Page 52 of Big Daddy

It wasn’t that serious.

So why the fuck am I crying?

chapter eighteen

quincey

It’s beenthree fucking weeks since Winnie has given me more than a single glance.

The day after she called things off, I wanted to storm into the office, throw her over my shoulder and fuck her brains out against my office door while she promises never to try and call shit off again.

I wanted to.

So goddamn much.

But I didn’t. Because while Winnie is wrong about the two of us needing to be in the past, she’s right about something. I need to repair things with my daughter.

Except, she’s been ghosting me. No reason or rhyme, just her usual silence.

I’d love to soap box about how evil ghosting is, but the truth is? She’s only giving me a taste of my own medicine. When Brielle presents an ideology that doesn’t fully align with the life vision I’ve carefully laid out for her, I have a bad habit ofceasing communication. When I’m grouchy, I have a bad habit of ceasing communication.

I have a bad habit of ceasing communication, period.

With at least ten calls in, Brielle is only doing to me what I do to her. I have no right to be mad.

But I have the right to pursue contact, because she’s my daughter, and good fathers don’t give up. The night we fought, I tried to force Winnie into telling me things about Brielle, and the evening ended with me not knowing about Brielle, and losing Winnie.

Fuck. I’m right where I need to be today.

“And why do you believe that?” Dr. Wilder asks, crossing one leg over the other as he nudges tortoise glasses up his nose. Men like this, I bet they don’t have real problems. The biggest issue they face is when their organic radicchio is out at their local farmers market. Wilder has no clue what it’s like to truly want a woman young enough to be his daughter.

I let out a sigh, sifting my hands through my hair. “Because,” I tell him, “I believe she hates me. As it stands, I’ve given her every reason to.”

“How so?”

Another sigh. I’ve never shifted uncomfortably in any seat until I came here, I swear to Christ. “I’m impatient and cold,” I recite, detached from the truths of my personality. I am those things, and I’ve had no problem with that until now, when it’s become clear to me that my parenting style has perhaps done more harm than good. “When she wants to chase her own ideas or goals, I shut down.”

“Why?”

“I’ve given my life to give her wealth.” Judgment dances across Dr. Wilder’s face, so I push a hand between us and glare while clarifying. “Wealth in opportunity, choices, and yes, finances. Her mother was the emotional one. And when she passed away, I doubled down on what I could provide.” I smooth my hand down my tie, playing with the gold pin that matches mywatch and money clip. “I’ve been strict and demanding, but she’s going to be graduating with her second degree in a few months. She’s never been arrested, she hardly has any vices, she’s sharp and respected—it worked. My parenting style worked.” I finally meet his eyes. “On paper.”

Dr. Wilder quirks a brow. “On paper?”

I nod, still fucking around with my tie. “Emotionally, I see now that perhaps my parenting style has taken a toll on her. That I could soften and… I don’t know, be more understanding.”

He scribbles something down on his pretentious little pad. “And how did you come to this conclusion?”

I glance around the small office, buying time. But if I’m not here to tell the truth, what the fuck are the thousands for? “I met someone who has made me realize some of my behavior—well, I could tone it down.”

After a moment of writing and nodding, he looks up at me, adjusting his glasses. “Who is this person that you met? A romantic interest?”

Romantic was a word I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot fucking pole. Now it seems stupid to say Winnie is merely a romantic interest. It’s too tiny to cover what I feel for her. Still, I nod, because it’s a term he identifies with and until I sort my feelings out, it’ll do. “Yes, a romantic interest.”

Dr. Wilder writes something on his yellow legal pad then looks up at me, saying nothing. His silence pulls more from me than any other tactic. I don’t know why.

“I love my daughter, but I’m afraid I’ve done it all wrong.”

Dr. Wilder places his notepad and pen on the side table adjacent to him. With his hands on the arms of his chair, he stares at me. “What do you think Brielle would say if you told her how you feel?”

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