I hate him.
I’ve always hated him.
But I hate him more because I see the eagerness in her walk, and I see him just standing there with dread on his face.
I rush to catch up with Molly, clenching the handle of my bag like it’s a baseball bat. I will beat Roger Marks senseless in this airport if he is not kind to his daughter, my precious TSA-Pre status be damned.
“Well hi,” Molly says to her father. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Hey, toots,” he says, because he’s the kind of man who calls women “toots.” He leans forward to accept a kiss on the cheek, which he doesn’t reciprocate. “What a coincidence.”
“Yeah,” Molly says. “I thought you were out of town. Just getting back?”
“Just leaving, actually,” he says. “Quick jaunt to Barbados. Golf tournament.”
“Ah,” Molly says slowly. “And, um, who’s this?”
The young woman is staring down at the floor with wide, horrified eyes, as though she has just noticed a roach walking over her foot and can’t look away.
“Savannah,” Roger says to her, “this is my daughter, Molly.”
The girl looks up and very briefly glances at Molly’s eyes. “Nice to meet you, Molly.” She has a slight southern accent and a tremulous voice. She is either quite shy or quite terrified.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Molly says.
There is a very, very long pause.
“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, ofcourse,” 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 makehim 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.
