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[He swallowed again, raising the phone to his ear, squeezing his eyes tight.
It only rang twice before his dad picked up. “Hey, kiddo.”
Even at fifty-four years old, Robby was still his kiddo. Robby choked on a sob. “Hey, abba.”
“Whoa, you okay?”
Robby swallowed, hating how a whimper slipped out. “No. No, I’m not okay. Can you come get me?” He honestly did not trust himself enough to drive at the moment. Not over the bridge and at least half an hour away, probably more with traffic.
“Yeah, of course. Where are you?” There was shuffling on the other end of the line.
Except Robby didn’t know how to answer. He was at the park, but he didn’t want to wait half an hour there for his dad to pick him up. He also wanted a shower and to change. To get the awful day off of him. But he also was afraid to walk home. Was afraid he’d do something dumb.
“Can you pick me up at my apartment? But—but stay on the line?” That would keep him accountable. He couldn’t let something happen to himself if his dad was listening.
“Yeah, kiddo. Half an hour.”]
Series
- Part 4 of They Call Me Mishka
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