Good Cop
“I hate him.” I said matter-of-factly while sipping on my Starbucks Iced Venti White Chocolate Mocha. “I wouldn’t care if I ever saw him again. In fact I wish he would drop dead!”
“You don’t mean that. You just don’t share the same opinion right now. It’ll get better. Give it time.” The reassuring voice on the end of my phone spoke slowly; making sure to choose their words carefully as to not set me off again.
As I hung up the phone I wanted to scream. Doesn’t anybody understand? I sat there, outside Starbucks, lighting up my fifth cigarette in about 25 minutes. I was starting to feel nauseas from the nicotine and caffeine combination but was smoking out of spite. Dear old dad never smoked once his entire life. He was perfect didn’t you know? That is why it was impossible for him to understand me and why I couldn’t go through life just happy to be there. My father felt that to be his daughter was a luxury, a privilege. I did not.
I looked at the burning cigarette I was holding and picked up my cell phone again. As I went through the list of numbers in my phone book I had no intention of calling him, especially not him. It had been nearly two years since we last spoke and even longer since we had seen each other. The next thing I knew the phone was to my ear and I could ringing. My heart began to pound.
“Hello?” he answered. I could tell he didn’t even recognize my number anymore.
“Hey, it’s me … Madison.” I am an idiot, I thought. Like he is supposed to know it’s me after all this time.
There was a pause, it felt like an eternity. He finally responded and we caught up with some really awkward small talk. I could sense he was becoming uncomfortable with the call and eager to hang up with me when all of a sudden I broke down. I had started to weep and could barely breathe.
“I … need … help. Will … you … meet … me?” I finally let out.
“Of course I will. Just tell me where and I can be there tonight.”
“Do you remember where we...