Paternal and Proud [LAMS Short Story]

VIII - Confrontation and Cacophony

John shut the door quietly. He didn't know what he was hoping to avoid, but he could feel his heart pounding, a pool of dread starting to swirl and grow into a hurricane in his stomach. He swallowed, sliding the jacket off his shoulders and gingerly sliding the keys onto a small mahogany table, unlike the way he routinely covered the table with nicks by tossing the keys haphazardly.

Hearing nothing in the house, he assumed Frances was still in her room. Trying to formulate an explanation in his head, he turned to the stairs, telling himself that he needed to talk to her about Alex sooner rather than later.

He started up the stairs, but Frances was already standing at the top of them.

He sort of froze, looking at her. He blinked once, all words leaving his mind when he saw his daughter. "Fran, sweetie, how are--"

"Dad, I saw you with Mr. Hamilton," Frances said. That was it. She didn't spit it at him, didn't yell, didn't growl. She just said it, plainly. There wasn't any anger laced through her voice, but John knew his child well enough; he could hear the waver in tone when she said 'Hamilton,' see the betrayal and distance between them though they were only a couple of stairs apart.

"Yeah," was all John got out. He gesticulated with his hands as he floundered for the right thing to say. Coming up from his dive for an eloquent and appeasing explanation empty handed, he settled for, "We're... dating."

"Yeah," Frances mocked, voice bitter. "How long?"

John glanced up briefly before looking back down. He felt kind of stuck. He hated the thought that his daughter might not trust him anymore. After his quick look at her, he had seen the tears she was suppressing through the way it was hard for her to swallow, the glistening in her eyes. He had seen the anger stiffening her, clenching her hands that were shoved in her jacket pockets. He had seen the betrayal that made her tense up, shift her weight from foot to foot.

"It's been... a little bit longer than a month," John murmured softly. "Alex, Mr. Hamilton, he just told his child the other day-"

"Philip," Frances ground out, angrily looking down, to the side.

"-and I was going to tell you today, I promise you."

"Yeah, you promise," Frances breathed out. "You know what else you promised? That you'd tell me things."

"And I just said," John said softly, placatingly, unconscious of his hands reaching out toward his daughter. "I was going to tell you today. I promise, I swear to you, France, I was really going to tell you today."

Frances frantically shook her head, minutely. Her lips were pressed together and the glistening sheen over her eyes now marked her cheeks as well, thin little silent trails of emotion. John reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb, his hand caressing her cheek.

Frances took a tiny step back and John just looked into her eyes imploringly, running a gentle hand over her hair. He knew she didn't like talking much, that she liked unspoken communication more than having to explain herself.

She melted into him, burying her face into his shoulder, wrapping her arms under his, which automatically, comfortably, went around her. John didn't know why she was crying, but he did know that there was something going on that she either didn't want or didn't know how to communicate to him. He soothingly stroked her back, mumbling softly. "Shh... I know, I know, sweetie, I love you."

She took a shuddering breath caked with tears. "Just breathe, sweetie, okay? You're going to have to tell me what's wrong," John murmured, rubbing circles on her back with one hand.

His daughter separated himself from him and sat down on the top stair, facing away from him. Her hands, covered by the cuffs of her jacket sleeves, pressed against her face.