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Having a daughter is a whole package that comes along with slamming the door, of that Grime knows of. With Sasha, though; double that up, because her strength is something she’s so oblivious of most of the time—and combined with her tendency for instability, triple it up. Hearing Sasha slam the front door closed as the indication of her grand return from school, he’s glad enough that he doesn’t have to change all the fifteen doors they have in the house every few months.
“Well, that’s one way to say that you’re home,” he greets gruffly, though a smile is tugging on the corner of his mouth—he remembers little Sasha, eight or nine, hair tucked in an elaborate ponytail every morning, only to come home a complete disheveled mess; entering his truck with an apologetic grin whenever she has to tell him that she lost her hair tie yet again. Every one of their monthly grocery trips always includes a pack of new colorful hair ties along Sasha’s adolescence years—and he happens to love her enough to put up with it.
Sasha rolls her eyes and lazily tilts her head to her shoulder to that, spreading her arms wide with a sigh. “I’m hooomee!”
He shakes his head, chuckling. “That bad, huh?”
He knows school has always been a challenge for her—and he always made sure to tell her that he appreciates her constant effort to keep her grades stable, although mediocre. Not that it matters much to him. Opening the fridge, he grabs a bottle of fizzy orange juice from the door, offering it to Sasha, who has her head flat on the kitchen counter with a pout. He gives himself a chuckle—the way he’s cracking the bottle open and sliding it over to her reminds him of a bartender offering him a drink at the bar on his drinking days—which was, what, ten years ago?
No, eleven. Goodness. And to remember that he used to think he’d drink himself to death…
Grime shakes his head, shooing the rather unpleasant thought out of his head—turning to Sasha, he offers her a sideways smile and dips a metal straw into the bottle. “Your drink, good sir.”
Sasha couldn’t help but crack a small smile at that. “Why, thank you, for I am a middle aged woman going through a midlife crisis in your bar.”
He rolls his eyes, ruffling the top of her head gently. “Come on, school couldn’t be that bad.”
“What do you know about it, you were instantly an old grumpy man,” Sasha stuck her tongue at him. “And at Saint James, too? I’m going to need a real drink, dad.”
Grime huffs out a laugh. “In your dreams.”
“Come on!” Sasha throws her hands against her sides. “I’ll be seventeen in like, two months. I deserve a taste of real booze ‘round these days.”
“Exactly, you’ll be seventeen in two months . You’re still sixteen. ”
“But Griimessyyyy ,” she whines.
“But Saasshyy,” he whines back mockingly, earning a scoff from Sasha.
“Ugh. Can’t even raid your super-secret booze cabinet yet since I can’t find any,” Sasha groans. “You’re a loser for the middle-aged single suburban dad standard, y’know?”
He chuckles at that. “Knock yourself out trying to find it, kiddo, I don’t have any.”
“Seriously?” Sasha frowns.
“Yeah, Sash, I don’t drink. Took you that long to figure it out?”
“Huh,” she mutters to herself. “Yeah, I guess you don’t. I mean, either that, or you’re just really good at sneaking around on me. Which you’re not, ‘cause I always find out all your dirty little secrets.”
“Uh-huh,” he nods along at that with a smile. “Sorry to disappoint you then, kiddo.”
“Even Anne’s mom drinks!” Sasha continued. “Me and Anne and Marcy found her super-secret booze cabinet in their garage while we were practicing our song a couple of weeks ago. And then she told us, of course I drink, do you think I don’t need getting drunk once in a while with you three around the house all the time? Which I’m pretty sure she was joking about,” she winces, “preeetty sure.”
“I wouldn’t blame her if she wasn’t,” Grime chuckles, poking her nose gently. “You’re a nightmare, y’know that?”
Sasha pouted. “And somehow you don’t drink?”
“Nope. Haven’t been since you got here, kiddo,” he shrugs. “You’re hard enough to handle sober.”
“Ugh. You suck.”
Grime merely shrugs and smiles smugly at that, bending down to check inside the oven. “Aha! Dinner is almost done.”
“What are you cooking?” Sasha flinches.
“Meatloaf! Should be ready in about… five minutes.” He claps his hands in satisfaction, face slightly falling as he watches Sasha sip on her juice in distaste. “Hey. C’mon, I’m being the responsible dad here.”
“Yeah, I know.” She shrugs dismissively. “I’m just… thinking.”
“ Thinking,” he raises his brows.
“Yeah, dad. Thinking.”
Grime could only sigh at the sight of her, leaning against the fridge door with his arms crossed. His little Sasha, seventeen in eight weeks. He’s been dreading it, if he were being honest. Knowing that he could no longer shelter her from the things that could hurt her, because his girl is a teenager and teenagers are dumb and she’s Sasha too, of all people. He knows this moment is going to come the day he sat on his porch with little Sasha on his arms and decided this girl is going to be his, but—well, let’s just say he didn’t expect it to be this soon.
But then again, does any father?
“Well,” he starts, all drawled out, “I suppose I would rather watch you have your first drink than having you do it in the middle of a group of stupid teenage boys in some sketchy party.”
Sasha looks up from her place on the counter at that, her face all lit up like a thousand candles. “Really?”
He dramatically throws his head back. “Oh, what choice do I have?”
She giggles lightly. “Aw, Grimesy.”
“This Friday, afternoon after school? I’ll drive you to the corner store with the truck.”
Sasha tilts her head with a small smile. “You know you don’t have to do this if you’re doing it because you're scared of me drinking at some frat party, right? I’m a lesbian.”
“And?" He retorts. "I didn’t know lesbians can’t go to a frat party.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Sasha groans, “I mean like, I’ll probably have my first with Anne and Marcy, and the worst thing that could probably happen to me is saying something utterly dumb that they won’t let me live down, or Mrs. Boonchuy would find out and scold me in Thai.”
“Yeah but—I still want you to have your first with me ,” he practically pleads—saying it out loud does sound rather pathetic, now. To admit that you’re still not ready to let your little girl go for the big, wide world to take. “C’mon, Sash. I’m a dad. Dads are pathetic like that.”
“You’re not pathetic,” Sasha smiles softly, cupping her chin on one hand, “cringe, yeah, but you’re like that ‘cause you love me.”
“I do ,” he sighs in surrender, stretching his arms to wrap Sasha into a hug over the counter. “C’mere, you little brat.”
Sasha groans in his embrace. “You’re cringe .”
The oven rings just as Sasha pushes Grime away, finally having enough sentiment for a day. He reluctantly walks over to put on a glove and open the oven, only to squint his eyes in a frown at the meatloaf on the tray. Or, well—what was supposed to be one, anyway.
Sasha looks over his shoulders and grimaces. “ God . Dad, I love you, but I’m not eating that.”
“And I won’t let you,” Grime exhales a breath in defeat.
Sasha sighs knowingly. “Thai Go?”
“Yes, please.”
It was the first time he’s seen her enter the truck with a grin in a while, swinging her backpack up on the seat upon her grand entrance. “Daddy!” she exclaims, all sugary sweet and sunny as she slams the door closed.
“ Sashie,” he replies, gruff as always, “seatbelt, please.”
A small click of affirmation, and off they go towards the ever rolling Californian suburbs. The open windows brings in the afternoon breeze and he has to look out for Sasha’s neck as always, sticking out of the window like an overly-excited puppy, the blonde strands of her hair blown by the wind and he’s sure he’d be mistaking her for a golden retriever if he were any more half-blind than he already is.
“Mind your head,” he chides gently, but a smile is tugging right on the corner of his mouth like always, the soft static of the truck’s radio filling the comfortable quiet between them—the very same radio Sasha had fallen asleep to all her life, head hanging over the seatbelt, hair plastered all over her face.
This kid has turned him into everything he thought he would never be.
Their corner store is a little convenience shop with an iconic neon sign sticking out of its awning like something straight out of a TV’s stock photo collection—there’s the iconic calico cat lazily lying around on the counter, its tail swaying back and forth; Sasha would steal a little belly rub on her way towards the drink aisle like it’s an unwritten law, and the cat would yawn in content, watching the girl skip over, followed by an old man who would greet the clerk with a how’s it going and a shrug.
“Nu-uh, I’m choosing,” Grime clicks his tongue as he holds the fridge door open, earning a pout from the girl below him. “Go grab a snack. You’ll need it.”
Sending Sasha on her way, he began to ponder over the hardest decision he’s going to make yet; what kind of drink do you let your little girl willingly? If he were being soft on himself, he’d grab a cherry coke and call the whole thing off— no, nevermind, you’re sixteen, it’s too soon. But he’s never soft on himself—he tries not to be, at least. So he grabs a can of light apple cider and a can of cherry blossom beer, closes the fridge door with a sigh, and turns over to check on Sasha.
“C’mon, kiddo,” he calls, holding the two cans up with the rise of an eyebrow, watching her face light up. She’s standing by the snack aisle, now tall enough to grab a bag of jalapeno Cheetos on her own—he used to have to do that for her, sometimes taunting her before he does if he feels more like a dad than usual. Sometimes he’d tell her a dad joke first, much to Sasha’s dismay— okay, I’ll grab you that Cheetos, but you have to hear this joke I made up first.
And now she could do it all on her own.
As the cashier gives out a beeping noise, Grime somberly recalls how he used to curse the passage of time for being so damn slow. The same day repeating over and over as he withers on the rickety old seat on his front porch, a six-pack can on his side. And then Sasha comes along, and—oh, where has all that time gone by now?
He looks over at Sasha cooing at the cat and sees the little girl in a jean jacket with her hair pulled up into barely a ponytail all the same.
“So, what do you think?”
Grime watches Sasha lean against the truck door and take another sip, her expression unreadable—they’re parked on their driveway, now, the sun on its way towards the horizon, painting the identical suburban homes in an orange hue—and Sasha is finally giving him a grimace, smacking her lips a few times before finally replying, “it taste like spicy apple juice.”
He lets out a laugh. “Yeah, well, that’s apple cider for you, buddy.”
“Are you sure this is even alcoholic?” She twists the can around to check. “ABV. What does that mean?”
“Alcohol by volume,” Grime answers, “it means the amount of alcohol a drink has. Which is small for you, yes, because you’re still a little baby.”
“No I’m not,” Sasha scoffs, trying to look indignant. “Okay. The other one, please.”
“Alright,” he shrugs, offering the other can sitting on their dashboard and receives the other in return.
“Ooh, this one’s a beer,” Sasha grins, “cherry blossom? I wonder if it tastes like cherry soda.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Grime says, holding back a small smile.
“You wouldn’t?” She asks. “You’ve never had a beer ever in your life?”
“Not the cherry blossom ones,” he tells her. “Back in my drinking days, you only get one flavor.”
“And that is?”
“Musty,” Grime replies flatly, earning a choked laugh from Sasha.
“Ugh, you’re just saying that ‘cause you don’t want me drinking.”
“Maybe,” he shrugs with a smile, and off goes Sasha with her first sip of beer. “So?”
She smacks her lips with a frown again for another while. “Huh. It’s… fine. Flowery.”
Grime tilts his head. “You okay?”
“Yeah, no—I’m fine,” she quickly answers, “I’m not dizzy, or anything. Just… underwhelmed, I guess. Everyone at school is talking about them so much, and now I got the taste of it, I guess I just don’t understand all that hype.”
Grime hums. “I see.”
“Is this, like, one of those reverse psychology stuff?” Sasha frowns with a tilted smile. “You’re letting me drink so I don’t drink?”
“No, not at all. I’m sure you’ll get a taste of more interesting drinks when you’re older,” he tells her, “truly. I don’t want to gatekeep the world from you, Sash. You’re a big girl, now. I get that.”
Sasha taps her fingers on the dashboard slowly for a moment. “If you’re doing this ‘cause I got upset that day, I want you to know that I didn’t get upset because you wouldn’t let me drink.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What were you upset about, then?”
She lets out a shaky sigh. “I don’t know. But you told me you stopped drinking when you adopted me.”
Grime eases himself against the truck’s headrest. “I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to,” he simply says. “And by god, Sash, you were an anxious ball of mush when I first had you. I didn’t want to scare you more than you already were—I’d find you sleeping inside your closet four out of seven days in a week. And I wanted to do things right, with you,” his voice softens, “I wanted to be better, for you .”
Sasha stares at him. “But you sacrificed so much, for me. All you do now is work or pick me up from school or try to cook for me and fail miserably— ”
“—ouch.”
“—and you don’t, like, I don’t know, go out or have fun and stuff like that—Grime, even Olivia does that sometimes. I saw her get in the car with a leather jacket and sunglasses on a week ago when I was walking Marcy home from school.”
Grime squints at her. “That is a sight I do not want to picture.”
“That’s not the point,” Sasha sits up, now visibly upset—her eyes are becoming glassy and he’s sitting up with her once he realizes how serious she really is. “The point is—you do so much for me. You sacrifice the things you don’t have to, for me— why?”
“Because I want to,” he leans over, reaching out to squeeze her shoulders gently. “Because you’re Sasha , and you’re worth all the sacrifices I made. You’re worth everything.”
“No I’m not,” her voice breaks, and that’s the sign for him to pull her into his arms, knees and legs and all, let her tears soak on his shirt as he shushes her sobs away. “I’m not.”
“You are,” he cuts her off. “You are. Sash, before you came in barging into this wreck of a life I have, I thought I was going to drink myself to death.”
A small sniffle. “You did?”
“Yeah. But then I didn’t, because you’re here. Telling me my cooking sucks and losing hair ties every other week and all.”
Sasha lets out a small laugh at that. “Teaming up with Beatrix to make you miserable.”
Grime cracks a smile. “Breaking all the door hinges in the house.”
“Dragging you over to all my cheerleading performances.”
“Hey, that’s something I actually like,” he retorts. “Remember that last game you performed in? When I chanted along with your girls and added death to the opposition! and almost started a riot between the audience?”
Sasha winces in his arms. “Remind me to never invite you to any of them ever again.”
“Oh, they loved me.”
“Shut up.”
He smiles at that. “What do you say we drive over for some ramen?”
“And Panda Express orange chicken?”
“Sure, why not.”
Her face lit up at that, wrapping him in a tight hug and muttering a quick I love you so much before letting him go as fast as it started, staring at him with a threatening look.
“This never happened.”
Grime laughs, shaking his head. Ah, there’s his Sasha. “Fair enough.”