At the end of the week I was growing desperate, and so I called Abbi into my office toward the end of the day. She gave a knock and waited to enter till I said to. Her politeness made me grind my teeth.
Abbi entered with a stack of files held against her hip. She did not raise her eyes to mine as she read from her notes.
"The accounting department has approved the request we sent on Tuesday," she said. "We're just waiting on one more signature, which I'll look into."
"Ms Miller," I said, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the desk while I dragged my fingers through my hair.
She continued as if she hadn't heard me. "I emailed you the list of people who have invites for Monday's meeting for your approval. I wasn't sure whether you wanted Jenna in on that or not."
"Ms Miller."
"Your hotel called and asked whether you wanted the room serviced with new towels for the weekend."
"Ms Miller."
"I told them no expense was to be spared and—"
"Abbi."
I parted my hands pressed against my temples to see Abbi's eyes on me. She was looking at me, but her face was still blank, no spark in her eyes as if she'd snuffed it out herself.
"Abbi, you must know why I stayed in Denver?"
Abbi hesitated, but then cleared her throat, tidied her stack of files, and fixed her emotionless eyes on me firmly.
"Sir, I don't presume to know why you make your business decisions," she said as if reading from a script. "I just do as I'm told."
This again, I thought, brimming at her words. Why was she so insistent on selling me this version of herself? This passive, obedient, lifeless version of herself? This “I just follow orders” self? This “I just do what I'm told” self? It was bullshite. Utter bullshite. And it pissed me off.
Because it wasn't her.
"I was going to leave," I said. "I—"
"You should have."
Her quick response should have brought me pain, but I had to hold back a sigh of relief. Because I'd heard the anger in her voice. I'd caught that flash of lightning in her eyes. It was something.
But I wanted more.
"I was going to leave," I repeated with as steady of a tone as I could manage. "I made it all the way to the airport, actually."
The cab had come. I'd gotten in it. My passport had been in my pocket, my ticket in my email. Abbi remained silent, so I continued.
"I went past the ticket booth, past security," I said. "I went all the way to the gate. I was checked in. There was nothing stopping me."
Abbi's eyes again flashed darkly. "There is nothing stopping you."
The fierceness in her voice gave me hope even as her words indicated there was none at all to be had.
"I was right there beside the gate," I said, recalling that early morning two days ago. "I was planning on leaving. I was going to go. But they announced boarding and I just didn't get up. They called my group and I did not move. They went through all of boarding and still I just sat there."
The same curiosity about my actions filled me then as they had there at the airport. I, myself, still didn't understand it, and judging from Abbi's knitted eyebrows, she didn't either.
With a sigh, I said, "They announced that boarding was closing. They called my name. They called it again. They called it again and again and again. They called my phone. I didn't answer. An attendant came over and asked if this was my flight. I shook my head. I said 'no'. I don't know why. I was sitting right there. I was sitting right there and I watched, unmoving, as they closed the doors."
I glanced up at Abbi, who was looking at me like she was searching for the same answers I was.
"I was going to leave," I said, voicing the only answer I had. "But I didn't."
Abbi's voice was soft as she said again, "You should have."
"I couldn't," I whispered.
Abbi recoiled like I'd raised my fist to her. She knew the danger of my words. Immediately her posture became defensive: her shoulders tensed, her lips drew into a tight line, her eyes darkened.
"I want to know my daughter," I said.
She'd known what was coming, but that didn't stop her from sucking in a breath. She shook her head empathically.
"No," she said. "Absolutely not."
"I want to know my daughter, Abbi," I repeated.
"No," Abbi said, no longer able to stay still. She paced frantically back and forth in front of my desk. "No, no, no, no."
Sparks practically flew from her as she spun on her heel to march in the opposite direction. Fury was in her eyes as she lifted a shaky finger to point at me.
"I will not allow my daughter to be hurt," she said, passion obvious in the pink flush of her cheeks. "I will not allow you to flit into her life for a few weeks to ease your conscience, only to leave her."
"Abbi," I started to protest.
"No!"
It was my turn to flinch. Abbi's voice had boomed in the expansive office. I wouldn't have been surprised if half the office heard her. Abbi was panting, moving frantically, desperately. It was obvious that she didn't care who heard her. It was impossible for my heart not to go out to her. She was clearly panicked and the sole cause was me. I lifted my hands and spoke calmly as if trying not to startle a wounded animal.
"Abbi, please, I—"
"Is there anything else you need, Mr O'Sullivan?" Abbi interrupted, eyes wild and unfocused.
She gripped her stack of files as
