20 Million Tiny Particles

10. Church

The next morning, I went to church.

Sheridan and I had parted ways two hours or so after our kitchen powwow. Throughout the rest of the evening, I found myself hyper-vigilantly watching Sheridan, watching the rest of the girls, watching myself.

It wasn't something I was eager to admit, but anyone could guess I wasn't a big drinker. An obligatory sip of spiked school dance afterparty punch or the sour taste of beer at a football tailgate was the best that I could do before the unflinching lump in my stomach bubbled back up. I would excuse myself to quietly pour out the beverage, refill it with water, or simply find a Diet Coke to clutch so I wouldn't look out of place.

Even Mariah, who had more disdain for the high school party scene than I did, clocked my behavior. "You won't get in trouble," she would chide.

She didn't know, of course.

Even so, a splash of vodka mixed in with the sugar water that was Pink Diamond didn't get me drunk. If anything, the caffeine in the drink had the opposite effect. For Sheridan too; throughout the night I saw her become more of herself, laughing louder and playing more pleasantly with the others.

As they gossiped and chatted, exchanged horror stories of bad dates and boasted tips of how they organized online sales parties, I found myself watching their water bottles and short stemless glasses of pink and blue cotton candy liquids.

Was this what I'd been missing all this time? The puzzle piece shook out of the box that made it all make sense?

I slipped into the kitchen alone to pour the drink down the drain. The smell made me gag -- saccharine and pungent and filled with everything that made up the darkest parts of me.

When I got home, I stayed awake until two, staring at the ceiling. It wasn't unusual, but it felt amplified. I felt amplified, either by the "natural" caffeine of the Diamond Drinks coursing through my bloodstream, or the single lingering taste of vodka in the back of my throat.

I had never drunk vodka. Everything else I could rationalize; I could force myself to believe that one day, I'd be able to finish the can of light beer or the mug of Fireball mixed into apple cider behind the gym at a basketball game. That determined, impulsive part of me would accept the drink from Bryce or Mariah or the shadow I didn't know and tell myself with the first and usually only sip -- you will get over this. You will not be this person forever.

But never vodka. Never wine. Never anything she would drink.

I didn't even remember falling asleep, but eventually I woke up to my Sunday alarm. I got up and did what I always did: pretended I felt okay and went to church.

It wasn't until I was outside the building that I remembered there might now be the possibility of seeing Sheridan there. Should I go back home? Would she think it was weird if we bumped into each other? Would she think I was following her?

I reminded myself that this was my safe place before she existed in my life. That Bryce the Great was mine before he was hers.

Inside, I did the usual. I hid in the back, drifting off into my head during opening remarks, letting my eyes fall blankly on some spot on the back wall. He took the stage with the band and I felt the cool chill of relief in my chest, like I was on my second drink of the day before stumbling into an AA meeting.

Afterward, as the congregants stood to greet one another, I cleared out. Slung my purse onto my shoulder and pressed into the back door. An usher who'd handed me a bulletin as I walked in gave me a polite smile on my way out. We'd done this before.

But this time something new -- as the sun hit my eyes on the front steps of the church building, a black guitar case eclipsed part of my peripheral. Then his hair, messy but particular. His slouching jeans pulled down with a worn leather belt. His Vans slip-ons. He turned at the sound of the door, an instinctual turn. Not like he was expecting to see me. Not like I was expecting to see him. Not here, not up close.

When would I learn just to use the back door?

A month or so after we first met -- officially -- after the football game, it started. Sitting nearer to one another at games, riding with each other to the expected afterparty bonfires. Then glances in the hallways between Spanish and Calculus. Then, standing by my car in the upperclassmen lot after the final bell. "Going anywhere fun today, Jeep?" he asked. My old hand-me-down Jeep with the broken passenger side door felt like a chariot compared to the Hondas on either side.

With a flushed face, I started to let him in -- into the busted door, into my afternoons, into my whole life.

He never knew much about me, in retrospect. What's to know?

Neither of us ever invited the other to our houses. We just rode around in my Jeep, the windows down until it got cold enough to roll them up. My AC was broken then. I didn't get it fixed until recently -- until After.

One day we were riding around and we pulled into a parking lot a few blocks from school. A shared lot between the Orthopedic Doctors and McDonald's. With the windows cracked, the smell of greasy beef fat fries filled up the space between us, but all I remember now is the hint of cologne -- or was it deodorant? -- that I could feel penetrating the space between my nose and upper lip.

"You believe in God?" he asked.

It felt heavy but light -- the kind of question I got used to Bryce asking from time to time. I was leaning against the window, my body somewhat contorted in the driver's seat so that I could face him. It was October, I think. Still warm outside but cooling, a cardigan thrown across my backpack lying in the backseat next to his letterman. A baseball player, but not a great one.

I shrugged. "Yeah," I said, because it felt like the right answer. It was easier than giving the full truth, the one that would open up a window into who I was. I liked him so much, I didn't want him to know.

Half the time we cruised around, we would listen to music. Naturally Bryce had an extensive library that he'd loaded onto his phone, and he'd taken agency over the aux cord the moment he first got in my car. He liked what he called "indie" music, which was primarily just the B-sides from the bands played on the alternative radio station, the one that cut out the closer you got into the center of town. Around here, that made him cool.

He asked me once what type of music I liked and I was too flustered to think of a single band. I liked country music, I eventually said. He sort of grimaced. "Maybe you'll like these guys," he mumbled, turning up the volume on one of his songs.

He also liked Christian music -- not the lame kind, he assured me. Embarrassed and a little mad he'd rebuffed the only sliver of myself I'd let him see, I retorted that I'd never heard a cool Christian song.

I thought then that maybe he'd appreciated that I said that. That I was honest. That I was, I don't know, different. That I didn't go along with everything he said, everything he liked. I had my own opinions. Right?

He didn't react, though. He rolled his eyes and affirmed that there was no point in letting him in, that it would only disappoint me.

So I shrugged and said, "Yeah" when he asked about God. The right answer. The easy one. The one that ensured I'd keep him in the front seat of the car, his bad music better than the silence I would have by myself.

Back then in the car, that was the first time we kissed. In the parking lot behind the Dr. Brady's Bone Clinic. His hand on my forearm, the hairs bristling. The sun setting earlier than we were used to.

What time was it? Would my parents wonder where I was or would they care? Would he notice me between classes tomorrow, stop at my locker to say hi? Would I tell Mariah?

On the steps of the chapel, I opened my mouth a little but didn't quite speak.

He nodded toward me. The same nod from the first night. The same one from the last day of school, the last time we'd spoken. The one I was waiting for at the funeral home, the one I didn't see.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," I said back.

And then he turned, walked away, and left again.