“If you really want to get back to work, you’ll stop trying to be a hero,” I mutter, taking a sip of burning bitter coffee.
“Brigitte, I walked down the stairs, that is hardly heroics.”
“You fell down said stairs. Maybe I’ll rephrase and say stop being such a man.”
“I want to sleep in my own bed, dammit.”
“Well you can’t, until that boot is off your leg.”
We engage in a stubborn stare down, reminiscent of so many we had in my teen years.
“I feel like a caged dog. I miss my bed. I miss my uniform. I miss my freedom.”
I laugh and glance at my phone quickly. Xan should be here by now.
“When did you become so melodramatic? Someone ran you over, Dad. You need to heal.”
“I need to find and arrest that sonofabitch is what I need to do.”
I pat his knee and stand, holding my new phone to Dad to indicate I need to call Xan. I still haven’t transferred in all my contacts, or downloaded Instagram and I have to be honest, not being a servant of my followers has been a big part of this sense of calm that’s began to take hold. I’m sure they’re furious. I’m sure I’m singlehandedly taking down my own business but right now all I care about is why Xan is standing up his daughter.
The phone rings endlessly until his answering machine picks up.
Where the hell is he?
My gut sinks and in a flash I’m cold and shivering by the creek waiting for the man that never shows up. I blink back the fear.
He’s just late.
He wouldn’t do that to Millie.
I call Millie to get her stuff ready and walk with her to the front of the house.
Five minutes
Fifteen.
Thirty minutes pass and Millie is slumped on the front step and I’m pacing the drive.
“Mom, practice is starting.”
In three strides I’m up the porch steps and reach in through the front door.
“Dad,” I call. “I’m taking Millie to town. I’m taking your truck.”
My footsteps hammer the stairs and my anger at Xan fuels me. Millie follows me, her glove hanging limply from her hand and her chin tucked to her chest.
“Sweetie look at me,” I say turning the engine over. Millie obeys and I’d burn down the world to wipe the defeat from her features. “He will have a good reason, okay? This has nothing to do with you.”
Tears spring up behind her eyes and she blinks to force them back in. I hate that she won’t talk about her feelings with me. I hate that she holds it all in.
Like her mother.
The tires spin as I hammer the gas too hard.
“Do you think something bad happened to him?” She asks as we turn onto the highway.
“No, he’s probably late. It happens sometimes. Maybe he lost track of time? Or he got an important call? Maybe he’s arguing with the baker to be sure there is not one speck of pink frosting on your birthday cake.” I relax slightly when she giggles.