***
Grace Marie Leary, the beautiful daughter of Tom and Callie Leary, stood in the foyer with water dripping from her big puffy coat. Her hair was a mess and her make-up, smeared around her eyes. Despite the rain, Tom, who’d had the house to himself this evening, could tell she’d been crying.
Grace and Gretchen had gone, for what was meant to be, dinner and a movie, but only half an hour had passed since they’d left.
Tom rushed to his daughter, his mind going immediately to the worst of scenarios: a car accident, robbery, an incident with the police. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Where’s Gretchen?”
Grace shoved Tom so hard that he fell back, his bare feet trampling over Callie’s snow boots, his shoulders and upper back colliding with the wall, destroying the sheetrock and an electrical switch, which, in turn, took out the entry lights. By the time Tom had gathered what had happened and pulled himself from the wall, Grace had stormed to her bedroom. Her door slammed, followed by a crash of glass and wood. He knew that sound; it was the little shelf of collectible glass bells he’d hung for her last spring.
“Smart Tom,” he mumbled, rotating his left shoulder a bit, testing its mobility, “hang the bells next to her door … fucking brilliant.” He dusted off his Colorado Fire Academy t-shirt, then looked back at the mess, which, he surmised, could have been avoided had Callie done what he’d told her to do and picked up her fucking winter gear.
When he got to Grace’s door, he heard her sobbing, and when he opened it, she stood from the bed. The dress she wore was partially soaked over her chest; the cotton fabric clung to her skin and both straps had fallen from her shoulders. She’d had a hell of a night, and it showed.
At some point between her handling Tom in the foyer to now, Grace had attempted to wipe the runs of eyeliner from her face, but she’d smeared them, leaving a subtle dark shade under her eyes. The girl was a knockout any day of the week, but in this state … Tom had never seen her so beautiful.
She grabbed her pink piggy bank and launched it at Tom; he’d always loved the fire inside her, but this was a bit much. He dodged it and it shattered against the door, sending ceramic chunks and about seventy dollars worth of change exploding everywhere.
“Seriously? Come on, Grace.” He walked to her, watching tears drip down her cheeks. “If you want to hit me, hit me.”
She stepped forward and punched him in the mouth.
“Fuck.”
“I’m leaving,” she said, rushing to her closet, pulling clothes from hangers and tossing them onto her bed.
“You’re not leaving,” Tom said, his fingers examining his lower lip.
“Yes … I am.” She pulled open a small duffel and threw in two pairs of jeans, three shirts, her make-up kit and some underwear. Then she turned, intrusively shoved her fingers into her father’s pant pockets, rifled a bit for the pizza money he, predictably, had ready for his night of freedom and a movie, until finally pulling out a fifty dollar bill; she packed it.