face froze that way. She caught a flash of movement in the elevator’s reflective walls, only then catching up to the fact that she’d begun flapping her shirt to create a breeze over her blazing chest. Her body, clearly prodding her into backing off from the handsome man beside her, was breaking out in honest-to-goodness hives. As soon as the elevator doors opened, Serena had to fairly sprint down the hall to cool down in front of the open break room fridge.

  Jorge gave her the oddest look while moving her aside to put his week’s worth of neatly stacked and labeled lunch containers on the half of the shelf he claimed. (Jorge, bless his heart, was morphing from fresh-faced twenty-something into a crotchety old man before their eyes. They all did their best to counteract it, except for Eddie, who preferred to stash prune juice and canisters of Metamucil with bright labels reading “Jorge, Sr.” on Jorge’s fridge shelf.)