By four o’clock, I’m ready to drive to wherever the fuck this dickhead is coming from and drag his ass here myself.
Beth tries to reach him again. And again, each time greeted with a voicemail. I try to engage her in conversation about anything, monotonous rantings spilling out of my mouth. Every thought that pops into my head I’m throwing at her, but it’s as if I’m alone in the diner. The self-possessed woman across from me becomes a ghost of her former self. She stops smiling, stops flicking her eyes in my direction when I tap her foot. The sound of her name doesn’t warrant the same reaction I’m used to getting from her. Each minute that passes drags her further away from me.
By ten after five, my body is rigid against the seat, my vision vibrating with anger. A single tear rolls down Beth’s cheek, and I can’t take this anymore. I’m ready to kill this man. I want to take his life away from him, and I want to do it slowly.
Drag it out over hours. Make him feel a fraction of the pain Beth is feeling. Then make him feel it again.
I lean over the table and grab Beth’s elbow, pulling her hand into mine.
“He’s not coming,” she whispers through a shattered voice. She doesn’t fight my hold. She allows me this, this one part of her to comfort. Her eyes fall to the phone on the table. “I don’t understand. Do you think he could still be stuck in traffic?”
No.
“Maybe.”
“Or he forgot? Do you think he forgot about me?”
I stare into her eyes when she lifts them, the unshed tears threatening to wet her cheeks. “When was the last time you spoke to him?” I ask, thinking maybe he did forget. Praying for that explanation, and not the one I fear kept him from showing up.
He doesn’t want to know her.
My jaw clenches so tight, my teeth ache.
He doesn’t deserve to live.
She swallows noisily. “Last night. He sounded really excited again, like he did when I first spoke to him. He was talking so fast. I reminded him where we were meeting and what time. He said he would be here. He promised. I tried calling him this morning before you picked me up but no one answered. I figured he left already.”
“Beth.” I squeeze her hand when her lip trembles. My forearm shakes against the table. My whole body charged, ready to detonate at any second.
“He sounded so excited,” she repeats, blinking heavily. Tears stream down her face. She pulls her hand out of mine and slips out of the booth, nearly stumbling, but righting herself quickly. She pushes against my shoulder when I lean to help her. “Don’t. I’m fine. I just need to use the bathroom.”
My back slams against the seat. I wipe both hands down my face, trying to keep myself from flipping over this table.
How could he does this to her? How could that fucker get her hopes up and then bail on her like this? He has her fucking number. He could’ve called if something came up. I’d still think he was a worthless piece of shit, but I’d be thinking it somewhere else with Beth. Not here. I wouldn’t be watching her break down in the middle of a fucking diner.
I swipe her phone off the table and hit redial. A generic voicemail picks up. I disconnect the call and hit redial again. And again, the stress of the phone against my ear building to an unbearable pressure. If he’s sleeping, if his ass is still home and he did forget, if he tries to give me one fucking excuse, I’m tearing into him. I press redial. Six attempts, seven, on eight I’m ready to give up, until . . .
“Hello? Yeah?” Two coughs, then the sound of bottles clinking together comes through the phone. “Shit,” he mumbles, groaning. “My fucking head. Christ, what time . . . who is this?”
My breathing grows thick, scratching against the back of my throat.
His fucking head. Bottles. This asshole is hung over.
I turn toward the window, keeping my voice low, but unable to confine the rage to my tongue. It coats my words like fresh tar sticking to pavement.
“You fucking piece of shit. You’re home? Do you have any idea how crushed your daughter is right now? She’s fucking waiting for you, asshole, and you’re just now waking up? Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?”
He moans. More bottles clank together. “Fuck, I . . .” Sighing, a mattress creaks through the phone before his bullshit excuse. “Look, I wanted to come. I was going to. I’m just . . . I can’t be nobody’s fuckin’ dad, you know? It ain’t me.”
I angle more toward the window when two patrons walk into the diner. My mouth presses against the phone. “No, I don’t fucking know. I don’t know how you could act excited to meet your own daughter, get her fucking hopes up, and then tear them down like this. If you didn’t want to be ‘nobody’s fuckin’ dad,’ you shouldn’t have arranged to meet her, motherfucker. She said you were excited and shit. What was that, huh? Was that all a lie?”
“Man,” he mumbles. “Every time I talked to her, I was gettin’ high. I don’t remember half the shit I said. It was mainly her talkin’ anyway.”