“And who might you be?” Molly’s dad asks, offering me his hand with a jovial, back-slapping energy that has appeared out of nowhere. He seems very eager to turn the conversation away from his trip and his travel companion.
“Seth Rubenstein,” I say. I wait for him to register that I dated his daughter for most of her teenage years, but he evinces no recognition.
“Pleasure to meet you, Seth. Roger Marks.” He says this like he knows I will recognize his name from the entire shelf of neon-covered hardbacks emblazoned with it at the newsstand fifteen feet away, and is pleased to give me a chance to meet a celebrity.
“You’ve actually met,” Molly says. “Seth was my boyfriend in high school. Remember?”
“Ah, of course,” he says, though he is very obviously lying. “Nice to see you again, Seth. Where are you two headed?”
“Chicago,” Molly says, in a timbre I have never before heard her use except when she’s trying not to sound upset. “On our way to Wisconsin.”
This would be a natural point for Roger to ask his daughter why she is going to the Midwest with her high school boyfriend, but he is not moved to inquire.
“Looks like we’re next in line,” he says. “Can I get either of you a coffee?”
I want to ask for an iced quad dirty chai coconut-milk latte just to make him spend ten minutes waiting around for it, but this interaction is clearly excruciating for all involved, so I restrain myself.
“No, we’re good,” Molly says.
“Well it’s great to run into you, tootsie,” her dad says with forced warmth. “I’ll see you in Los Angeles.”
“Yeah. Sounds good,” Molly says, with the same unconvincing brightness. “Have fun on your trip.”
She steps in for a hug just as he turns to the cashier to start ordering.
It’s like watching a kitten be hit by a car.
“Oh, whoops,” she says, nearly colliding with Savannah. I can hear humiliation in her voice, but Roger is too busy giving a teenager instructions on how long to brew his espresso to notice.
I want to grab him by his big stupid hair and bash his face into the plexiglass counter.
She begins to walk away, but I remain planted.
“Asshole,” I say under my breath.
Roger turns around. “Excuse me?” he says.
I shake my head in disgust. “That’s your fucking daughter.”
“Seth, come on,” Molly says, tugging at my hand. “It’s fine.”
“You can’t give your own daughter a hug? Maybe act like you’re halfway happy to see her?”
“Enough,” Molly hisses. “Don’t do this.”
“Sorry, Dad,” she says over her shoulder. “See you in a week.”
She pulls me away and doesn’t look back as she walks quickly in the direction of our gate.
I put an arm around her but she shrugs it off. “That was humiliating,” she whispers. I assume she means her father’s profound apathy at seeing her, but she whirls around to face me head-on. “Don’t ever do anything like that again, do you understand?”
Oh, shit. She’s mad at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “You’re right. It wasn’t my place to step in.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
I can tell by her tone she wants me to drop it, but I can’t let it go.
“It’s just that I can’t believe him,” I say. “He lied to you about being out of town? And who was that girl?”
She shakes her head, stone-faced. “Who knows. Not his wife. It doesn’t matter. It’s not worth getting into it with him.”
But it is. I want her to be as incensed as I am. To flay into that bastard with her poison dagger tongue. To storm over to Hudson News, grab the latest Mack Fontaine book, and whale on him with it.
“Baby,” I say at a much quieter volume. “Why should you protect his feelings?”
“Because he’s my father,” she says flatly. “At the end of the day, I want a relationship with him. And we’ve been getting along. I’m writing the next Mack Fontaine movie.”
I’m astounded that she would trust him enough to work with him on anything, let alone on one of his sleazy PI movies, but I know that isn’t my business.
“Okay. I get that. But you can still be angry with him for how he treated you.”
“That’s just what he’s like. I’m used to it. I have my mom. It’s fine.”
But it’s not. I can see in her complete lack of affect that she has disappeared somewhere inside herself. I despise it.
I pull her into my arms, but she stays rigid. It’s like hugging a piece of driftwood.
