Stall them. Stall them till the cops get here.
I casually step between the man and the girl. In my periphery, I note several phone cameras directed our way. I release a slow, steadying breath. Hopefully, he won’t try anything foolish, knowing his every action is being recorded.
The man snatches up the chair next to him, holding it up like a baseball bat.
And a sharp, collective gasp falls over the room.
Air leaves my lungs in quick, shallow breaths, and my heartbeat is a loud, rhythmicboom-boom-boomin my chest.
I slowly shake my head, warning the man not to do something stupid. Careful not to make a sudden move and risk him lashing out at me or someone else.
He leans past me. “Sarah. Now.”
“Yes, Papa.” Held-back tears quiver her voice, the volume barely louder than a whisper. “I’m sorry, Papa.”
Shit.What do I do?I shift to the side, blocking her again from his view. “You’re not sober. And you’re not in the right state of mind for her to go anywhere with you.” I bolster the words with a bravery I don’t feel. A bravery I hope he’s too inebriated to see through.
“You don’t get a say in what I can and can’t do. I’m her father.” He slams the chair on the edge of the table. Large pieces of the chair go flying, and several people shriek.
The ceramic vase on the table topples onto its side. I don’t try to save it, and the vase rolls off the edge and smashes on the floor.
I avoid glancing down to check the damage. I’m focused on the man in front of me, who is now holding what looks like a deadly weapon. A stake.
The sound of rustling clothes, clicking of shoes against tile, jingling of bells above the door hints that some customers are escaping to safety. I don’t turn to see how many remain.
My body is shaking—either from fear or the surge of adrenaline—but hopefully not hard enough for him to notice. I refuse to let him think he has the upper hand or for him to believe I’m easily intimidated.
“You don’t want to hurt anyone,” I say, praying it’s true. Praying the alcohol is dictating his actions, and I can talk sense into him before it’s too late.
Shit.Where are the cops?
Not a single siren breaks through the fear in the café, letting us know help is on the way. The sour taste of dismay and concern sits in the back of my throat.
Someone behind me whimpers. Possibly one of the girl’s friends.
“Move it, Sarah!”
Spittle hits the side of my face. I don’t so much as flinch, my body rigid, muscles taut.
“No—you can’t go with him.” The faux bravery in my voice softens to a plea. “Whatever you do, don’t leave with him.”I can’t protect you if you do.“He’s in no state to drive.” My next words are directed at the man, gentled so as not to anger him further. “You could get in an accident and get you both killed. You don’t want that, do you?”Please tell me you’re not suicidal.
“I’m fine,” he snaps.
“No, you’re not. You’re barely standing upright. You’re drunk.” My tone remains steady, designed to lull him into compliance. Or ideally lull him to sleep.
“I’m not drunk. I only had one beer.”
A keg of beer, more like it.
“Please, if you leave like this, you might end up doing something you’ll later regret.”
He lifts the splintered piece of wood, as if to strike me over the head. I step out of his reach. The edge of the table behind me lightly presses into the backs of my thighs.
He mutters something I can’t make out, the red of his face darkening.
Jess.Is she still in the kitchen? She spent five years married to an abusive husband—a marriage that left her struggling with complex PTSD. What if seeing this triggers a flashback, which she gets from time to time?
Sirens wail from down the street.Thank God.
