Out of no•where

Forgotten

My body falls flat by her side, we both pant for air as we both stare at the ceiling with a blank expression, looking into the empty white while gasping and breathing, making our chests rise and fall out of rhythm.
Her eyes are glistening just as much as the sweat falling out of her forehead and dripping through her dark bangs. Her tiny hands grip firmly on the pillow under her head as she pulls it out and presses it hard against her face, muffling her angry scream "WHY DO WE KEEP DOING THIS?!?"
"Come on!" I get out of bed, the sheets dragging along behind me "It's not like any of us has someone else to fuck..." I justify "Well, at least it's not like I'm interested in anyone..." I say, immediately looking at her to see her reaction
"Me neither..." Rachel sighs as she pulls down the pillow, looking forward, and not at me "Hey, where are you going?" She then says looking towards my direction
I stop at my heels, not even realizing I was already walking into the bathroom uninvited. This has had happened so many times that I'm already used to everything about it "Hm, the bathroom, to take a shower..."
"No!" She jumps out of bed; her boobs jumping with her body as her hair floats around it "Go away"
I frown and give her a chuckle "Okay" I say as I start taking my clothes off the ground and put my pants on
"Promise me something?" Rachel asks while playing with her hair, not in a sexy way, as if she maybe would be trying to seduce me. But she was just ungluing it out of her sticky skin since it was just as long as a horse's.
"Sure"
"Promise me we won't ever do this again..."
"Okay, then it's a promise" I say while buckling my belt
"We can't keep having sex like this; we're divorced for God's sake!"
"I couldn't agree more"
"I thought we were past this!" Rachel whines as she walks up to me, plainly naked under the sheet she has wrapped around her shoulders.
She's just as beautiful as she was twenty years ago when we first met. Rachel puts both hands on my shoulders, releasing the grip from the sheet, making it fall to the ground around our bare feet.
Rachel smiles and we kiss. It's amazing how most in couple's relationship the first thing to die is the sexual spark, and with us it was the opposite. Sure, there was a time when we were about to divorce that I could barely look at her, things started to slow down after our first years of dating, but the moment we signed those papers it was like everything was back again. I was again the same horny sixteen year old from the day I met her.
Though I'm the first to believe that even if I had loved her with all my heart one day, this re-born of us was different. I'm not really in love with her, now she's just my rudely called 'sperm-dumpster', since I haven't dated anyone since the divorce. She's had some guys here and there, but nothing too serious, so she almost always ended up with me, for lack of options.
I go back home and take my shower there, getting ready for 'Tom's picture day' as Alinne would like to call it. I get into my SUV and drive towards the building in which I work, but instead of going to my office, I walk towards the photography section.
There's a lot of photos all spread out in the small ballroom they made for the photography team, at the end of one of the walls there's a door directing to several offices, the main darkroom and the studio.
I change into my astronaut clothing and the next thing I know lights snap in front of me, placing dark spots in my vision, and I blink ferociously, trying to get rid of them. Imagining me here twenty years ago is something I could have never done. Back then, my biggest concern always involved my shitty guitar or my old, rusty skateboard.
Okay, I do play guitar every once and a while, but only if David comes by to jam with his acoustic, or if Jean whines me to no end so I can play her a song, telling me how much of a rockstar I could have been.
As for skateboarding, Noah was begging Rach and I to let him learn, causing many arguments involving Rach swearing it was my fault my child wanted to take up a "delinquent sport." But if I was in charge of Noah's hobbies, I assured her it would be much more innocent than just skating in the park, and more along the lines of illegal fireworks. I couldn't even teach him anyway, I hadn't been on a skateboard in years.
"Please stand still," The stuffy little camera man says palinly, adjusting the lenses for about the tenth fucking time, snapping my thoughts back to reality. "You're moving too much"
I watched the little black lens getting bigger, smaller, and then bigger once again, bored out of my mind. I smile awkwardly at the camera, and just wish for this to be over soon. I hate taking pictures for work; it was exactly like Picture Day at my old high school, which was not a time I liked to remember.
But if you thought about it, working at NASA really was like High School Version 2.0. The trainings you dreaded going to, the smelly locker room and the sweaty guys in the shower, the group pictures, newspaper pictures, I.D. pictures, always pictures, pictures, pictures. No wonder why NASA has a full section for it.
The only difference is that now we trade teachers for bosses, classrooms for offices. Plus the whole popularity factor is gone, there are no nerds, jocks, or plastics, we are all pretty much nerds anyway, and nerds get along fine with nerds.
My clothes make rustling noises as I move, pressing my helmet tightly to my side, trying to look as professional as possible. "Okay, stretch your back Mr. DeLonge, please."
Apparently, the photographer had picked the day to talk to me; he wouldn't stop telling me to 'sit straight,' 'smile,' 'don't look like a fag.' Okay, so maybe he didn't say the last one, but I bet you a million dollars that was all he was thinking.
He looked like a turtle, his thin lips pursed in a thin, serious line, and his eyes small and beady. To say that his face wrinkles was an understatement, it was more like his wrinkles had a face. He must have been at least 107 years old, his white wispy hair falling in front of his huge square glasses. I rolled my eyes. How could this guy even see me? Don't you go blind by your 100th birthday?
"Mr. DeLonge!" He almost spit at me, "tsk"ing at my bad posture and inappropriate facial expression.
Pictures always make me anxious, always putting me on edge. I couldn't actually say I was nervous, because there was really no reason to be, it was just a picture after all. I had gone to signings and interviews; I even shook hands and chatted with the US president for God's sake. Although, deep down, I know there's something to worry about, there was my family and my health to worry about, but not now, not because of a picture.
"Okay, all done," The photographer shoos me off of the set, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I do hope it was a good shot, my daughter says I look like a 10-year-old in last year's photo.
My life as an astronaut hasn't exactly been what you would call ordinary, because despite already having an uncommon career, people are now making countdowns to when I leave for the most important mission of my life. Six months from now people will start to write books about me and my life, they'll have framed pictures of me on their homes. It'll be just a Thomas De-fucking-Longe festival.
In six months, my life won't be the same anymore, I'll be gone, and when I'm back, I'll be a hero. Well, "hero" isn't what I would say, but that's all the media has been calling me. There have been countless astronauts just as formidable as me, if not more. But in the meantime, people just seem to want a piece of Tom Delonge Pie, but they soon discover I'm not nearly as interesting as my career would make me seem.
This whole media thing started one morning when David knocked on my door, which was odd, because he always calls me from his office, but I got up and unlocked the door.
David was tall; he had a few inches on me, with chestnut hair and deep brown, almost black, eyes. David had one arm resting on the frame of the door; his long-sleeve shirt was being pulled up to show the intricate tattoos on his arm, his three dog chains dangling in front of his chest. I fingered my matching chain, cool on my bare skin, and hidden beneath my dress shirt.
"What do you want?" I groaned, not wanting to leave the comfort of my office.
"Wilson wants to talk to you" He replied, smirking, putting his arms by his sides and shrugging carelessly.
"Is this about the mission? I don't want to talk about it," I grumbled, closing my eyes in agitation. It had been only a couple of months since the news of getting back into space had been dropped on my lap, I was still uncomfortable with leaving the kids behind and losing a whole year of my life, but what else could I do?
"You talked to Rach?" David asked concernedly, he was the one who knew everything that was happening with me outside of the walls of NASA, and inside the walls of my broken household. He was my best friend, how could he not know?
David and I worked together on the project; he was the one sitting by my side when Wilson told everyone they had chosen me, me, over all other candidates for the mission of a lifetime.
It was David was the one who celebrated the grand achievement with shots at the local bar, it was David who knew all of my secrets, hopes and fears, and it was David who let my drunk ass cry on his shoulder when he heard that Rach and I were separating after years of bitter fighting and cold nights sleeping on the couch, alone.
"We told the kids yesterday," I sighed, cupping my face in my hands, ashamed of myself. "They didn't take it very well, but I mean, neither did any of us. They understand it's better off this way, Jean actually told me she was relieved that the fighting was finally over."
"Good to know, man," David said, clapping a large hand on my shoulder. "So, did you guys decide anything about the custody yet?"
A giant smile appeared on my face. "Well, me and Rach talked and guess what?"
"What?" David said smiling too.
"I'll get them this year before I leave, then she gets them for the whole year I'll be gone, after I'm back we'll decide what's going to happen, probably a shared custody deal."
"That seems fair enough," David smiled, satisfied that I wasn't going to have to leave my kids. "Come on, we need to get to this meeting."
I closed the door of my office behind me and we walked side-by-side through the hallway until we reached the meeting room at the end of the hall. Through the glass walls of the meeting room, I could see Wilson sitting at the head of the table, with a woman I had never seen on his left, shuffling folders with her lips pursed tightly.
Wilson motioned us to sit down in the two empty chairs on his right, and we slid into them.
"DeLonge, I would like to introduce you to Alinne Masters," He said and motioned to the woman.
Her short blonde hair was cut in a very flattering way; it made her look like she was much younger than she seemed to be. Though she didn't look all that sympathetic, her intense green eyes gazed at me, judging, showing power along with her red lipstick. She wore a woman's suit that matched her upper curves, she was pretty enough, but the thing that really called attention on her was how powerful she looked. It seemed like she could leave you dripping blood so she could get what she wanted, her chin always raised up high.
I could see the edge of a pack of Marlboros sticking out of the suitcase next to her, I flinched first but then I looked back her.
"She's going to be your media producer for the next year, we need to certify the good propaganda and merchandising of the program and she's the one who's going to work with you on it."
Wait, what?
"Why is this necessary?"
"Well, I'm going to do the whole job," She interrupted Wilson, instantly grabbing all the attention into the room to her, making me and David turn our confused expressions to her. "You just need to be there for interviews and pictures, sometimes there'll be some events you'll need to be in. And sure, you'll need to get used to the famous life, but that's the smallest of our problems. And your friend is here because he can help us with a lot of stuff..."
"I'm sorry, Wilson," I turned to my boss and headmaster. "I just don't see why we need to do this. I'm sure I can handle everything perfectly fine by myself, without a babysitter."
"That's just a lame excuse, DeLonge. It'll be good; we need to invest in merchandising anyway. Companies don't want to pay for something that's hidden between the bushes, they want to be seen, and the more we're seen, the more we get."
"But-"
"There's no 'butts,' this is already decided," Wilson cut me off, standing and gathering his papers into countless red folders. "Now excuse me, you and Masters have a lot to discuss."
I snap back to reality, slipping out of flashback and rush out of the photo room into the gym so I can do my daily laps and go home. I quickly change in the steamy locker room afterwards, stumbling out of the building and quickly unlocking my car. I must have been at least half an hour late; I hope the kids wouldn't be too upset.
When I arrive at the elementary school, I see kids playing tag, giggling wildly as the climb on top of each other playfully. I search the playground for Noah fluffy blonde hair, finding him on a swing with his best friend. Then I look to the edge of the school grounds to see Jean and a blonde boy sitting on a picnic table and chatting. Just seeing her with a little boy made my heart melt, she was just so cute.
I beep my horn, and they come running to the car, climbing into the two back seats giggling with happy adrenaline.
"Hi, Daddy!" They both cheer at me and Jean pecks me on the cheek, her soft lips leaving me glowing with pride that she was mine.
"How was school?" I ask as I drive out onto the highway.
"You sound like Mom when you ask these things," Jean remarks, sarcasm dripping.
I laugh at my daughter's fresh attitude, so like mine.
"I'm playing Mr. Mom now, if you haven't noticed," I reply, turning the radio dial to the punk station. "So," I decide to change the subject. "Who was that boy you were talking to, Jean?"
Before Jean can even open her mouth, Noah jumps up from the backseat, sliding his head onto my shoulder. "That's Martin, he's Jean's booyyyyyfriend!!!" He stretches out the last word, teasing her lightly.
"Shut up!" She snaps, her face turning bright red. "He is NOT my boyfriend!"
"Then why are you two always playing together?" Noah turns to her. "Boys aren't supposed to be friends with girls, that's the way it works. Unless," he smirks, "You're dating!"
"That is so not true!" She sass, glaring at him through big eyes. "Boys can totally be friends with girls, right Daddy?"
"I'm not the best person to ask, believe me," I laugh, a little too bitterly. "But if you say he's just your friend, I see no reason not to believe you."
Jean sticks her tongue out at her brother, who slumps down back into his seat, defeated.
As we walk into the house, the phone begins to ring.
"IgotitIgotitIgotit!!!!" Jean announces as she sprints to the kitchen to pick it up. Noah makes a beeline for his bedroom, as I follow Jean into the kitchen to prepare some Macaroni and Cheese, the kids' favorite.
"It's for you, Daddy. It's Alinne, that girl from work," Jean hands the phone to me; dejecting that it wasn't for her.
"Hi Alinne," I answer, speaking into the receiver. "How are you?"
"Tom, I got something for you," She says, pausing to take a drag from a cigarette. I swear to god, I've never seen that women without a little roll of white and orange between her fingers, the obsessive smoker she is. "An interview."
"Great," I say as pour the dry macaroni into the pot of water. "When? So I can tell Rach."
"Tomorrow night, it's a live talk show."
"Which one? There are thousands of them."
"That one show on Fuse, A Different Spin with Mark Hoppus, I assume you have heard of it."
"Of course! It's only my favorite talk show, how could I not?"
"Awesome, so tomorrow at eight I'll pick you up. The show starts at ten."
"Absolutely, it's a done deal, see you then," I hang up, leaving the phone on the table. Jean looks up at me, wanting to know what cool new thing I was going to do tomorrow.
"Talk show" I say simply.
"Cool," She says, clearly far more interested in the cheesy pasta I was cooking up. She helps me finish dinner and call Rach to say I need her to take care of the kids for a night.