A Collection of Short/Long Stories I've Written;

Becoming Ronnie: 17.

“I’m here to see Mr. Harris, please.” I said in a polite tone to the receptionist. I relaxed my face to talk to her, after a grimace had been set on my face all day – even at school, even with Dylan.

It wasn’t the receptionist fault I had to see my dad.

“Take a seat,” she said, happily. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Thanks.”

I sat down, and a frown soon found its way onto my face. A few moments past, and I looked over, from the chair, to see the woman talking and nodding on the phone. I kept my eyes on her until she finished.

“Your father will see you now.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know which floor it is on?”

“Yup.” I replied, grimacing at my own new use of vocabulary. Say that was so… lazy. But that wasn’t what made me grimace – the fact that I didn’t really mind, made my grimace. I was becoming lazy with my words. “I couldn’t forget it.” I said before hurrying to the lift. “Even though I want to…” I mumbled quietly to myself, pressing the number of the lift.

It took a few minutes – which was understandable – to reach my father’s office, but when I got there, I knocked, loudly, on the oak.

“Come in.”

I grunted, and then sighed, as I realized that I had to now be in the same room at him. I didn’t know who long for, but I hoped it wasn’t long. I wanted to get this over with.

“Come in!” My father voice said again, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time.

Taking a large gulp of air, I made my way inside of his office. It was more spacious than some, but it looked cramped around his desk – and it wasn’t because of paperwork. That was all neatly stacked, in piles, organised to each particular detail, and stored in the many file organizers in the room.

His room was cramped with photo frames, and it wasn’t until I got nearer to his desk that I realized the phone frames included pictures of me, Demi and Chloe. All of them. There wasn’t any other photo apart from the ones of his children.

I narrowed my eyes. Did he expect me to forgive him by his showing of a caring person? If he cared about us, he wouldn’t have walked away. He wouldn’t have gone to live in Brooklyn. He wouldn’t have messed around with women barely older than myself.

He would have stayed at home. I bet he put these pictures up to try and impress me. To win me over? It wasn’t going to go. I clenched my hands together, making a fist in each, watching as my hands went white before the sound of a cabinet being closed pulled me out of my reverie.

“Wow, Veronica, you’ve changed.”

“I’d like to say the same,” I replied, “but I can’t.”

He chuckled. “Nice to know you have a dry sense of humour, Veronica—”

“I go by Ronnie now.”

He held his hand out, as if to shrug, before pulling it back to the button of his shirt. He played with it, nervously. It was obvious, that it was nervously. He was nervous. You could tell. He looked old – very old. Compared to when he lived with us, he looked healthy. Maybe the young girls were wearing him down...

“Okay, Ronnie,” he said, pulling me from my thoughts. “I’d like you to take a seat.”

“I’ll stand.”

“As you wish.”

“Thanks.” I said dryly.

My father sighed, before taking a seat behind his desk, clearing his throat.