I emptied my glass, allowing the velvety smooth liquid to envelope my tongue. The rich aroma filled my nostrils, before that all too familiar burn comfortably gripped my throat.
I sighed as I leaned forward to place the glass on the coffee table, the milky ice cubes tinkling in hopeful punctuation. There was another half a glass or so in the bottle, I knew. And it called to me. It wasn't the numbness of the alcohol, I lied to myself. Baileys was her favourite. And every bottle I drank brought her back to me that little bit more.
My eyes fell on the photo frame next to the bottle, and I reached for that instead. I pushed back into the couch, snorting a laugh. She looked dreadful. She always did. But there was something about her that drove me absolutely wild.
The first time I saw her, she was manning the cash register at Subway. I'd left her fellow Sandwich Artist with an instruction to pile on all the salads, and moved along the counter to pay. She was tall and gangly in that ill-fitting purple uniform. Her eyes were self-consciously cast down, and untidy swathes of chestnut hair fell across her gaunt, horsey face. As I watched her avoid my gaze while she shuffled around in the register, I found myself captivated by her. To this day, I don't know what it was, but somehow, she got to me. For the first time since puberty, I was stricken with a spontaneous erection, right there in the queue of a sandwich shop.
Her cold, clammy hand brushed mine when she handed me my change. Her touch was electric. And in that moment, I knew I had to have her. I held her hand lightly as she placed the coins in my palm, causing her to look up. I smiled at her, and she blushed and looked down again, unfamiliar with the attention.
"Would you like to have dinner with me?" I smiled gently.
Her blue eyes locked on mine, shocked, confused, suspicious. I persisted, as best I could with a growing audience of Subway Sandwich Art Lovers bottlenecking beside me, and the minimum-wage sauce squeezer on the other side of the counter equally surprised. But finally, still blushing, she agreed to go out with me that night.
Even though I had arrived ten minutes early, she was already there waiting for me outside the restaurant. Far from stylish, she wore a beige, thick weave cardigan, done up over a pair of faded blue jeans that were a good three sizes too big for her. Her hair was the same uncontrolled mess, covering her face as she slouched against the wall, wringing her hands nervously.
She was a gorgeous, frumpy vision.
I strode straight up to her, snatched her into my arms and kissed her deeply. She was caught off guard, squealing her surprise into my mouth. I held her tightly around her back, enjoying the subtle taper of her torso. My hands overlapped as I caressed her, then slowly let them rub up into her hair as she sank into the kiss.
Her mouth was so soft and warm, and wet. Our lips pressed firmly together, sucking gently at each other, as our tongues swirled around and around. She was delicious.
"Sorry," I whispered, eventually pulling away. "I -- um -- just had to kiss you."
She leaned back in my embrace, her head tilted to the side, and her face lit up in the most beautiful, confident smile I've ever seen on anyone, ever.
The change in her was instantaneous: her body language; the blaze in her eyes; even the tone of her voice. She was radiant.
The rest, as they say, is history. She felt pregnant later that night. And six months later, we were married.
The seashell picture frame in my hand held one of our wedding photos. It was the two of us standing outside the church. Her hair was still badly cut. Her cheap, self-applied makeup was smeared from tears during the ceremony. And that second hand dress, horrifically altered to accommodate her pregnant belly, hung off her like it had been thrown over a hatstand.
She was so beautiful.
My eyes brimmed at the memory, and I replaced the photo on the table. I reached for the bottle, and drained the last of the Irish Cream into my glass.
"Fuck!" I gasped, wringing my eyes shut and throwing my head back.
I missed her so much.
Phoebe fumbling loudly at the door ripped me from my thoughts. It sounded like she was laughing as she fumbled to get her key in the lock. She obviously had one of her friends with her, or at least on the other end of her mobile phone.
It was a bit early, I thought, only eleven o'clock. But at least she was home safe. I quickly drank down the last of the Baileys and took the bottle to the recycling bin under the sink. A quick rinse of the glass before I slammed it in the dishwasher disposed of the last of the evidence.
When Phoebe finally burst through the door, it was clear that she was crying, rather than laughing. She was wailing in loud, hysterical sobs. She slammed the front door behind her and stormed off to her bedroom in noisy stiletto clicks across the tiled floor.
"Phoebe, Sweetheart?" I called after her.
Her bedroom door slammed shut in reply, the sound of her crying on the other side barely muffled.
I knocked on her door, but got no response. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?" I called through the door. Still no answer.
Pressing down on the lever, I inched her door open just enough to poke my head through. She was lying face down on her bed, howling into her pillow. Her whole body shook with every sob.
"Phoebe?" I called gently. "Sweetheart, talk to me. What's going on?"
"Go away!" she screamed into her pillow, then turned onto her side so that she was facing away from me.
She tucked her knees up into the foetal position. The little black dress she'd gone out in pulled up as she did, exposing almost all of her long, shapely thighs. She hadn't even taken her shoes off, the long black stiletto heels threatening to puncture her pale blue bedspread.
I responded as all fathers do when they're ordered to go away by their hysterical daughters, I went in to comfort her.
Phoebe was racked with violent sobs, whining desperately as she cried. I sat on the bed, placing my hand gently on her bare shoulder. My touch had no effect, so I lay down, spooning up against her and wrapping my arms tightly around her. I buried my face into her mane of dark brown hair, breathing in that coconut and honey scent, while she continued to cry.
I held my baby girl, just letting her express all the painful emotions that had overcome her.
It was several minutes before the sobs eventually subsided, giving way to long, deep breaths and the occasional sniffle. I kissed the crown of her head, after a moment, and Phoebe slowly turned over. She wrapped herself around me, nuzzling into my chest. I stroked her long, thick hair, and planted a soft kiss on her forehead.
"Are you okay?" I whispered.
Phoebe screwed up her face and began to cry again. She shook her head as she buried her face into my chest.
"Hey," I soothed, stroking her soft hair. "Shhh, it's okay..."
"It's not okay!" Her voice was strained and high-pitched into my chest. "I'm a freak!"
I was shocked by the statement, frozen and unable to find the words to respond. "I don't under..."
"I'm a freak, Daddy!" She lifted her head up to face me. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her mascara was smeared in blurry panda smudges. "No one's ever going to want me!"
"Hey, slow down," I breathed. "Tell me what happened."
"I can't," she said, hiding her face in my chest again.
We'd been here before: a daughter in desperate need of a mother, and nothing but me to carry the load. And it cut to the bone every single time.
"Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry," Phoebe half gasped, half whined. Obviously the wave of grief that washed across me was evident. "It's just...I don't know how to talk to you about this."
