Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

11 | False Alarm

I instantly stiffen.

I try not to think about how my fingers are trembling, or my legs felt weak the moment he approaches me. I try not to think about how I'm clenching my fingers into a fist to avoid suspicion, or how my father looks nice and clean, less intimidating than last night.

"Hey," he smiles softly, playing with the edge of the plastic box containing a red cupcake. "When did you wake up?"

I press my lips into a thin line, glancing down at the carpet floor and picturing patterns from its fuzz. I mumble, "not long ago."

"That's good," he said, his voice slightly pitched at the end. "I didn't see you coming home last night. Did you stay over at a friend's house?"

I don't respond. This could be answered with a nod.

"I hope you had a good night's sleep," he said, sounding genuine. I'm still staring at the floor. "Dahlia, could you look at me?"

He sounds desperate, trying to catch my attention that I'm refusing to give to him. I feel reluctant, and with that, I tilt my head upwards to meet his gaze with mine.

My father is tall, maxing at six-foot-one. He's wearing his familiar glasses and his blond hair is swept to the side. The only things I match with him are my eyes and my nose.

I hope I don't get anything else.

"I got you this," my father holds out the plastic box, giving me the red cupcake. I concluded it to be red velvet. "I remember when you used to love these as a kid. Remember when we were at the store and you begged me to buy you a whole box just to eat?"

I nod, slightly smiling at that fond memory as I take the box into my hands. This gives me an opportunity to break eye contact with him.

He doesn't know that I stopped eating red velvet ever since I was twelve.

Too much fat.

"What happened last night..." My father sighs, causing me to stiffen even more so. I hear him scratching his head. "I didn't mean what I said last night."

I stay silent, staring at the cupcake.

"I was just—at work, it was so stressful, and when my friend gave me the gun as a joke, I thought it would be fun to mess around and relax. When I came home and you looked so stressed, I thought it was a good idea to start shooting bullets at you."

I bite my bottom lip, clenching my hands into fists. Don't cry.

"It was Styrofoam, Dahlia. It couldn't have hurt you that bad," my father declares softly, "I didn't think it would've hit your eye. It was a mistake."

But you laughed. You laughed at me.

"I didn't think anything about it. I wasn't going to yell at you about it, but then you swore at me, Dahlia," he continues to say my name, except this time, it oozes with disappointment. "We didn't raise you to be like this."

I press my lips into a thin line, clenching my hands so tight that I'm losing blood circulation in my fingers.

"I just...I just snapped. On top of everything that's going on at work, and this problem with one of my coworkers, I was just so upset that my daughter—my only daughter—didn't respect me as her father."

My lips parts, my eyes beginning to grow teary. The worst place to cry right now is in front of my father.

"I know I wasn't in your life most of the time, but I was in the army. If I could go back in the past and change it, I would. I regret taking that job, I regret losing time with my daughter over a stupid paycheck." My father continues, causing my tears to build. "I'm trying to make up for lost time, Dahlia. I'm trying here."