Part 9:
Some people just make different sounds. That’s okay. Emma considered this seriously. Then we’ll have to teach you both things, cooking and whistling. Because what if you’re on a spaceship and you need to whistle for help? Clara laughed, actually laughed, and it felt strange and wonderful. That’s very practical thinking.
They finished their ice cream and Ryan walked Clara back to where her driver was waiting. Emma held Ryan’s hand, but kept looking up at Clara with curious, assessing eyes. I like her, Emma announced to her father as if Clara wasn’t standing right there. She asks good questions, and she doesn’t talk to me like I’m a baby.
I’m glad you like her, Ryan said. He looked at Clara. Friday night around 6:00, I’ll text you our address. Friday? Clara agreed. Then, feeling bold, she looked down at Emma. Will those be your lucky socks? The purple ones with yellow stars? Emma giggled. Maybe. Or maybe I’ll wear my rocket ship socks. They’re lucky, too. Good to have options, Clara said seriously.
She climbed into her car and watched through the window as Ryan and Emma walked toward the parking garage. Emma skipping beside her father, the little plastic astronaut clutched in her fist. Clara pressed her hand against the window glass, feeling like she was watching a life she’d always wanted but never knew how to reach for.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Ryan already. Thank you for today. Emma hasn’t stopped talking about the moon lady. Apparently that’s you. Clara smiled and typed back. The moon lady has homework to do. Need to learn about Saturn’s moons before Friday. Ryan’s response came quickly. Emma’s going to quiz you. Fair warning.
I’ll be ready, Clara wrote. Then, before she could overthink it, “I’m looking forward to it.” More than I’ve looked forward to anything in a long time. She watched the three dots appear and disappear several times before Ryan’s message came through. Me, too. Us too. We’ll see you Friday, Moon Lady. Clara held her phone against her chest and let herself feel it.
the hope, the fear, the terrifying possibility that maybe, just maybe, there was more to life than quarterly earnings and corner offices and perfect temperature control. That night, instead of reviewing reports, Clara stayed up until midnight researching Saturn’s moons. She learned their names and their sizes and the stories behind their discoveries.
She made notes in the margins of printed articles, feeling like a student preparing for an exam that actually mattered. At 11:47 p.m., her assistant sent an email marked urgent. The Singapore investors wanted to move their meeting to Friday at 6:00 p.m. Clara stared at the email for a long moment. Singapore was a critical deal.
Millions of dollars hung in the balance. Under normal circumstances, she would have rearranged her entire schedule without hesitation. She hit reply. I’m unavailable Friday evening. Please reschedule for Monday. Then she closed her laptop, turned off her phone, and went to sleep thinking about a little girl with Ryan’s eyes who wanted to name all of Saturn’s moons after astronauts.
Friday couldn’t come fast enough. Friday arrived wrapped in the kind of spring rain that made Chicago look like a watercolor painting, all soft edges and blurred lights. Clara spent the entire day distracted, catching herself staring out her office window at the clouds instead of focusing on the merger proposal in front of her.
Her assistant noticed, casting worried glances in her direction during their morning briefing, but said nothing. The ice queen was melting, and everyone was too polite or too terrified to mention it. At 400 p.m., Clara did something she’d never done in 7 years as CEO. She left early, not just a little early, but two full hours before her usual departure time.
She told her assistant she had a personal appointment, watched the poor woman’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline, then walked out of Hail Industries like she was escaping prison. The drive to Ryan’s neighborhood took her from the gleaming glass towers of downtown to a part of the city she’d never visited.
Treeline streets with modest houses, front porches with windchimes, sidewalks where children’s chalk drawings bloomed in pastel colors between the cracks. It was so far from her sterile penthouse that it might as well have been another country. Ryan’s house was a small bungalow painted sage green with white trim, a postage stamped lawn in front, and a maple tree just beginning to leaf out.
Clara sat in her car for three full minutes, gripping the steering wheel, wondering what the hell she was doing. She’d brought wine, expensive wine, the kind that cost more than Ryan probably spent on groceries in a week. And suddenly, it seemed like a terrible choice. Too showy. too much to her. But before she could spiral further into panic, the front door opened and Emma came running out, wearing those purple lucky socks and a t-shirt that said future astronaut across the chest.
