Free The "What If" Guy by Brooke Moss

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    “Come on, let’s go.” I pulled on Dad’s arm, grunting. My father didn’t weigh much, but he was so close to passing out that he was practically deadweight. Elliott came to my dad’s other side and tried to help him down, his wizard hat jostling as he tugged. My heart tightened.
    “Thanks,” I whispered.
    He looked over his shoulder at the sniggering boys. “They’re gonna make fun of me, anyway. I may as well give them material.”
    “Get the hell off me,” my dad crowed, his breath putrid. He jerked free, then fished his keys from his pockets. “I brought my car… I’ll drive myself home.”
    “I don’t think so.” I grabbed the keys.
    “Grandpa, just go home,” Elliott begged. “Please.”
    “Just like old times, eh, Auto?” an unfamiliar voice called out from the crowd, making the others laugh.
    Go to hell .
    I gave my father’s emaciated arm one last yank. My father reeled backwards, then sideways, and slammed into my shoulder. Without time to brace myself, I skidded, hit a patch of hay on the pavement, then stumbled to the ground, landing with an oof.
    “Okay, that’s enough from you tonight, Billy,” a familiar voice said firmly, making my stomach twist. I looked up. Henry glared at the crowd. “Good grief, everyone, stop staring. Don’t you all have something else to do?”
    The crowd reluctantly dispersed, casting dirty looks at my father. Henry steadied him, his hands underneath my dad’s arms. His healthy physique made my dad look even older and weaker.
    “You all right?” Henry asked.
    I nodded, and he turned to Elliott.
    “How about you, son?”
    Elliott nodded and helped me up.
    “Go get some cocoa,” I said to Elliott.
    “No,” He brushed hay off his robe. “I want to go home.”
    I pointed at the bobbing-for-apples booth, my face still burning. “It’s Halloween. You need to have some fun.”
    He shook his head and stormed away. “I’m going home.”
    My heart ached. I hadn’t fully considered how Elliott would be affected by the shame of being my drunk father’s grandson.
    Henry led my father in the direction Elliott was heading, away from the crowd, toward our house on the hill.
    I followed. Holly intercepted me. “Will you be okay, Autumn?” she asked. She’d apparently kept her kids from joining the staring crowd by lining them up for a turn at the apple-bobbing booth.
    “Of course,” I said.
    Holly nodded tightly. Then, noticing a woman gawking at me, she added, “Good lord, Patsy. This isn’t a circus sideshow. Stop staring.”
    “Coulda fooled me.” The woman flared her nostrils and walked away.
    “Bitch.” Holly shook her head. “You’d better go. Henry’s practically carrying your dad home.”
    “Right,” I said, my voice shaking.
    I hurried to catch up, and it occurred to me that Henry had spoken politely to me. Joy fluttered in my stomach like a moth, but quickly flitted away. Of course, he’d been polite—after I’d been knocked to the ground by my drunk father, who’d pissed his pants. But still, Henry had been polite. It was hard to enjoy the moment with seventy-five percent of the townspeople staring at me.
    Soon, I caught up with them. My father softly sang a country song while Henry half-guided, half-dragged him up the street. I could smell my father from a foot behind, a stomach-turning mixture of alcohol, urine, and cigarette smoke.
    I matched Henry’s pace, and took my father’s other arm. Elliott stomped ahead of us, sullen. I glanced nervously at Henry several times before I spoke. “Thank you.”
    He looked torn between wanting to respond nicely and wanting to tell me to shove it. “Don’t mention it.”
    We walked a few paces while my father snored softly, dozing while we suspended his weight, his feet shuffling robotically.
    “He doesn’t usually do this,” I said, my words tinged with shame.
    Henry gave me a disbelieving glance.
    “I mean, he doesn’t make a spectacle like this very often.”
    “He passed