Free The "What If" Guy by Brooke Moss Page A

out on the curb outside my house a few weeks before you came to town,” Henry said. “I would say he does this often enough.”
    I tightened my free hand into a fist. “You’ve been in town what, a few months? How would you know how often it happens?”
    He shot me a sideways look. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
    “Yes, you did.” I clenched my jaw and readjusted my grip on my dad.
    He sighed. “Okay. I did. I’m sorry.”
    “You’re apologizing?” I scoffed. “That’s a miracle.”
    His lips pulled into an angry line.
    “Okay, now it’s my turn to apologize,” I admitted, and gestured at my comatose father. “It’s just that…I’ve been doing this my entire life.”
    Henry nodded.
    We approached my dad’s house. Ahead of us, Elliott slammed the screen door. “This is really hard on Elliott,” I said. “The move, and now living with my dad. It’s upsetting him.”
    “I can imagine,” Henry said.
    My heart twisted. “I don’t know what to do, though. We have to live here. We don’t have another choice.”
    “Is that why you came here? Because you had no other choice?” Henry adjusted his shoulder, and my father snorted loudly.
    “I lost my job. And I couldn’t sleep on my friend’s couch anymore. Plus, my dad needed help.”
    He looked at my drooling father. “I don’t know if it’s the kind of help you can give him.”
    “There’s nowhere else for us to go right now.” I sighed. “So, we’re stuck here for a while.”
    Henry’s eyes searched mine as we leaned forward, talking around my father’s mostly inert form. “You’re here temporarily? This isn’t permanent?”
    I swallowed hard, and looked away. “Nothing’s permanent.”
    We dragged my father under the sagging arbor and into the house. I was immediately ashamed. The same orange and brown plaid couch I’d grown up with sat against the wall, and my father’s beat-up recliner loomed in the corner. There was scarcely a sign of my and Elliott’s presence, with the exception of El’s computer humming in the corner.
    “You can just put him down here.” I gestured toward the couch.
    Henry carefully sat him down, then gestured to the wet spot on my father’s jeans. “Should we help him…?”
    I scrunched my face and shook my head. “No. It’s… I’ll put down some towels.” I covered my father with an afghan.
    Elliott stood watching from the kitchen doorway.
    “Elliott, do you want me to make you some hot chocolate? You didn’t get any downtown.”
    “No.”
    “You sure? I’ve got marshmallows.” I crossed the room with my arms open. “Come here, buddy.”
    He stepped out of my reach. “No, thank you. See ya, Mr. T.”
    “See you on Monday,” Henry replied somberly.
    “El…”
    He bypassed me and shut himself in his room.
    I hung my head hung, tears threatening. “He hates me.”
    “He doesn’t hate you.” Henry’s tone had softened.
    I glanced at him and swallowed the baseball-sized lump in my throat. “He’s only twelve. He doesn’t understand that I couldn’t afford to stay in Seattle. He only knows that he’s going to a school where he doesn’t fit in, and the kids make fun of him all the time, and—”
    “Which kids?” Henry asked, frowning.
    I rubbed my eyes. “I’m not sure. Every time I ask him, he gets worried that I’ll talk to their parents. He’s been shutting me out lately. We used to talk about everything, but not anymore.”
    Henry shifted his stance, put his hands in his pockets, then took them out. “What about his dad? Has Elliott opened up to him about any of this?”
    My gaze went to the floor. “There is no dad.”
    “No dad?”
    My eyes flashed. “There’s never been a dad.”
    I sensed Henry’s thoughts reeling. “Generally, where there’s a child,” he said slowly, “There’s a father. Biologically speaking, of course.”
    “He took off before El was even born.” I kept my voice low. “I’ve only heard from him once in twelve years, and