20 Million Tiny Particles

19. Going Away

Over the next couple of weeks, we sold the shit out of Diamondesq products. Drink powders, energy gels, even a weird vitamin set that I didn't even know they sold. I'd also gotten a full welcome wagon package after sending in my check for membership deposit -- t-shirts, water bottles, and plenty of "comped" products that I knew I'd be turning over within days of unpacking.

Turns out, my idea to bundle the products together was a hit. I was surprised that it wasn't an advertised option on the Diamondesq site, nor had I read about it on the forums, either. Not bad for someone who didn't belong.

Sheridan called up every single regular attender of her classes and offered them a personalized gift basket (that they would purchase) with curated items to help improve their workout performance. Not just Diamondesq, although there was a lot of that, but also cheap water bottles bulk-ordered on Amazon that Sheridan Sharpied their names on, sweatbands and headbands I got at a dollar store, even "athlete's gum" I found at a gas station. And nearly everyone bit.

We sold more than either of us anticipated, enough for tickets and payback on my credit card for the lodging. It would even cover gas and, at Sheridan's request, enough vodka to stock the hotel minifridge for the whole weekend. (I didn't ask how much that was.) The great plan we'd schemed together was playing out like a charm -- I did the behind-the-scenes dirty work, and Sheridan made the calls. We were quite a duo.

I'd been so busy with all of this, not to mention continuing to man the store practically by myself as my father became more and more elusive with each passing day, plus beginning to pack for the conference, that I barely had time for anything else. It didn't occur to me until I saw the calendar reminder I'd set for myself that tomorrow was Mariah's last day in town before she left for her university STEM camp.

I went to our text message thread in my phone, wondering angrily why she hadn't thought to remind me she was leaving or to ask to hang out before she left. When my eyes hit the screen though, my stomach dropped. Three gray text message bubbles lined the left side of the screen, dating back as far as the diamond party at Missy's weeks prior. Following that, a "hey, miss you!" and "Target run soon? need lip gloss bad"

I guess at some point she got sick of persisting.

I felt about the size of the tip of my shoelace as I stood behind the register at the shop reading our messages. Without even considering if we had customers to tend to, I slipped away from the front counter and into Dad's office at the back of the store; he wasn't around today, for God knows why, so the room was empty. I immediately scrolled to the Favorites section of my phonebook and clicked the little circular icon of Mariah's face -- a funny photo she'd sent me on Snapchat that I'd made a point to screenshot. She hated it.

The dial tone on the other end droned on forever. "Pick up, pick up, pick up," I muttered. What I felt underneath those pleas were bigger, though. Please don't hate me. Please let me explain.

Please don't let this be the end of everything.

I knew that Mariah would be upset -- as she should be -- but she would get it. If anything, she'd be proud of me for being so busy. Sure, she might think the whole Diamondesq thing was stupid, but she had to be happy that I was making money, right? And using my skill set productively?

"Hello?" came her voice on the other line.

My body relaxed. "Mariah!"

There was a pause on the other line. Then the tense reply, "What's up? I'm kind of busy."

On the end of the line was a version of her I wasn't used to hearing. The relief that had melted my worries passed like a cloud; I was frozen again. I stammered, "Hey." Another pause. She wasn't happy to hear me. "I just wanted to say hi and, um, I'm really sorry I missed your last texts. I think my notifications have been weird or something."

A lame lie and we both knew it. I heard her sigh. "Okay," was all she said.

"I'm really sorry."

"Okay." Would we be in this repeating pattern all night? Or should I hang up now and never speak again?

She wanted more, and I wasn't so stubborn that I couldn't give a little. "Can you forgive me? I really want to see you before you leave, and I've been really busy, you know with..." I trailed off. The embarrassment I was internalizing was too strong to finish the sentence, no matter how much I wanted to believe she was proud of me, happy for me.

"With your new friends?"

"No," I shot back. We both heard the lie in the word.

"It feels that way," she said, composed. She wasn't the type to hold back, a quality I envied. "I've been really busy too, Julie, and you haven't texted me once."

The sharpness in her voice hit me in a way I didn't expect. I knew she was right, but there was a part of me -- a really petty, mean part -- that wanted to fight her anyway. She was more mature than me. "I'm sorry," I said, angry now. "I've been having kind of a weird summer."

She groaned. "Don't make me feel bad, Julie." I hated the way she said my name. "It's not like you're sitting at home crying. You're out hanging with Sheridan and all of those girls every weekend. I see your Instagram, okay?"

Once again, she was right. But I didn't want to hear it. "So I'm not allowed to have other friends?" Not the point, but it was the hill I chose to climb, and now I had to die on it. "Excuse me for wanting to branch out. You're going off to college," I reminded her. "This is all I have."

"Do you really think that's true?" I could practically hear the eye roll through the phone. "That is really sad, Julie."

I felt surprising tears as her words filled the space between my mouth and the speaker of my phone. I shut my eyes to stop them from spilling out. I told myself to breathe. "Well in case you forgot," I managed to say, my jaw clenched tightly, "I'm pretty fucking sad these days."

I hung up.

I had never hung up on anyone that I could remember. Maybe a prank caller or a spam number. Mom taught us to let telemarketers down gently. It was just their job, after all. But this was all I could think to do -- to smash the End Call button with my forefinger so hard that the screen glass might have shattered under it. I didn't want to talk to her. I didn't want to hear her say my name, or be rational with me, or be angry with me. I didn't want any of her words to be true.

I sat on the edge of Dad's desk, thick, dark oak with dust lining the legs. He never cleaned in here, and Ms. Lavonne refused to do it. "I'm your employee, but I am not your cleaning lady," she would say. I pressed my palms into the wood, wishing all of this would stop. Wishing I wasn't crying. Wishing I hadn't fought with my best friend. Wishing I could go back to months ago, when we would be buying lip gloss at Target and making fun of girls selling pyramid schemes on Facebook. When I wasn't clinging onto whatever would keep my feet on the ground. When I had a shot of something beyond this town. When my mom wasn't dead.

I wiped my eyes and swung myself off the desk, realizing there was a little white business card stuck to the sweat of my palm. I shook it onto the floor and bent down to put it back where it should be. The name on the front stared up at me in a cruel serif font: Elena M. Martinez, Commercial Real Estate Agent.

Turns out life went on in its own direction no matter how much you dug in your heels.

But I didn't have time to consider any of it, so I did what I knew how to, what I was forced to -- I had to move on. And I had to pack. I had a conference to attend, and business to take care of. All of this would be here when I got back. Or not.