Grim and Darling

Chapter Thirteen

Eight things about your dad:

One.

He is essentially the “good cop.” Not all of them go into the job with a pure, unadulterated drive for civic duty, but he did. Your grandfather was killed by a drunk somewhere out on the Wyoming flatlands, and your grandmother was robbed at gunpoint on a street corner in Phoenix. The gun didn’t kill her, but the fear-induced heart attack did. The police never found the guy who stopped her life, so Dad’s always been a bit of a vigilante.   

Two.

He probably loved your mom at some point or another.

Probably.

Maybe.

Three.

He definitely doesn’t anymore.

Four.

He still refuses to teach you how to shoot a gun. You ask him every year on your birthday, but he seems to think you’re better off not knowing. You’re not sure if that’s because he doesn’t want you to accidentally shoot your own foot off, or that he worries you may take things into your own hands and actually off someone for real someday.

Either way, he doesn’t trust you with a firearm.

Five.

Spaghetti is a literal food group.

Six.

He used to go fishing every weekend. He had a special spot, special vest, special pole, special hour, and to anyone else he probably seemed superstitious. Maybe he is. But it worked for him. He called it “therapy,” the killing of fish.

Seven.

The only time you’ve ever seen him cry was about a week after the whole Alice thing. You had a nightmare and went looking for your dad because he was big and strong and brave enough to fight off whatever demons had followed you into your dreams, but when you found him, he was crying. On the couch, in the dark, unopened beer between his feet, his face between his hands. You stood in the doorway listening and watching and not moving because you’d never seen him like that before and it scared you even worse than that nightmare.

Eight.

Alice completely ruined him.

---

“Got you something.”

Dad puts a paper gift bag on the book in front of me, the handles tied together with a purple ribbon. I look up at him, immediately full of suspicion.

“You got me a gift?” I look at him like this is really a test.

He shrugs and is probably blushing, but that fucking beard of his is so big these days, I can’t really tell. “Yeah. So what?”

“You got me a gift,” I say, shaking my head. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Just wanted to.” He’s all shrugging shoulders, rolling eyes, and shuffling hands as he turns away to make a pot of coffee. I pull the bag toward me and undo the ribbon. Inside, there’s a shirt. A pretty shirt. Shiny and sequined and made of really soft fabric, the double-washed kind. But it’s purple.

“It’s purple,” I say.

“Yeah. Thought it’d look nice on you.”

“Purple.”

What is going on?

“Yeah. Purple. It’s a color.” He rolls his eyes at me like I’m not getting his joke.

“What are you even saying right now?” I shake my head at him, and he grunts, leaning back against the counter and staring at me hard for a full minute before he speaks.

“I’m worried about you. You’re always…” He waves his hand at me, his eyebrows raised like his point is obvious or something.

“I’m always what?”

“In black.” He waves at me harder, and I look down at myself. He’s right. Black pants. Black sweatshirt. Black sandals. My t-shirt is black, and my beanie is black, and even my nail polish is black. He doesn’t know this part, but my underwear is black too.

“I like black.” I shrug, glaring at the purple shirt.

“I can tell. But it’s not a happy color, Bella. Maybe if you tried to wear something… else, you wouldn’t be so sad anymore.”

Like happiness is determined by the color of your clothing.

“I’m not sad.” My voice goes hard, and my muscles all stiffen up like I’m suddenly made of stone. This is the very last conversation I want to be having with him, except for the sex talk. Maybe. That one might be less awkward than this.

“Bella,” he sighs and rubs his eyes with his thumb and his finger.

“I’m not sad!” I yell it this time, sitting in my chair and feeling small because my feet don’t even reach the floor, and my dad is trying to make me wear colors, and everything in the world is terrible right now.

“Yes. You are. You know how I know that?” He asks like he wants an answer, so I just keep my eyes on the stupid purple shirt and shake my head.  I hear him sigh. “I know because I’m sad. It takes one to know one, kiddo.”

I finally look at him, and oh god, his eyes are watery. Big and wide and wet like baby animals in Disney movies, and he’s chewing on his bottom lip, and I hate this. I hate that we’re in the kitchen on a perfectly nice day having this conversation because some fucking worthless asshole came in here and took my sister and left us with this big empty space with nothing to fill it up. I hate that my dad is so worried about me that he bought me clothing, and I can’t even think about him in a store picking this out because it’s almost too embarrassing to comprehend it. I hate that part of me wants to burn the stupid purple shirt, but another part of me, a small secretive part, wants to wear it.

“I just thought we could both start small,” he says. “I’m gonna start fishing again. Thought you could wear something that isn’t black. We could do it together.”

“If I get rid of all my black, I won’t have any clothes left,” I grumble. I’m actually kind of glad to hear that he’s going to take up fishing again. He really liked it, always had a tan and smelled like the woods, and the freezer always had something in it. He smiles that lopsided smile, the only one I’ve seen for years now, and ruffles my hair as he leaves the kitchen.

“I’m not asking for a rainbow. I’m just asking for a little bit of sunshine, ok?”

Next

AN:

Hadley is my forget-me-not and gives me soft places to land.

Thank you for fixing this up, baby.

<3