“Dad,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I possibly can. “You know you can’t just take shit without paying for it.”
“I was gonna pay!” he barks, grabbing for a handful of mini bottles on the counter, nearly knocking them to the floor. “This punk—” he jabs a shaking finger at the clerk, who looks to be around 30 years old, “—threatened to call the cops on me. I built this damn town. And this is the thanks I get?”
Christ.
Andrew winces like he’s heard this exact rant fifty times today. Maybe he has.
I plant myself between my dad and the clerk. “He’s not calling the cops,” I say, looking pointedly at the employee. “I’ll take care of it.”
The clerk swallows. “He can’t just steal?—”
“I know,” I cut in gently. “I’m paying for it, and then we’ll leave quietly. I’ll leave you a little extra. No harm done. Okay?”
The guy looks from my dad to me, then sighs and nods. His grip on the phone loosens.
I slide a hundred-dollar bill across the counter. “Keep the change.”
Behind me, my dad huffs, swaying slightly. “Always acting like a big shot,” he scoffs thickly, shaking his head. “Your mother would’ve been ashamed of you.”
The words slice across old wounds—ones I’ve spent years stitching shut, only for him to rip open again with one drunken swipe. But I don’t flinch. Not anymore.
“Let’s go,” I say, looping an arm around him and steering him toward the door. “Come on.”
He grumbles the whole way, cursing the clerk, the town, fate itself. Andrew trails behind us, apologizing under his breath like it’ll fix anything.
“I’m taking you home,” I tell my dad quietly. “You need to sober up.”
“I don’t need a damn babysitter,” he slurs, jerking his arm out of my grasp, only to stumble again. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” I mutter, catching him before he goes down. “Get in the car.”
After a few seconds of pathetic protests, he obeys, collapsing into the seat like a sack of bones. I close the door, letting out a breath that scrapes painfully through my chest. By the time I slide into the driver’s side, he’s slumped against the window, exhaling a messy tangle of curses and self-pity and half-finished sentences.
I turn the car on and start driving toward his house on the edge of town. Halfway there, I pull into the drive-thru of a fast-food joint.
My dad grunts. “Where the hell are we?”
“You need food,” I say, keeping my voice level. “You’ll feel better.”
“Don’t tell me what I need.”
I don’t respond. There’s no point. The speaker crackles to life, and I order a burger, fries, and a black coffee. Something to soak up the alcohol. He’ll probably have two bites and then pass out, but it’s better than nothing.
When the bag hits my hands, I pass it over to him, then carefully hand him the coffee. “Drink.”
We drive the last few minutes mostly in silence, my dad’s chin bobbing against his chest as he falls in and out of sleep. When I pull up outside his place, he squints at the house like he’s not entirely sure it’s his.
I round the car and open the passenger door. “Come on, let’s go.”
He grumbles and sways but eventually lets me help him out. The porch creaks under our combined weight as I unlock the door with the spare key he never bothers to hide.
“Sit,” I say, pointing at the couch.
He collapses into it, the fight slowly draining from him. I head to the tiny kitchen, find a clean-enough plate, and set the burger and fries on it. When I bring it over, he’s leaning back with his eyes half-closed.
“Eat,” I say.
He cracks one eye open and sneers. “I don’t need it.”
