Page 54 of Small Town Daddy

She looked at me blankly. “What?”

“You sent a message. Saying you were wrong, that you were a Little.”

“I’m not a little,” she sobbed, “I’m just a drunk. I don’t—” she sniffed back tears, “—I don’t even remember sending that message.”

"I’m sorry,” I said, feeling her pain.

"Why do you care, Marcus?" She met my gaze, her eyes glassy and sharp all at once. "After everything, why do you care?"

"Because you needed someone," I said simply. "And I couldn’t ignore that."

Her face crumpled, and she buried it in her hands. "I’m so tired," she murmured between sobs. "Tired of pretending, tiredof trying, tired of feeling like this." She gestured wildly at the mess around her. "This isn’t living. This is . . . this is drowning."

"Emily . . ." I reached out, hesitating for half a second before resting a hand on her shoulder. She flinched but didn’t pull away. "You’re not alone in this."

She didn’t respond, just kept crying quietly into her hands. And me? I stayed there, hand on her shoulder, anchored in the weight of the moment.

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "I don’t deserve your kindness." Her voice was barely above a whisper, frayed and broken.

"That’s bullshit," I shot back, firmer this time. "Everyone needs help sometimes. There’s no shame in that."

Her lip trembled. I reached for the half-empty glass of water on the cluttered coffee table, nudging it toward her. "Drink," I said. "You need it."

She hesitated, fingers twitching against each other, before finally taking it. She sipped, small, reluctant gulps.

"Good," I said, nodding. "And food. When’s the last time you ate something?"

"Don’t remember," she murmured, setting the glass down as if it were too heavy to hold.

"Let me fix you something," I offered, already standing.

"Don’t bother." She shook her head, sinking further into the couch. "I can’t—"

"Emily," I cut in, crouching in front of her so she couldn’t avoid my gaze. "Trust me. Just rest for a bit. I’ll take care of things out here."

For a minute, I thought she’d argue. But then her shoulders slumped, and she nodded faintly. Without another word, she shuffled off toward the bedroom, her bare feet dragging against the hardwood floor.

The door creaked shut behind her, leaving me alone with the mess.

I blew out a breath, scanning the room. Empty bottles littered every surface. Clothes—some clean, some definitely not—were tossed in random piles. The air was thick, stale, clinging to my skin.

"Jesus," I muttered under my breath, rolling up my sleeves.

I started with the bottles, scooping them into a trash bag I found under the sink. The clink of glass echoed loud in the quiet apartment. Next came the clothes, which I dumped into a hamper shoved in the corner of the bathroom. The more I uncovered, the worse it got.

On the table by the window, a stack of mail caught my eye. Overdue notices. Red-stamped warnings. My jaw tightened as I flipped through them. Electric. Water. Internet. All past due.

"Dammit, Emily," I muttered, tossing them back onto the pile.

Nearby, an orange prescription bottle rolled halfway under the couch. I picked it up. The label was faded, but the dosage instructions were clear. Antidepressants. It was nearly full.

"Not good," I mumbled, twisting the cap off to check. Sure enough, all the pills were there, untouched.

I set it aside, carefully, before moving to the windows. They groaned on their tracks as I forced them open, letting in a rush of cool, clean air.

The scent of booze and sweat started to fade, replaced by something fresher. Still, the place felt heavy, like the walls themselves had absorbed her pain and weren’t ready to let go of it yet.

I kept moving, scanning for anything else. Another bottle—this one whiskey—was shoved under the TV stand. That went into the trash. A sharp-looking kitchen knife sat precariously close to the edge of the counter. I grabbed it, sliding it into a drawer out of sight.

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