you can call me daddy | h.s.

Nine

I awoke to the sound of pounding on my bedroom door, and I jolted up, only to find that Harry was already gone.

I trudge to my door with a sharp pain in my head, and pull it open to see George standing there with his toothbrush in hand. "Dad says you need to get ready."

"Ready? Ready for what?" I ponder. I scratch my head, my hair being an absolute mess.

"Church, dummy." He runs back to the bathroom to spit out the toothpaste and wash it down the drain.

"Oh," I realize. I forgot that it was already Sunday. I shut my door and open my closet doors, running my fingers over the various fabrics. Most of them were dresses from the store, or ones that my mother has made for me.

I grab one of the metal hangers and pull out a silky white dress with lace trimming the top. I look in the mirror, finger comb my hair and tie it into a ponytail with a bow. I lift Harry's jacket over my head and set it on my bed.

I pick out a simple white bra and underwear, and step into the dress, pulling it up over my frail shoulders. I pick up my mascara and red lipstick, the only makeup of my own, and apply it to my tired looking face. I beam at my reflection, until I see the hickeys.

Panic floods my body to my fingertips. I can't wear a hoodie to church, and all of my dresses go at least to my collarbones.

I quickly pull back on the jacket, crack open my door, and yell, "Mom!"

She hurries to my door with her makeup in hand. "Yes, dear?"

"Can I borrow your makeup?"

"Why? You look beautiful!"

"I... Have a pimple, mother, please."

She sighs. "I don't see one, but if you say so. Here." She hands me her powder.

I try my best to cover them without making it obvious, and finally I got it to the point of disappearance.

My mother, George and I climb into the car, my father already being at the church.

I still have a headache from the small amount of wine I had, and I inwardly groan at the idea of sitting through a whole church service.

We arrived and sat in our usual seat a few pews behind the first one.

My father stepped on stage with a tux on and went through the normal opening routine, then began talking about celibacy. I refrained from shifting in my seat as images from the night with Harry pop into my head.

As if on cue, the doors from the lobby swing open and almost everyone in the service turns their heads, and the sight was enough to change your whole look on celibacy.

Harry strolled in, wearing a perfectly fitted black tuxedo, smiling and nodding politely at my father as if to apologize for the interruption. In the process, he makes brief eye contact with me and his eyebrows flick up. He sits two pews behind us.

Less than halfway through the service, I hear someone stand up and walk to the doors to the lobby, and instantly I know that he wants me to follow. I discreetly turn and look at Harry heading out to the parking lot. I wait a couple minutes, and then tell my mother that I need to use the restroom. She just nods, more focused on my father than me.

I rush out the doors and turn to a different exit so my father won't see me leaving. When I do, Harry pulls his convertible up next to me, which now has the hood pulled over the top.

He leans across and opens the passenger side door and motions with his head for me to get in.

"Harry, I can't just leave," I say worriedly.