The God Particle by Richard Cox Page A

half of the bed is empty, it’s easy to forget those reasons. When she pictures him in his shithole studio apartment, selling mobile phones at Best Buy, it makes her want to tear her aching heart out.
    At the very least, when James left, she was able to return to church. It had been their most enduring battle, the question of religion—Kelly’s strong but somewhat formless faith versus James’s clear belief in a universe devoid of metaphysical properties. At the beginning of their relationship she’d strayed away from her mother’s denomination, but in the aftermath of the breakup, a friend invited her to a Unitarian church in Arlington, and now she attends every Sunday. The sense of rightness, being a part of something greater than herself, is something she could hardly describe to someone outside the church. And in this collective spirituality she has looked hard for God again, has asked forgiveness for abandoning Him in favor of James. And if He isn’t necessarily the God of Genesis and Exodus, if He is a concept of collective love instead of a God of rules and demands, she can learn to live with it.
    Kelly dumps the yogurt container into the trash and picks up the telephone. She should have at least given Mike her card. She never walks away from a possible story contact without leaving her card, but nerves had gotten the better of her in the airport terminal. She picks up the phone and dials Information.
    “Information. What city?”
    “Olney, Texas.”
    “Listing?”
    “Mike McNair, please.”
    “Please hold for the number.”
    And on a yellow Post-it note she jots down the ten digits. Writes his first name above them, as if they are old pals already, and sticks the note to the front of her refrigerator. Stares at it a while. Then heads to the bathroom and begins the process of getting ready for bed, changing clothes, scrubbing off her television face.
    2
    “
You
talked to Kelly Smith?” Larry asks him. “The girl on Channel eight in Dallas?”
    Mike nods.
    “On the airplane?”
    “Right.”
    “Bullshit.”
    They’re sitting in Mike’s office. It’s a sparse place, only a few wall decorations (including the plaque he earned for carding a hole in one this summer) and no plants. There is a desk, three separate computer monitors, a couple of cabinets overflowing with computer printouts and diagrams from their plotter. Mike sits in his overstuffed leather chair, and Larry leans toward him from the visitor’s chair. He’s a small man, Larry is, about five ten and no more than 160 pounds. He insists on wearing a tie even though Landon Donovan has imposed no dress code on their facility, and he wears these ties with shirtsleeves. Mike doesn’t understand this uniform but has never felt compelled to ask about it.
    “What did you say to her?”
    “I asked if she was enjoying her book.”
    “What was she reading? Romance novel?”
    “Huckleberry Finn.”
    “Huckleberry Finn.”
    “ ‘Revisiting the classics,’ she said.”
    “Revisiting the classics.”
    “Are you channeling in your inner parrot again, Larry?”
    “It’s just that I’m having a hard time believing you, jackass.”
    “Why can’t you believe I sat next to her on a plane? She has to travel, doesn’t she?”
    “I just assumed the station flew her around in a private jet. I mean, she
is
the talent, right?”
    “She’s a local news anchor, Larry.”
    “Yeah, but she’s great. Plenty of intelligence and guts for the tough interviews, but attractive and charming enough to convince everyone she’s a sweetie.”
    “How do you know so much about her? We don’t get television from Dallas.”
    “I saw her on TV once when I was there for a conference.”
    “You saw her once and you know all this?”
    “Okay,” Larry admits. “So maybe I reworked my satellite receiver a little.”
    “So that you could watch her on the news?”
    “No, because I can’t stand the hick stations out of Wichita Falls.”
    “You’re