Page 8 of Jagger

Why?

Because this right here is a recurring topic. Every few months or so, Calla finds always finds way to rehash the past—usually using our daughter as ammunition—and like every other time, I fucking feed into it.

Truth is, I hate it, and Lord knows I try to keep a lid on what I spout in anger, but it isn’t so easy to brush off when I know she’s tainting my image to Mila on the daily.

She wants her to hate me.

No, she hasn’t actually come out and said that, but it doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to take note of her silent intentions. You see, I might’ve understood her wanting to protect Mila if I was a shitty father. Might’ve being the operative word.

But I‘m not.

I love my daughter with every last fiber of my being, and maybe that’s what fuels her; the fact that I love Mila more than I ever loved her. Maybe that’s why she keeps my baby girl from me, in hopes that the less I see of her, the more my love for her would burn out, giving her the opportunity to point the finger at the me and label me as the bad guy.

News flash for her if she hadn't already realized it…

That’s never going to happen.

“Was it not me that what?” Calla hedges after a silent beat.

“I said forget it. Now tell me what is so damn important you felt compelled to call me at eight in the fucking morning, on a Sunday nonetheless?”

“Did you not hear a word I said? Mila wants to talk to you.”

“And you couldn't have waited until a little later? You know I get off late as hell on Saturdays,” I grit out.

“No, I couldn't wait. Your daughter has been waiting all fucking weekend to talk to you, and I was not about to sit here and watch her pout again because you haven't been available. If waking up early to accommodate your daughter's needs is so difficult, then maybe you should think about finding, I don't know, a normal job.”

Breathe, Jag. Breathe.

“I have been available. You just chose to call a number I rarely answer to make me unavailable. Had you called my cell when she first asked, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now.”

“Yeah, well, I clicked the first number that popped up for you.”

“And when I didn't answer, you should've called the next one.”

“Whatever, Jagger.” She huffs, and I can all but see her eyes rolling from their sockets.

“Just put her on, Calla. I don't have time for your bullshit.”

“What in the actual—”

“Just put her on,” I bark, because I’ve already had enough of her.

“Fine… Mila. Mila!” she yells.

I have to grind my jaw tightly. The way she speaks to her sometimes...

A few seconds later, my daughter’s sweet little voice replaces her mother’s. “Hi, daddy.”

I smile softly. “Hi, baby girl.”

“Can you come pick me up?” The sadness laced in her query splits my heart in half.

And what hurts most is knowing I’m going to dishearten her more when I answer with, “I can’t, angel. Not today.”

“Why not,” she whines.

“Because your Mommy works tomorrow and you know she’s not going to let you spend the night.”

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