Chapter 10: A New Normal

Rayanna’s Tablet Diary

You could always tell when Dad had actually showered. The house smelled like steam and wet stone. A monastic bathhouse dropped in the middle of the suburbs and left to mildew in the off-season. The smell of effort, hair gel unearthed from the back of a cabinet, a deodorant worn for someone else’s benefit.

The hope of pleasing someone else, if you wanted to be poetic about it.

I was already in the kitchen when he came down the hall, towel still draped over his neck like he’d just walked off the set of a shampoo commercial.

To top it off, He. Not the half-assed, electric razor sort of half-assed job. No sirree, a complete, honest-to-God scrape, the skin on his cheeks pink and raw. Enough effort to match the fresh shirt he wore.

Blue button-down shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow. The old version of my father that existed only in old Polaroids. The one who smiled at the camera and didn’t appear ready to punch a fist through drywall.

“Morning, Ray,” he said, and I felt the old thrill go through me—stupid, adolescent, the kind of thing you were supposed to outgrow by the time you could drive yourself to the gynecologist.

He poured himself a mug of coffee, and his eyes lingered a beat too long on me when I crossed my legs. Then pretended not to notice. Wearing pajamas, technically, but showed lots of leg.

Shorts and a ratty tank top, no bra, nipple bullits in the chill haunting the kitchen. Still icy cold after two cycles of the heater. And Dad stalked me as I stirred my cereal. The way I ate the marshmallows first. Leaving the oaty bits for last, he catalogued every motion.

“Making pancakes. You want in?” Saying it as a declaration of war.

So, I shrugged.

“I might be persuaded.”

He grunted and pulled ingredients from the fridge. Piling them on the counter with the brute competence of a guy who’d survived six months of bachelorhood. The eggs were old, the milk older, but it didn’t matter. The muscles in his forearms tensed and flexed as he cracked, poured, and whisked. Pretending I wasn’t watching, I examined him, spoon poised at my lips.

Catching my eye, he glanced up and grinned. A bit off-center, a little crooked, the smile said he was thinking something filthy. But wouldn’t say it out loud until the kitchen emptied. Ducking my head, the heat in my cheeks exploded, and I suddenly became fascinated by the sediment in my cereal bowl.

Coffee mug dangling from one hand, he slid the skillet onto the burner and leaned against the counter.

“You got plans today?”

Letting my voice go playful, I shrugged. “I was thinking of skipping all my classes and joining the circus. Clown school, I have the hair for it.”

He snorted, setting his mug down with a clink.

“Your mother would’ve loved that.”

That was the first time in weeks he’d mentioned her without an accompanying dip in mood. The sudden fog that rolled in and suffocated whatever good thing we’d built. Seizing the opportunity, I pushed forward.

“Yeah, Mommy always said I had a talent for making people uncomfortable.”

He was about to reply when the pancakes hissed, and he turned back to the stove, spatula at the ready. He flipped them with a showy flick, trying to impress me. It worked.

The phone buzzed after he got three on the plate. And I saw his face close up, wary. Wiping his hands, Dad checked the screen, and tension flickered in his eyes. But he relaxed, thumbed a reply. Setting his phone down, I wondered if he texted someone about us—about me.

Afterward, he plated the pancakes, dropped a pat of butter on top, and slid the plate in front of me.

“For the lady,” he said, and bowed, the sarcasm a shade too thick.

When I picked up my fork and stabbed at the food, he caught my hand before I took a bite. Warm and rough, his fingers wrapped around my wrist, and he squeezed hard enough to make my breath hitch.

“You okay?” he asked. The hum of the referator came close to covering his words.

Seeing the concern, I stared at him. The careful calculation behind his question. Letting the mask slip for a second, I nodded.

“I’m good,” I said, as softly as I could.

Then he let go of my hand and turned back to his own plate. Devouring the pancakes in savage, workmanlike bites. Eating as if he hadn’t had a decent meal in years, and possibly he hadn’t.

As his throat moved when he swallowed, I watched him, the way the stubble caught the light along his face. What I wanted to do was reach across the counter and touch him, but I settled for letting my foot drift to him, nudging his shin.

At first, Dad didn’t react. Slowly, his leg pressed back, pinning mine between his and the table leg. For a minute, we played chicken like that, not breaking eye contact. The rest of the world shrank. Until it was him and me and the slick, buttery sweetness of the pancakes.

The spell broke with the doorbell. Once. Twice. Long and insistent, the way only the desperate or the truly clueless could manage.

Scrambling apart, we both froze, he wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and me shoving my chair out so fast it squealed across the tile.

“I’ll get it,” he said, voice suddenly formal, the mask back in place.

With the set of his shoulders stiff and wary, I watched him go. And I followed, but kept to the hallway, peeking around the corner.

He opened the door to Mrs. Henderson, the queen of neighborhood busybodies, armed with a stack of our mail and a Tupperware of what she claimed were “world-famous” snickerdoodles. And they tasted worse than drywall or remorse.

“Raymond! Good to see you out and about. You’re looking well,” she said, leaning in as if she might kiss him on the cheek.

He smiled, practiced, the kind he reserved for job interviews and high school guidance counselors.

“Morning, Mrs. Henderson. What can I do for you?”