Tom Gill slipped his sedan into park then grabbed his gym bag from the trunk and trotted up the stairs to the front door.
"Hey Honey, you home?" He called out, tossing the bag into the laundry room.
He already knew the answer. And that he would not be getting any response. He could hear music coming from his daughter's bedroom, its volume keeping her from hearing him. At the little bar that set against one of the living room's walls he poured himself a drink. With glass in hand he headed down the hall. He stood outside his daughter's room for a minute, mentally steeling himself for what he expected to find on the other side of the door.
"Hey Missy," he called, knocking at the door. "You decent? Can I come in?"
The music quieted and the door swung open.
A sudden surge of mixed emotions coursed through Tom.
His nineteen-year-old daughter stood in the doorway wearing a fuzzy, pink sweater that clung to the curves of her full c-cup breasts while leaving her lower abdomen completely bare. As if the revealing sweater wasn't enough, her pleated skirt hung down just enough to cover only the very tops of her thighs.
These were the things that first registered in Tom's mind. The kind of things that caused single fathers to have sleepless nights. These sorts of clothes. The kind their little girls wore when they grew up. The skimpy outfits that flaunted their womanly bodies. The provocative outfits that Missy had been wearing more and more of lately.
But then he looked into her eyes and all he saw was his little girl again. Even if those large daddy-melters were presently adorned by a light coating of eye shadow and mascara, they were still the sparkling brown pools he had floundered in for years. Between the limpid pools sat a delicate little nose. And below that, a set of graceful lips painted a muted red. Surrounding these soft features was her auburn hair; loose and flippant, hanging just past her shoulders.
This view, and the consequential tug at his heartstrings, conflicted with Tom's first emotions. They reminded him of how he wanted to protect her, to shelter her from the bad parts of the world.
"Hey Honey," he sighed. "Plans tonight?"
"Yes, Dad." Missy answered with a tone that conveyed the question was silly.
"When?"
"Christy and Amber'll be here in about an hour."
"Then you've got time to talk for a few?"
"I guess," she shrugged. "Let me finish my make-up and I'll be out."
"I'll get you a soda," Tom volunteered.
Walking back down the hall he heard the bedroom door shut behind him.
In the kitchen Tom dropped a couple ice cubes into a glass then poured soda over them. The collection of tormented thoughts filling his mind mirrored the dark liquid's violent swirling and hissing bubbles. He didn't want Missy going out again tonight. Not again. He just wanted to spend one evening not worrying about where she was . . . or what she was doing.
For over six years Tom had been a single parent, ever since the day Missy's mother had decided she missed her youth and took off. At first Missy and him had bonded over their shared betrayal. But as the years passed Missy pulled away, growing more independent and expanding her circle of friends. A few months before graduating high school she'd started staying out way too late and Tom's restless nights had begun. Now mere weeks away from starting college, she went out every night and came home at all hours of the morning, sometimes in obviously impaired states.
I just wish she'd stay home one night
. Tom thought, jabbing a straw into the soda filled glass.
The stress of it was wearing on him, with his daily trips to the gym possibly the only thing keeping him from snapping. He had talked her into attending the local college so that she could live at home, saving him some on the expenses. But with the way things were he had to wonder if this was a good idea. He already felt like a prisoner to his situation, always worrying and waiting for her to get home. Maybe it would be better if Missy was away, living in a dorm, so that he wouldn't have her disruptive antics constantly thrown in his face.
I don't know,
he thought, turning to leave the kitchen.
That was when he noticed the bottle of prescription sleeping pills setting on the counter. During his annual physical a couple months earlier the doctor had prescribed them in response to his stress. The bottle's image caused him to instantly formulate an idea. An idea that he immediately pushed aside due to its immorality. But one that obstinately resurfaced.
At least I'd know she was safe,
he heard himself thinking.
And I could spend one night at peace.
This argument was enough to make him hesitate on his path from the kitchen.
No! It wouldn't be right,
he argued with himself.
But then, even as that argument was forming, he saw his hand reaching for the prescription bottle. His body ignored his mind as he snapped the lid off and dropped a pill onto the counter. Using utensils he smashed it into a fine powder that he poured into Missy's soda. Stirring it he made the powder disappear.
He had barely set the glass on the coffee table when Missy appeared. Any addition to her make-up was imperceptible. In her hand she carried a pair of strappy high heel shoes, obviously intending to where them out, but not wanting to put them on just yet. This meant that his 6 foot frame still towered over her by more than 6 inches when they hugged, his strong arms wrapping around her and affectionately squeezing her demure body to him for a minute.
Sitting in one of the easy chairs she set the shoes on the floor and took a long sip of her soda. Tom stepped over to the bar and added some bourbon and an ice cube to his glass.
"College starts in a few weeks," he mentioned as a conversation starter. "You got all your books?"
"Yea. Me and Christy went yesterday and got the last couple."
"Good." He took a seat in the other easy chair, glass in hand.
"How was work today?" Missy took another sip of her soda.
"Okay. There was a moment of near panic when someone thought we'd missed something on an important calculation."
