“You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.” I keep stirring. “But it’s hot chocolate. Universal comfort food. And also, I don’t know what else to do with my hands right now.”
He almost smiles.
Almost.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, his head resting on the doorjamb. “For coming. For staying. For—” He stops. “For not running away screaming.”
“The night’s not over yet.”
That gets a real smile. Small, but real.
“How is he?” I ask.
“Embarrassed. In pain. Trying to pretend he’s fine.” Brody steps farther into the room, leaning up against the counter. “Standard Dad behavior.”
“You can’t control what other people do,” I hear myself say. “You know that, right? His choices aren’t your responsibility.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“I feel like I’ve been trying to fix him since I was fourteen,” he says finally. “Since my mom died. Hasn’t worked yet. But I keep trying anyway.”
My chest aches. “That’s not fixing. That’s loving someone even when it’s hard.”
He looks at me. Something vulnerable in his expression. “When did you get so wise?”
I shrug. “Sunday? Just plagiarizing my pastor.”
“Well, your pastor’s smart.”
I pour three mugs of hot chocolate, hand one to Brody, and pick up the other two. “Come on.” I nod toward the door.
Robert is grimacing when we enter, trying to adjust his position on the couch. Clearly struggling with the sling.
Brody sets his mug down.
“Here.” He reaches down. Helps him reposition. Adjusts the pillow.
The gentleness surprises me.
All that careful control, all that hard Candy armor, and underneath, he’s just a son taking care of his father. Something about the moment gives me pause, and I stop at the door, giving them some space.
“Thanks,” Robert says. Then, looking at Brody, “I’m sorry. I know I keep saying that, but I mean it. I’m sorry you had to—” His voice catches. “I’m trying. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m trying.”
“I know, Dad.”
“I hadn’t had a drink in three weeks. That’s something, right?”
“Yeah, Dad. That’s something.”
“But I screwed up. Again.” His dad shakes his head. Lets out a weighted sigh. “Story of my life.”
Brody doesn’t respond.
