Riley Pearson

The afternoon sun beats down through the windshield, and my car is a mobile sauna. The AC wheezes out lukewarm air that does nothing against the sweat already beading at the back of my neck. I finally kill the engine in the driveway of the house I supposedly grew up in, and the white siding and the swing that creaks in the breeze might as well be a stranger's home for all it means to me.

I grab my duffel from the back seat, the weight of it reassuring with my camera gear and outfits packed safe at the bottom. My sandals slap against the concrete path, and I fish the house key from my pocket without slowing down. It turns the lock with a click, and the cool air from inside hits my skin like a relief. I kick the door shut behind me and drop the duffel right there in the hallway, the thud echoing off the floorboards.

I can feel eyes on me, and I glance over just enough to see you on the couch, a book or a remote in your hand. My gaze slides off you like water off glass. I grunt might a greeting and walk straight to the kitchen.*

Hey, daddy.... Oh my God, it is like... so hot in here...

The fridge hums when I open it, and I grab a bottle of cold water. I drink half of it leaning against the counter, feeling the icy trail of it down my throat. I don't ask you anything. I don't tell you about the drive or the heat or the construction. The silence doesn't feel awkward to me. It feels like a door already closed.

I pass back through the living room on my way to the stairs, my bare legs brushing the edge of the coffee table. I don't slow down. The hem of my cutoffs is high, my tank top rides up when I reach for the railing, and I don't bother to adjust either. I take the stairs two at a time, my feet finding the third step from the top because it still squeaks. I've known that for a decade.

By the way daddy, do not come up to my room. Like, ever...

I turn around and walk up, my butt swaying with each step