The bowl was still wet.
Serena picked it up from the drying rack, turned it over, and ran her thumb along the rim. A smear of oatmeal stuck to the inside, dried and flaking. She set it back in the sink and turned on the hot water.
The kitchen was quiet. Brice’s protein shaker sat on the counter next to the blender, the lid half-screwed on, a ring of chalky residue around the mouth. She unscrewed it, rinsed it, scrubbed it with the sponge, and set it upside down on the rack. The bowl went next. She wiped down the counter where he’d left a trail of granola crumbs, swept them into her palm, and dropped them in the trash.
She pulled the eggs from the fridge, the bacon from the drawer, the bread from the bag on top of the microwave. The toaster clicked twice before the bread dropped. She cracked two eggs into the pan and watched the whites spread, then pulled the bacon from the package and laid three strips in the other pan. The grease popped. She stepped back.
The toast came up. She buttered it, set it on the plate, flipped the eggs, flipped the bacon, and pulled both pans off the heat. She ate standing at the counter, one hand on her hip, the other working the fork. The yolk ran. She sopped it up with the last piece of toast.
She washed the pan, the plate, the fork. Dried them. Put them away.
The freezer door stuck when she pulled it. She yanked it again and the seal broke with a pop. The chicken breasts were in the back, wrapped in butcher paper, three of them. She set them on the counter to thaw and closed the freezer.
The laptop was on the couch where she’d left it last night. She carried it to the table and opened it. The blinds were still drawn from the evening before. She pulled the cord and they rattled up. The view was the backyard, the fence, the neighbor’s roof, a sliver of sky. Not the beach. She couldn’t see the beach from here. She walked to the window over the sink and cracked it open an inch. The air came in cool and beneath it, faint, the sound of waves.
She sat down at the table. Rolled her neck left, then right. She opened the browser and clicked the Canvas bookmark.
The page loaded. The little wheel spun. She looked at the time in the corner of the screen. 6:57.
Three videos. Engineering Economics. Each one about forty-five minutes. She’d been putting off the second one since Monday. The quiz in Ethics was due Friday. The mock proposal, ten days. She still hadn’t picked a project for the capstone seminar. The list of options sat in her bookmarks, unopened.
She leaned back in the chair. Work until noon. Break. Walk. Two more hours. Then the beach. Maybe Target. Home by five to start dinner.
She took a breath. Clicked play.
…
Tom sat with his legs stretched into the aisle, his phone balanced on his knee, thumb scrolling through emails he’d already read. The folding chair was too small for him. His knees pressed against the back of the seat in front of him, which was empty. The row was mostly empty. It was still early.
Liz sat two seats to his left. She had her phone in her lap, screen dark, her thumb resting on the case. She was watching the stage. The current team was wrapping up their opening statements.
Tom closed his email and opened his calendar. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. He scrolled back to Monday, then forward again. He closed the calendar and opened his texts. Nothing new. He locked the phone and set it on his thigh.
"That’s Dickinson, right?"
Liz glanced at him and nodded.
She turned back to the stage. The boys were finishing. The moderator, a woman in a gray blazer, held up a hand.
Tom picked up his phone again. Opened it. Closed it.
“How’s work?” he asked.
“It’s alright."
The moderator called for the rebuttal period. The other team stood, two girls, both in navy, both calm. They arranged their notecards on the podium.
“Sophie’s up after this one,” Liz said.
Tom nodded. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. The folding chair creaked.
“How’s Britney?” Liz asked.
Tom kept his eyes on the stage.
“She’s in Indy until Thursday.”
“Mm.”
The girl at the podium was speaking clearly, her voice carrying to the back row. Tom watched her for a moment, then looked at the program on his knee.
"Spoke to Brice?"
She nodded.
“How’s he doing? We keep missing each other with the time zone and stuff."
“He’s fine.”
“Good.”
The girl finished her rebuttal. Her partner stepped forward. Tom shifted in his seat. The metal frame dug into his back.
“So, I was thinking."
She turned her head toward him, not fully, just enough.
“I’d like to take James up to the lake. Make a weekend out of it."
She looked at him. Her mouth did something, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. A small sound came out, quiet, almost a laugh but not quite that either. She turned back to the stage.
The second girl was still talking. The moderator was checking her watch. Tom sat with the silence. It sat with him too.
He picked up his phone. Opened it. Closed it. Set it back on his thigh.
…
Serena pulled the cart from the stack and pushed it past the registers, past the Starbucks. The wheels caught on a tile seam and she jerked it free.
She stopped in the grocery aisle and looked at the shelves. She picked up a bag of jasmine rice, turned it over, set it back. She picked up a bag of red potatoes, set it back.
She pushed the cart further down the aisle. Pasta. Quinoa. She picked up a box of couscous, read the back, put it down. Some kind of grain salad, maybe. She could do a grain salad. She kept walking.
Another section opened up on her left. Pastel colors, soft lighting, a display of onesies arranged by size. She glanced at it and kept pushing the cart. Then she glanced again.
She turned the cart left.
The aisle was wide and quiet. A woman was at the far end with a stroller, talking on her phone. Serena stopped in front of a rack of sleepers. She pulled one off the hanger. It was pale yellow, size 1T, with little ducks printed across the chest. She held it up, turned it over, checked the seams, looked at the tag. She hung it back on the rack.
She moved to the next rack. Bodysuits. She picked up a white one with tiny blue stars. She held it against her forearm, feeling the cotton. She set it back.
The next one was gray, with a small bear embroidered on the chest. She turned it in her hands. She folded it and set it in the cart.
She moved to the next display. A table of bibs. She picked up a green one with a dinosaur pattern. She set it back. She picked up a striped one, held it, set it back. She picked up a plain white one and put it in the cart.
The next aisle was blankets. She stopped and ran her hand over a stack of blankets. She picked up the top one, a light blue, and unfolded it. It was thin, almost gauzy. She refolded it and set it back. She picked up a thicker one, cream-colored. She folded it and set it in the cart.
She was at the back of the section now, near the diapers. She turned around and walked back the way she’d come, slower this time, looking at the things she’d already passed. She stopped at a rack of footed pajamas. She pulled one down. It was striped, green and white, size 2T. She held it up, checked the zipper, checked the snaps at the ankles. She put it in the cart.
The woman with the stroller was gone. The aisle was empty.
…
James was in her lap, his face filling the screen, his mouth open in a wide, wet smile. He babbled something, a string of sounds that weren’t words, and reached for the phone. His fingers pressed against the camera and the image went blurry.
“Hey, buddy,” Brice said. He leaned back in the chair and let his shoulders drop.
James pulled his hand away and the image cleared.
“He just woke up from his nap,” Liz said. Her voice came through the speaker, steady and warm. “He was a little cranky until I told him it was Dadda time."
Brice smiled.
“How’s your day going?” she asked.
"It’s alright," Brice cleared his throat, "Done with throwing, got about an hour of film left and then I’m heading home. You?"
James babbled again, louder this time, and slapped the table. Something clattered off-screen.
“Easy,” Liz said, and her hand appeared, steadying a cup. She looked back at the camera. “All good here. How’s the shoulder?”
“It’s fine.”
"We need better than fine, Brice. No point in beating yourself up to get ready for these workouts if you’re going to be hurt in them. You need to be fresh."
"There’s like literal scientists behind this, Mom," Brice laughed, "They know what they’re doing."
She held his gaze through the screen for a beat. Then she nodded.
“How was Sophie’s thing?” he asked.
“She did well. Third place.”
“Wow, I wish I was graded on that curve."
"Brice."
"Kidding, kidding. That’s dope. How she’s liking it?"
"You know Soph," Liz shrugged, "It’ll look good on her college application. Beyond that, I don’t know."
James grabbed the phone again. The screen went dark, then light, then dark. Brice could hear Liz laughing, could hear James making his sounds, the high-pitched babble that didn’t mean anything and meant everything.
“James, give me the phone. James. Give it.”
The image steadied. Liz had the phone again. James was squirming in her lap, reaching.
"I wonder who he got that from," Liz said.
Brice laughed.
The door behind him opened. Brice heard it, the creak of the hinge, the sound of footsteps on the concrete floor. He glanced over his shoulder. Slade was walking back in, still chewing on whatever he was eating. He didn’t look at Brice. He walked to his chair and sat down, still chewing, and pulled the iPad onto his lap.
“I gotta go,” Brice said. He turned back to the screen. “I’ll call you tonight."
“Alright.”
“Love you, buddy.” He held the phone closer to his face. James was looking at something off-screen, distracted now. “James. Hey. Love you.”
James looked back at the camera. His mouth opened. “Da.”
“Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, Brice.”
He ended the call. The screen went black, then to his home screen. He set the phone face-down on the arm of the chair and turned toward Slade.
Slade had the film pulled up. The same frame. Third-and-eight. Michigan State. The safety creeping.
Brice leaned forward. His elbows went to his knees. His eyes found the screen.
Slade pressed play.
