Eighty Days of Heartache

the forty-first day; [2]

THE FORTY—FIRST DAY;
» PART [2]

IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO sneak out of this house, when your father wakes at 6:00 a.m every morning to deal with business emails, and to make his eccentric ginger wife a mean cup of coffee.

So creeping past the living room at 8:00 a.m, whilst dad watches the early bird news, is completely and utterly like a blunt pencil. It is pointless.

Instead of sneaking, and being sly by using the back door, I suck in a deep breath, bounce on my toes, and take a step into the living room. It's about time I grew a metaphorical pair, and told my dad that Theo and I were — surprisingly — on talking terms.

When I round the large leather arm chair that he sits on, and block his view of the weather forecast, dad doesn't even blink. Matter of fact, he gives me a wide eyed, bushy tailed smile and says, "morning, Doe."

The pet name my family and friends call me warms my heart, and I give him a sunshine smile. Admittedly I'm nervous, as I fold my hands behind my back and give him a petrified smile.

Sam Knox was never, and will never be, Theodore Holland's biggest fan. Despite the fact that I've known Theo since I was fresh out of the womb and wet behind the ears, my dad has always seen the side to Theo that I was, and always will be, blind to see.

"I'm meeting up with Theo today."

Dad blinks, pausing the television (because the weather forecast is oh so important), before giving me his signature father look. The one with one, raised and unkempt eyebrow, alongside a coffee infused and incredibly calculating stare.

"Okay," he sighs, leaning forward in his chair and dusting his hands against his slacks. Sucking in a sharp breath, I look at my father. At his clean—from-sweat brow, and tidy smile. "Where are you going?"

Blinking with shock, I take a few moment to gather my thoughts and tell him the truth. "Uh— the Breakfast Bar."

Approvingly, dad nods his head, patting Russel's head as he curls up on the floor beside him. "Cool, just be safe and don't do anything I wouldn't do—"

"Why are you being so calm about this?" My voice wavers a little, as I glance down at Dad who gives his shoulders a shrug. He's unmoving. Pouting with a slight petulance, as he gives me a lopsided grin.

"You want me to kick off?" He asks seriously, but I instantly shake my head. I don't want my dad to kick off at me. I'm such a daddy's girl, I'd rather watch every horror movie ever created than upset my father. "Well, I know I can't control you, Fawn... you're your own lady, so I'm just going to have to sit and worry about you."

I reach for my dad's hand, giving his used and worn with age knuckles a tender squeeze, as he cups my hand with both of his. He seems so tired and worried, and I know this is me doing it to him.

"I'll text you every hour."

"Yes. You will."

"I'll take my car."

"And your pepper spray."

"Dad —"

"And your pepper spray, Fawn."