20 Million Tiny Particles

6. Dad

Even though we lived and worked in the same space, Dad managed to avoid seeing me most hours of the day. Or maybe I avoided him, but either way, we seldom crossed paths.

Sunday night I was watching the microwave turn around a bowl of leftover chicken chili that Miss Lavonne had made us. She was the only full-time employee at the shop, and she'd been something of a surrogate mother to me and Ava since we were kids, and I guess even more so now. At least twice a week she'd bring me a fresh Tupperware and instruct me to make sure my dad was eating. "I know your mama wouldn't let your dad keep eating those Lean Cuisines I keep seeing him with."

I couldn't bear to tell her that I couldn't remember the last time my mother had cooked a meal for us. Maybe when Ava was still living with us? I wasn't sure.

As the white beans in the chili popped under the heat of the microwave, I heard the door open behind me - Dad coming up from the shop. He nodded at me. "Hey, sweetie."

To be honest, we only had a half-relationship before it happened. Now it was even less - a quarter? I wasn't sure how finely you could divide our commonality before it was reduced to flecks of childhood memories and hey-sweeties said under his breath a few times a week.

"Hey." The microwave beeped. At the door, Dad took off his cap and placed it on the entry table, tossing his keys and wallet in the bowl. "You lock up?" He had a habit of forgetting.

He grunted. Yes. I took the hot porcelain bowl, dotted with blue flowers, from the microwave, the smell of home-cooking filling up our little kitchen.

"Lavonne make that?"

I slid a wooden chair out from the kitchen table and placed the food down. Walking to the fridge to get water, I said, "Yep. There's more in the fridge if you want me to heat you up some."

"Smells good," was all he said, now slipping off his sneakers and pushing them against the wall beside the front door. I always hated how he did that.

He didn't answer me, just parked himself on the leather recliner and reached for the remote. Time for the evening routine to commence -- first, local news, then reruns of Two and a Half Men or The Big Bang Theory, then heating up some chamomile tea, then falling asleep without dinner, then waking in a fright and grabbing trail mix from the bag. At some point I would run the dishwasher, wipe the crumbs off the counter, and turn off the lights. And at some point he'd fall asleep again, or play Words With Friends on his old generation iPhone, or he'd text Ava "Hey sweetie, hope you're doing okay" or he'd make a turkey sandwich. And then he'd go to sleep. And I'd go to sleep.

And that was Sunday, Monday, Tuesday... you get it.

Aside from changes in what was on syndicated TV and who was anchoring the news, this had been our life before and after. Something was different now, sure. But a lot was the same.

Maybe that was what was weirdest of all.

Sometimes I'd try to talk to him, to poke at the balloon between us a little bit. "I went out with Mariah last night," I said, standing at the edge of the couch, a laugh track echoing after my words.

He didn't quite look at me. "How's she doing?"

He meant Mariah. "Good," I answered.

"Thought she was going to camp this summer."

"It's a college summer program," I corrected. "It's not 'til next month."

Another grunt.

"We hung out with this girl Sheridan from school. She's really nice."

On the screen, Charlie Sheen was hitting on a blonde woman. Another laugh track. Dad sipped his tea. He used to be a beer drinker - that was one thing that had changed since it happened. Now he drank tea. All kinds of tea. Black tea, green tea, fruity flavored tea. It kind of reminded me of the Diamond Drinks, with its rich colors and strong scents wafting through the house.

Maybe the ritual was just as addictive as whatever was in the glass.

He eventually gave me another grunt, and I took that as a resolution to our conversation. I told him I was going to my room, and that's what I did, tiptoeing to the back of the house. I closed the door, the lamplight near my bed greeting me the way it always did. Another Sunday, I thought.

I saw the boxes of branded drink mixes on my desk, the only clutter standing out in a room I'd otherwise kept immaculate. Another ritual.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out to see a number I hadn't saved flashing on the screen. "Great to see you today," I read. Smiley faces at the end.

I smiled a little too. Sheridan.

My stomach fluttered like I had a secret crush. I sat on the edge of my bed, a twin pushed in the corner where Ava and I had once shared bunk beds. "Have you tried the drinks yet??" asked the screen, another buzz filling up the room.

I looked back to the boxes, staring back at me from the desk. Pink text on one side read "Get ready to feel good!"

I wondered if Sheridan and Bryce had gotten coffee after all this morning, in between church services. As I drove home feeling hot tears well in my eyes, I wondered if he'd put a hand on her back as he walked her down the street to Javatown, the only coffee shop in town that wasn't Waffle House. Even when I got home, I sat in the driveway forcing myself to picture them, to picture us, back when there was an us, or at least an idea of us. Now there were only memories of ideas.

I didn't let myself wonder what the odds were that he'd jump from me to her, the girl who had wandered into the shop prepared to heap pity on me in the form of a pyramid scheme. This was a small town. The odds weren't that slim.

Even now, staring back at her text, I was picturing Sheridan leaning on the brick of the church, the sunlight catching the water bottle in her hand, fluorescent pink reflecting off her aviators.

Maybe I wanted to feel a little drunk, too.

"Just about to," I texted back. And added a smiley face for good measure.

Through the walls, I could hear the clang of Dad's teacup in the sink. Done for the night. Another Sunday.