A Bit of Nothing

Alright. This popped out of my head last minute ago (@April 17) and am immediately writing this, like, in a raw draft/ pre-writing before I'll even forget this story.

This one came out watching clips of Miss Meadows (2014) right in TikTok, and find the actor, James Badge Dale, playing as the sheriff mesmerizing. Like, no shit, he saunters on screen and makes me wanna say rawr (lol). As a romantic lead for the titular character, he's dripping hot. So here I am fantasizing.

Themes explored are pretty much romance, family dynamics and the medical condition of dementia. It's introspective and psychological. It's also slow-paced. Meaning, it can get really boring if you're into more of an action and plot-driven type. With only few steamy cuts.

So... yeah.

Sex is not the main dish (sorry, xo). But sexual overtones and strong language remains unfiltered. It's Literotica, baby.

Content Warning

: This story explores marital infidelity or CHEATING and its effect on the main character. If one is not comfortable with it in some way, here's a heads up.

Also, I have a disclaimer: This is set in the United States written by a non-American. So if there are flaws about its take on the complex socio-political and cultural issues that's touched by the story, it has something to do with me being a foreigner.

If you allow me, I'd like to spill this story that kept floating around my head recently. Thank you in advance!

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Chapter 1

My mom is an emotional cheater. When I was sixteen, my reaction made me fantasize about splashing muriatic acid on her skin just so she could feel the pain her actions caused those around her.

Of course I didn't do it. I was sixteen, dependent, with the values of filial piety raised deep in my bones. Typical of my Asian and conservative household. Sometimes relatively mild, sometimes moderate, and sometimes extreme in its strictness. It's a sin to talk back to your parents, right? Or to even call them out for this form of betrayal.

My dad did nothing wrong except try to make ends meet as a cab driver, working the graveyard shift just to keep this family together. I guess on his behalf, I'm sorry to mom if he doesn't deal in business like she does, and that driving a cab is all he knows. But at least he never contemplated finding an escape elsewhere. Unlike her with her "business colleague."

Whatever that fucking means...

This went on for two more years. They constantly communicated through their phones, and I would find my mom's screen blinking with messages like: I miss you.

Fuck them. That loser and that selfish bitch.

When I turned twenty-three, I got my diploma and became a fresh graduate unwilling to enter the workforce. I'm one of those Gen Zs who couldn't give a fuck about corporate life. We moved to a more homogenous neighborhood--whiter, as they say--when my family's livelihood became a little more stable. But just as this favorable mobility happened, my dad, with news that came too late, was diagnosed with dementia.

It was only a few months before I could see the rapid effects. All his sharpness plunged away, that when he looked at me, it was often with a vacant stare. A crashing wave of despair made me lose my ground for a while, and I ended up becoming his caretaker. We were a family of seven. I'm the eldest, with two sisters and two brothers. They didn't know mommy was cheating, nor did my dad.

But we could all see the lack of interest my mother exhibited toward her own household, constantly checking her phone and randomly smiling.

Have you ever wondered why I sometimes call her a selfish cunt out of deep-seated resentment? It's because I never understood her. When I was young, she was a mother, doing the bare minimum of parental duty. But ever since then, whenever she didn't get what she wanted, she became controlling.

She hated being defied or disobeyed. She also enforced corporal punishment towards us as a means of discipline. Over time and we grew up, when things finally didn't go her way, she chose infidelity. Apples don't really fall far from their trees, do they?

Soon I grew to understand that we, the children, were actually surviving in a dysfunctional family. My father is really a wholesome man--as long as you don't listen to his bigoted views and endures his verbally abusive tendency. My father is also egotistical; he wanted to be the main character of his every narrative.

As a result, I suffered. I like to think it was depression, but a functional kind. How would I know? I never asked a licensed professional. When life gives you lemons, as cliché as it sounds, I give it brief acknowledgment. But once that acknowledgment is done, I bury it and never, ever mention it again.

I don't think healthy families exist. And I'll never believe that a husband and wife can actually be sweet and deeply in love like high school couples in YA rom-coms, where the very concept of infidelity is almost non-existent in their vocabulary. Adult parents introduce you to the word "adultery" since it comes from them, you know... being adults and all that.

Adulting also makes you understand that it doesn't work that way. And deep inside me, I'm convinced it never will. Romantic intimacy repulses the shit out of me. But I like men, unfortunately. If I could get sex out of them. Just that: no more, no less. Since that's their only benefit to me.

That's on me. Anyone who believes otherwise, I'll respect that. I don't have the need to shove my problematic perspective in anybody's face anyway. And I don't plan to change my views either.

I graduated with a Computer Science degree when AI was becoming rampant. I also got out of college without thinking about the direction of my next life. I don't care. In the end, I live with my parents, with a routine that centers around my dad.

I find strolling through this small grocery store every morning really fun, because I tend to be greeted by a middle-aged Mexican mother who I've gotten to know well since I buy adult diapers from her any time of the day.

"¡Hola, chica!" she chimes with morning energy.

I used to greet back, "¡Hola, mami!"

Then we would laugh together. I love her, she's unassuming yet open and sizzling with life.

"How's my Filipina 'miga this morning?" She asks, checking out the eco bag that's balled on my hand. "Big buys, no?"

"Sí, mamita. Same old, same old," I replied, nodding in cheeky resignation.

I tend to call her mamita but her name is Rosana Camacho. She works for her children's education at the outskirts of this neighborhood.

Basically, the main residents of this neighborhood are the well-off middle class. Luxurious modern houses that are empty by day since most of them have this managerial role or some executive-level gigs in expensive suits. At night, they light up their beautiful residences with this cozy ambiance. Quiet, secured....

If not sterile and remote.

I'm a third generation Filipino-American who used to live in Brooklyn. That's where my family scraped to get by, where my father worked as a cab driver, and where my mom cheated with a white man named Robin or Rob. I pieced that together from her text messages. Brooklyn is also where I spent my junior high years, juggling school with my part-time waitressing job at a local restaurant.

When Rob took advantage of my mother's contributions to their business venture, he kept all the credit and profits for himself. Their romantic affair, therefore, fell out from their delusional high horses.

Humiliated by receiving just pennies for her investment and facing the community's judgment after everyone found out she'd been played, my mother moved us to Michigan with all that money she had.

This exclusive neighborhood.... is just so white?

You know what I mean? Like that house in Clueless where Cher have this, like, mansion. But then it's so rare to find a Dione. Does anybody understand what I mean?

And fucking dead. The streets here are fucking dead silent except the chirping birds and goddamn squirrels that sounded like New York rats. Occasionally a Porsche or Vanguard drives by with their muffled engines. Everything's shiny but lifeless. I couldn't care less, though I'll admit those Hummers do catch my eye.

The only people who bring any real life to this fancy postal code are the workers--people like Rosana at the grocery store, the garbage collectors who actually say good morning, the gardeners and street sweepers who chat with me about local happenings. They're the heartbeat of this pristine facade.

These are the faces I see during my daily routine, including my regular trips to the grocery store where I'm currently standing, staring at the diaper section and noticing with irritation that the prices have jumped since yesterday.

I grabbed two packs and headed to the counter. "Mamita, why's this?" I complained to Rosana, dropping the bags with a thud. "That's two dollars more than yesterday! Can I haggle?"

"What?!" She interjects. She's not having it. "Katarina, you live in this neighborhood. How come you deal like a merchant? You're supposed to be a patron to make the economy here thrive."

"In a high price? What neighborhood, mami?" I denied. "I live down south over there," I added, pointing a direction beyond the glass walls of this store.

Rosana dropped her face and served me a chagrined look. "That's south two blocks away from this main avenue which you walk into everyday," she tested her words. She put her hands on both sides of her hips and gave me that very mamita scolding. "Hermana, you get your shit altogether or you drop all your items and drive to the nearest Walmart."

"But I don't know how drive," my voice mumbled in complaint. I looked up, more determined, with eyes pleading. "Mamita, please," came my attempt at it, even putting both my palms together in front of her. "How 'bout a raise of 75 cents only?"

"The door is always open for an exit to Trader Joe's," was her curt reply.

"Mamita," I held the counter's edge and slowly sunk down. "Have mercy on me," I continued with my Oscar-winning whine. Then I snapped back upright with a bright idea: "How about a dollar?"

"Get out."

My face crumpled in reluctant pettiness as I gave in. Rosana punched in my purchase with that I-knew-you-would look. "That'll be 55 dollars."

My pocket hurt. I dug through my meager purse and counted out the bills, mentally closing my eyes on what I was about to do. Damn it. This could've been just 50 dollars. No, 40 even. Damn this neighborhood.

Once I'd packed everything into my eco bag, Rosana's cheerful face returned. "Now that's done, what are your plans today?"

"Daddy check-ups," I said, struggling to fit the bulky diapers into my bag.

"Who's driving?"

"Not me, definitely," I answered, working on the impossible knot.

"Is it Mike?"

Mike is the nurse who specifically attends to my dad. My tongue clucked. Once I secured the knot, I looked up. "You know, he's a little sus."

"Sus?"

"Suspicious. You said he lives here," I muttered.

"Chica, he lives in that blue mansion on the East," Rosana supplied.

"Yeah," I grabbed my bag hastily. "That Mike is also a son of that man who wears suits while somebody drives a black Benz for him. Does Mike have nothing else to do?"

"He's a longtime volunteer as a forest ranger," Rosana answered in good faith.

"Let me guess, he's also a Boy Scout?"

Rosana shrugged. "I guess."

I scoffed. "Damn, that's good role-playing."

I hate privileged kids. What only lacks for this Mike is to follow a script and be a good actor. Or maybe he genuinely cares about century-old native trees and moose crossing the road. What is he, their traffic enforcer while these buffalo cross?

"Now that's the thing," I wagged a finger at Rosana. "Mike actually does our driving. He picks us up and assists us to the healthcare center."

Rosana's mouth opened, then slowly closed. She gulped. "Bueno, Katarina! I was about to invite the two of you to my kid's birthday dinner--"

"You're friends with Mike?! When?" My voice rose in shock.

Rosana flipped her wrist dismissively. "I knew him separately. He helped with my kid's field trip every year as their forest ranger."

"Huh? But every other year they go to beaches. Last year they went to the Pacific coast in L.A."

"The school hired Mike as their personal lifeguard," Rosana whispered with a reassuring wink.

"And this bloke agreed," I murmured, taking a deep breath. "Seriously? What doesn't this guy do? He's becoming more and more sus..."

Rosana's brows knitted at the word "sus," but I didn't elaborate. Instead, I set down my bag and threw my hands up in confusion.

You see, I met this Mike occasionally. My first impression of him was he's drop dead gorgeous. Dark blonde, light-eyed. His face passes Greek god quality--golden ratio symmetrical harmony and sculpted cheekbones. His body is obviously well-toned, visible even in his mint green scrubs. My perverted thoughts immediately screamed yes please, I want a taste of that. Agreed, it's that bad. I was satisfied ogling and objectifying him until he opened his mouth and destroyed my fantasy.

Turns out, Michael Sanditon isn't even aware his sweet smile affects women. It's fucking annoying because I can't talk dirty with him or get into his pants without being accused of only wanting his body.

Which is true, but it wouldn't hurt if this hot-ass is a fuckboy. Win-win for both of us.

Which. He. Is. Not.

Just fucking annoying.

So I'm obligated to engage with him as a person rather than a sex doll. Tsk, tsk. Such a shame. I'm indifferent and detached to whoever he might be as a person. He's rich and lives in a privileged bubble. End of statement. Whatever he says goes in one ear and out the other.

"If you have nothing else to do after your day's over, there's a birthday party at my house," Rosana's voice anchored me back. "I invited some friends from around the neighborhood."

"Will Ricky go?" I asked, thinking of our electrical technician--a black man whose family lives near Rosana. It would be comforting if they attended since his kids are about Rosana's children's age, and his wife teaches me how to cook. They're the only people I know well besides Rosana.

Don't count Michael Sanditon and my old school friends. They're all just faded memories from lost contact.

"I'll keep you on tab," I sighed. "As long as it's Mexican dishes, mamita. I can never say no."

"Ay! You can count on that, chica."

I grinned cheekily, taking my bag and waving goodbye. "Mami... quesadillas, empanadas, nachos and more!"

"You'll never know if you never come!" Rosana called after me.

"Tempt me, mamita. Make up for those four dollars I paid," I shouted back.

"Dios mio, Katarina!"

I laughed and ran giddily back home. Contrary to assumptions, it's not a mansion--just the bare minimum acceptable size here. Our house design is a modern farmhouse my mother didn't bother renovating since buying the estate cost enough already.

I think she just wanted to burn Rob's little token out of slighted pride. If I saw Rob now that I'm older, maybe I'd seduce him. I'd fuck him, ride his pathetic dick just to spite mom. Since mommy can only go as far as texting I love yous and I miss yous but never sexually engaging her gigolo.

Am I even hot enough to talk like this? No, I'm average. Brown skinned, brown-eyed, black-haired and short. Common Asian features. But when I'm truly enraged, I can raise hell. I survived a dysfunctional family, didn't I? What possibilities couldn't I inflict on those deserving returns? If I decided to fuck Rob, I'd do it thoroughly. Record his creampie dripping from mom's daughter's younger cunt and send it to her with a note: no hard feelings, Mom.

Your lover's dick was too stale anyway.

But then I'd return home to dad feeling dirty for involving myself with the same man mom soiled her reputation with. No thanks. One person suffering is enough. If one's a bitch, life's also a bitch. Let karma do the cold serving to the rightful ones.

I stepped onto the front porch, opened the door, and yelled, "Dad, I'm back!"

"Kat-kat?" Dad's hollow voice came from the kitchen. It was a typical childhood nickname, one Dad kept using even after I started college.

I rushed to the kitchen and saw him cutting tomatoes and onions--with a butcher knife. God, no. Not with that knife in his hand.

"Daddy, what are you making? Here," I said, forcing a smile as I tried to gently take the knife from his hand.

Dad scolded me. "Don't," he snapped, pulling the knife back. "You're too young to handle knives," he reprimanded.

If I told him I was grown up, he wouldn't register it; in his mind, I was still nine years old. He wouldn't believe our two youngest brothers, Sean and Sven, even existed. And he probably didn't recognize their names now. Sean had opted for military school, while Sven enrolled in aviation school in Texas. Away from this mess.

My two sisters were in college, living the relatively carefree life of students. As they should be, stopping by to visit Dad now and then. I couldn't send him to a nursing home; I probably never would. It was my choice.

"But what are you making, Daddy?" I tried again, gently taking hold of the wrist gripping the knife. "I want to learn too," I insisted. "Pretty please?"

"It's monggo," he replied, but his eyes wandered around the room instead of focusing on the chopping board, now splattered with tomato juice.

"Really?" My voice was bright--mostly forced, but with a touch of real warmth. "Ah!" I squealed, finally managing to slide the knife away from his grasp. "How about I prep the ingredients while you do the taste testing? I wanna cook! I wanna cook!"

It felt funny and awkward, playing the child again. But it was Dad. I'd do anything for him.

My dad gave an amused chuckle, a low, warm sound that eased some of my tension. It brought back a wave of nostalgia for all the times we'd spent together like this.

"You know, it's nice to come home early out of 8th Avenue today. We can prepare your mom some good dinner before she comes home," he said. Enthusiasm running through his voice.

I could feel my eye wrinkles fading a little but I managed to retain a smile. "Yeah," I exhaled. But then remembered a good excuse to bring back the energy away from my mother. "She'll pick up Betty and Chelsea at school, and we'll eat my dish!"

"You're dish, huh?" Dad swung his attention and looked at me with a hundred yard stare. He wagged his finger. "Kat-kat, your taking all the credits of my dish, huh?" He chides. "That's bad."

I broke into a grin and made a playful harrumph. "Dad's recipe is my recipe," I declared.

"Oh!" Dad threw up his hands in mock surprise. "It can't be!"

But I insisted, and he laughed. We fell into our old rhythm, the main difference being how carefully I steered him away from sharp objects and boiling water. His only allowed task was wielding the tasting spoon, offering critiques with his old, exacting scrutiny.

"Too bland, add more salt. Did you put the shrimps in already?"

"Dad," my voice dropped. "Why so harsh?"

"And add more malunggay in it, your soup looks like a stagnant pond," his criticism continued.

"Dad!" I sulked, my annoyance getting the better of me. I wanted to show him how irritated I was, but seeing his vacant gaze, I didn't bother. Instead, I just did what he told me. After a few more critiques, I gave up and let him take over the cooking while I stood aside.

When he finally got what he wanted, we waited a few minutes while we cleaned up the mess before getting lunch ready.

"I want to go outside. Dad, can we go?" I asked him as we sat across from each other at the square table. The rice and bowl of monggo soup steamed on the table between us.

Dad furrowed his eyebrows. "Where will you go?"