Page 188 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two
STORM
“Just try your best, Dad,” Tempest says, taking in my worried look. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”
Her soft hair drips down the side of her face, landing on the towel wrapped around her neck. It’s well past bedtime, closing in on nine-thirty p.m., and Raiden’s already settled under his blankets.
This is what co-parenting with Shae looks like.
I have my nights, she has hers; doing things together seems to be a thing of the past. It’s been three weeks since the night that changed everything.
I told her to find me when she decides, so I’m taking the fact that she’s avoiding any and all conversation about our relationship as a good thing. If she’s silent, she’s still thinking.
I can tolerate the stress of not knowing, of there being thepossibilityof us, more than I can tolerate the reality of having lost her forever.
Standing behind Tempest, she points to the hair products on the counter—oils, moisturizers, two types of combs, and brushes.
“Here, I’ll detangle it. Watch me,” my daughter says, sounding so self-assured and so damn much like her mother that I can’t help the smile that comes to my face. She picks up a spray bottle with some type of leave-in solution and saturates her already wet hair. Then, she starts from the ends of her natural curls and works her way up to the roots. She’s using a Denman brush—a tool I learned about from the hours of YouTube videos I’ve consumed over the last few weeks.
“Let me try,” I murmur, catching Tempest’s eyes in the mirror. She only looks a little worried, and I chuckle at her expression. “If I hurt you, let me know, okay?” I ask, leaning down to rest my hands on her shoulders.
“Okaaaay, Daddy,” she drawls, tensing as if she’s expecting me to rip all her hair out. I make the sign of the cross, and Tems giggles before I get to work.
All my focus goes to the single chunk of hair I try to unknot.
“Um…Dad?”
“Yeah, Tems?”
“You can comb it alittleharder, y’know,” she says cautiously, and I cringe at her reflection.
“You’ll tell me if I hurt you?”
“Yep, but I’m sleepy and you’re gonna be working at this foryears,” she says, amping up the drama.
“Okay, got it.” I got it. I can do this.
We fall into a silent rhythm as I get the hang of things, and when her hair is finally free of knots, we both release big breaths, and I add oils and creams to the detangled strands.
“Now, let’sdooooooo,” she seems to think about what style she wants to go to sleep in. “Let’s do two pigtails!”
Okay, part the hair down the middle and put it into two hair ties. I can do that. I cansodo that.
It doesn’t escape me that I’m working so damn hard to prove I can be a great father, a competent father, because I want Shae to have no doubts about my abilities.
“You got it, baby girl,” I say brightly, and pick up the rat-tail comb to part her hair.
Making a straight part is harder than it looks…by far.
“Dad?” Tempest asks, her tone serious, and I’m sure she’s gonna tell me to just give up. I have her hair in two hemispheres, sure, but the line goes from her widow’s peak to damn near behind her right ear.
“Yeah, Tems?” I say, concentrating on the back of her head.
“Why is Mommy sad?”
My hands freeze, the pointed end of the comb resting at the crown of her head, where I try for the fifth time to make a part.
What do I tell my seven-year-old? Certainly not everything, but should I share even a sanitized version? What am I supposed to do here?
Calm down, Storm. Breathe. You know what to do.
