The library is my sanctuary when I need to not think, which is ironic since it's designed for thinking. I'm on my third attempt at the same paragraph about cellular biology when my phone buzzes loud enough that the girl two tables over shoots me a death glare.
My father's name flashes across the screen. Part of me wants to let it go to voicemail, but another part makes me grab my stuff and head outside.
The October air hits like a slap when I push through the doors. I answer halfway down the steps, my breath fogging. "Hello?"
"Madison." His voice is warm, almost gentle. Different from the controlled anger when he cut me off. "Hi, sweetheart. Are you busy right now?"
I sit on a bench, watching students hurry past, trying to ignore the nostalgic pull in his chest at his easy tone. "Kind of, I guess. I was just studying."
"I won't keep you long. I just wanted to check in about Regionals. It's coming up soon, isn't it? A few weeks?" The shift catches me off guard. Not emotional territory, just logistics. Practical dad mode.
"Yeah, a couple weeks. We've been drilling the pairs routine pretty hard. Coach thinks we're ready." I'm answering automatically, giving him updates I used to give before everything fell apart.
"That's good. Really good." He sounds genuinely interested, and it's jarring. "I've been thinking—do you need help with travel arrangements? Hotel? I know you're managing everything yourself now, but Regionals can get expensive with last-minute bookings."
The offer lands weird, somewhere between generous and controlling. "I've got it covered. The team has a block of rooms reserved, and we're carpooling."
"Of course, of course. I just wanted to make sure you had everything handled.” His voice gets tight. “Your mother's been worried, you know. Asking if you're eating properly, if you need anything."
There it is. The mother card. Classic move. "Tell her I'm fine. Meal plan's working out great."
"She'd love to hear that from you directly. She misses you, Madison. We both do." His voice goes softer, more careful. "I know things are complicated right now, but that hasn't changed."
My eyes are burning and I blink hard against the cold wind, pretending that's the only reason. "I know."
"How's the ankle holding up? Any pain during practice?" The pivot back to practical matters feels like a relief and a trap simultaneously.
"No pain. Physical therapy worked, and I've been careful." Professional answer. Safe answer. The kind that doesn't invite follow-up questions about how I'm actually feeling.
"Good. That's really good. I saw some footage online from your last competition. You looked strong out there, Madison. Really strong." The praise catches me off guard.
I've been starving for it without realizing—desperate for acknowledgment that I'm good, that I'm worth something. "Thanks. It's been a lot of work getting back to the competition level."
"I can imagine. I'm proud of you for sticking with it." He pauses, and I hear him take a breath. "I know things ended badly between us. I know I haven’t really minced my words, and this is complicated for both of us, but…"
I hold my breath. He already apologized, but this feels… like honesty, trying to patch things up or manipulation to get his way. And I can’t decide which it is.
"I may have reacted too strongly. I was scared for you—for your future, for your career. And I handled it badly." The words are careful, measured. Like he's been practicing them. "But I want you to know I'm here if you need anything. For Regionals or otherwise."
"I appreciate that." The response is automatic, noncommittal. Because I don't know what to do with this version of my father—the one who calls to offer support after cutting me off completely.
"Just think about it, okay? If you need anything—travel money, new equipment, whatever—you can call. No strings attached." The phrase 'no strings attached' from my father is so absurd it almost makes me laugh. Everything with him has strings. Even strings have strings.
"I should get back to studying. Midterm coming up." The lie comes easily, smoothly. Performance mode activated.
"Of course. I won't keep you. Just wanted you to know we're thinking of you. Good luck, sweetheart. You've got this." The call ends and I sit there on the bench, phone still pressed to my ear, staring at nothing.
Students walk past, complaining about exams and weekend plans, and I'm frozen in this moment trying to process what just happened. It sounded real. His voice, his concern, his pride—all of it felt genuine.
But I remember how cold he was when he cut me off, how he gave me an ultimatum and withdrew all support when I chose Emily. And now he's calling, being warm and supportive and offering money. Nothing's actually changed—just his approach.
My phone buzzes with a text from Emily: "Still at the library? Want to grab dinner?"
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I should tell her about the call. About my father's offer and his almost-apology and the way he said he's proud. Emily would have opinions—strong ones—about whether I should trust this.
But telling Emily means watching her try to fix it. Means being her problem again when I've been working so hard to be the girlfriend who's fine instead of the disaster who needs constant managing.
I need time. And space. So I type back: "Got a lot to do still. Gonna skip dinner, sorry." The mask stays on. It has to stay on. Because the alternative—letting Emily see how confused I am, how much I want to believe my father means it—that's too much to inflict on anyone.
I stand up, shoving my phone in my pocket and heading back inside to stare at my phone and rethink my life choices. The library's warmth feels aggressive after the cold, and I move through the familiar routine of gathering my things on autopilot.
I can’t let her know that something is wrong—can’t afford it. So I sit in the library, waiting for the fog in my head to clear, just hoping that it’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.