If Ever(93)

Even though Chelsea's voice is strong and demanding, her hands tremble.

He huffs. "Very well. But let's be clear, you were well taken care of."

Chelsea's eyes widen. "By who? My grandfather who was delirious with Alzheimers and I had to take care of?"

Her father startles and shakes his head. Chelsea continues. "I had nothing. After he died I lived out of his rusted-out car."

"That's not possible. You were provided for in a trust fund," he says indignantly.

"Your bully lawyer wouldn’t release my money until I needed it for my college tuition," she snaps. "I worked thirty hours a week during high school, because you refused to take my calls for help."

His face turns red. Whether it’s from embarrassment or guilt for his actions it’s hard to say. Chelsea's anger is growing and her fierce words getting louder. My own outrage is building, and I'd like to deck him.

"Listen, Chelsea. I know this is difficult for you to hear—” He pauses as if considering his words. “But you were an unfortunate accident that happened while I was in graduate school and met your mother. I tried to do the right thing by her. I really did, but it was never going to work."

Chelsea's face is stricken; she fights to hold herself together.

He moves to leave. "I'm sorry things didn’t go better for you. I truly am. But I must go."

Pain darkens her eyes. I step forward and meet the man eye to eye. "Sir, I think, all things considered, you owe Chelsea a few minutes of your time."

"And you are?" He tilts his head condescendingly.

"I'm a man who stands by your daughter."

He sighs and turns his attention back to Chelsea. "You're dating an actor?" he asks, as if I'm a second-rate loser.

She nods.

He pinches the bridge of his nose as if this conversation is taxing. "And are you in college?"

I'm not sure if he actually cares, or is just trying to get the formalities out of the way so he can escape. I see Chelsea's anxiety. She wants this man to like her.

"No, I have my degree in international business."

He startles and looks at her with a bit of respect. I want to say, "Take that, you son of a bitch."

"And you work here in New York?"

Chelsea hesitates. "Um, no. I left my job to be on Celebrity Dance Off."

His forehead creases. "I don't know what that is. You're a dancer?"

She shifts from one foot to the other. "Well, no. It's a reality show—"

He frowns. "You have a college degree, but quit your job, and now you're on one of those ridiculous reality shows?" He shakes his head and now I really want to give him a piece of my mind. A flush creeps across her cheeks and she swallows.

"Robert," his wife interrupts in a sharp tone. "The car is here."

"Well, then." He pauses and looks at Chelsea for a few seconds as if at a momentary crossroads. He clears his throat. "I wish you the best."

And he moves past, disappearing around the corner. Chelsea darts after and I follow, only to see him exit the restaurant.

"Wait!" she calls, but he either doesn't hear or doesn't care. Outside he hustles into a black town car.

"Please, Dad. I only want to talk," Chelsea cries out.

He closes the door, but his window glides down. "I'm sorry, Chelsea. You're part of my past. It's best we leave it that way."

"No!" She cries.

He frowns. "What is it? Do you need money?"

She startles. "I don't want your money."

"All right then. There's really nothing more to say." He looks forward, his window closes and the town car pulls away.

Chelsea stares as he disappears in a sea of taillights and exhaust.

I desperately want to pull her into my arms.

She turns to me—destroyed. "I want to go home."

"All right," I say and she starts walking.

"Chelsea, your coat." I catch up, forcing her to pause long enough for me to slip her coat on her. Her eyes are vacant as she digests what happened. "It's going to be okay," I reassure her.

"It's never going to be okay." Her voice is monotone and emotionless, stating it as fact.

I pull her hat onto her head and then zip up her coat. When I get the zipper up to her chin I give her a little shake. She raises her eyes to mine. They are dark and watery, filled with anguish. Her chin wobbles and I can tell she's holding herself together by a thread. I tie her scarf around her neck. Gently, I say, "Let's go."

We walk back in the frigid cold, every rush hour cab filled. There's no subway that goes the direction we need, but Chelsea trudges on unaffected by the icy wind. When we finally reach the flat, my fingers are frozen and face is numb.

Once we’re inside, Chelsea's strength dissolves and she slides down the wall to the floor. She buries her face in her hat and lets out an anguished wail. I drop to the floor next to her. She pulls her knees close and covers her head with her arms as wracking sobs consume her.

I've never felt more helpless.

She raises her head, her tortured eyes settle on mine. "I took their picture with you." She grabs her phone from her pocket and whips it against the wall where it cracks and ricochets across the wood floor.