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Just as I’m about to tell him where they are, he opens the top drawer of the vanity and freezes. I glance down and grimace.
Slowly, he picks up the package of brand-new razor blades. Shame coats me like a wet blanket. My shoulders slump, and I can’t look him in the eye.
“Baby girl, why do you have these?”
The question isn’t accusing. He’s not being condescending. He asked like he would ask any other question.
“I, um, I’ve had them for years. I’ve never used them. I keep them there…”
He drops them on the counter and cups my face in both of his hands. “In case things get so bad you might need them again?”
I drop my eyes and give a slight nod. He’s probably so disappointed in me. Or disgusted.
“Look at me, sweet baby,” he whispers.
When I do, his eyes are pained. “I hope you never feel like you need them again. But if you do, will you promise me something?”
I blink.
“Will you promise to come talk to me first? Tell Daddy you’re feeling that way so we can deal with it together? Maybe we can explore other ways to give you the relief you seek? Safer ways.”
My bottom lip trembles as a tear rolls down my cheek. “I might always be broken, Daddy.”
He pulls me closer and kisses the top of my head. “We’re all a little broken, baby. But you’re no longer alone. And it will kill me if you hurt yourself. I hope being with me, you won’t ever have that need again. Just, please, come to me if you ever do, okay? Please, Chloe? Promise me.”
The pain lacing his tone breaks my heart. His entire body trembles as he holds me. His fear is so tangible that I can feel it swirling around us. My impenetrable monster isn’t so impenetrable.
“I promise, Daddy. You can take those razors. I don’t want them here anymore.”
When he pulls back to look me in the eye, he strokes my cheek. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He tilts his head, glancing to the heavens, then meets my gaze again. “Thank you, baby.”
The tightness in my chest eases as he pockets the blades. I already feel a bit lighter knowing they won’t be in that drawer, mocking me.
“Washcloth?”
I point to a different drawer, and he pulls one out and then runs it under the faucet for several minutes. After he wrings it out, he turns to me and gently starts washing my face. Our eyes stay locked together the entire time. I know better than to offer to do it myself. He wants to do this. I think in a way, he needs to do this.
“Do you want me to do your makeup?” he asks with a grin.
We both laugh as I shake my head. “No, Daddy. I can handle that.”
He sits on the edge of the tub and watches me the entire time, asking questions about the products I’m using. Every time I glance back at him in the mirror, he’s staring at me in awe.
“So, you’re going to finish law school. What happens afterward?”
I sweep the eyeshadow brush over my lid and shrug. “I guess I’ll find a job as an attorney somewhere.”
“But you don’t want to be an attorney.”
I let out a deep exhale. “No. I don’t.”
“You want to be a beauty influencer and create a makeup brand of your own.”
It’s a statement, not a question.
