The Truth

Ok. Love you!

Guess that explains why Tiffany called me. Elle must’ve told her to. I’m still surprised she didn’t have anyone else to call. She’s been best friends with Elle since college, and there were times I felt like Tiffany’s deep streak of rock-ribbed practicality was the only thing standing between my daughter and catastrophe.

They had their fun, some of which they think I don’t know about and some I probably truly don’t know or want to know, but Tiffany was the only reason I was able to let my baby girl go out into the world. Elle says I’m overbearing. I say it’s protective because she was my everything for so long.

But all children have to grow on their own, and I guess I did something right because Elle is thriving, managing the trusts for her husband’s family and raising my granddaughter, Neve, to be just as strong-willed as she is.

Me?

A grandfather.

How did the time fly? I swear it was only yesterday that I was holding Elle as a baby. But now, she’s grown with a baby of her own, and I’m pushing fifty, at the helm of a global corporation, and the guy people look at to be in charge and have a plan.

Case in point . . . the woman asleep in my bathtub.

There’s a certain loss and gain from reaching my age. On one hand, I’m not the guy my coworkers invite out for a drink at a bar like The Den. And the last time I watched the sun come up after a night of raising hell, Tiffany hadn’t even been born yet. There’s a certain loss that comes with knowing those days are behind me because to some degree, they were fun.

But there’s also the quiet pride of knowing that when shit hit the fan, my daughter and her best friend knew she could call me. I’m responsible, caring, and trustworthy. That’s a gain I would never discount.

It’s been a long time since Tiffany and I had a real conversation. Though we technically work together, her on the first floor and me on the fifth, our connection has always been Elle, and since she’s been gone, there just hasn’t been a reason.

I feel guilty about that right now, like maybe there’s something going on in Tiffany’s life that I should’ve known.

She stirs, the water making a splashing sound. Her eyes open, clear and sharp, suspicious, but when she sees me, she smiles a vacant smile and her eyes brighten in delight.

“Daddy! I mean, Daniel.” She giggles, her hands going to her mouth. “Sorry.”

Then, in a sing-song voice, she says, “Daddy Daniel~”

“Tiffany,” I say sharply. I can see something stormy in her eyes, and I’m not sure I want to know where this is going. I say her name again, softer this time, but it has no effect on stopping her stream of consciousness.

“Ooh, I love this dream. Are you going to fuck me in? I mean, tuck me in.” She holds a finger in front of her lips in a librarian shushing move and whispers, “Shh, I really mean fuck me in.”

I gawk at her in shock. What is she saying? This is bad, really bad.

“Tiffany, it’s me, Daniel,” I remind her gently, hoping against hope that she’s just drunk enough to not be making that connection. Or maybe that she’s mistaking me for another person she knows. Whatever it is, it can’t be this . . . whatever this is. What the hell else can I do but ignore it all? “You called me for help. Remember?”

She nods and then shivers, her pebbled nipples lifting out from beneath the towel and breaching the surface of the water. I try not to look, but I feel like I’m in Bizarro World.

Hesitantly, I dip a finger into the water to find it’s gone cold.

“Shit,” I hiss quietly. I was too careful, not wanting to burn her. And while the cool water might help her wake up some, it can’t be good for her body right now. I empty the tub and grab a fresh, dry towel, doing my best to help dry her.

“Arms up,” I tell her, and she languidly sticks her arms in the air. Thankfully, it’s helpful as the oversized T-shirt tumbles almost all the way to below the bottom of her hips, and by using me for balance, she’s able to get Elle’s sweats on.

“Okay, now hold on,” I tell her again, lifting her in my arms and carrying her to the living room couch. Part of me wants to tuck her into the closest bed, but that would be mine, and after her drunken slurring, I can’t take the risk. So instead, I lay her down on the butter-soft leather, covering her with a blanket.

She snuggles in, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I sit down on the big, oversized sectional portion on the other end.