Page 21 of Small Town Daddy

As I wrestled with a particularly ornery valve, my mind wandered to the girl upstairs. Lucy. She put up a brave front, but I could see the hurt in those green eyes, the way her fingers twisted in Mr. Whiskers' ratty fur like he was a lifeline.

I wondered what secrets these walls held for her, what ghosts lingered in the dusty rooms above. The urge to go to her, to wrap her in my arms and tell her it would be alright, caught me off guard. I gave myself a mental shake.

"Head in the game, Wilkins," I chided myself softly. "Girl's got enough on her plate without you mooning over her like some teenage rom-com reject."

I leaned into the work, letting the clank and hiss of the pipes drown out the whisper of inappropriate thoughts. Time slipped away, an hour or more, marked only by the slow ache building in my shoulders.

Straightening with a groan, I swiped my sleeve over my sweaty forehead. I needed a breather, maybe some water. Dropping the wrench into the toolbox, I headed for the stairs.

Halfway up, I froze. A sound drifted down from above, faint and muffled. I cocked my head, listening hard. There it was again - a soft, hiccuping sound. Almost like . . .

Crying. My heart twisted. Lucy.

I took the rest of the stairs two at a time, the need to get to her a sharp pull in my gut. The sound grew louder as I moved down the hall, each stifled sob like a punch to the chest.

Her door stood ajar, a slim rectangle of light spilling across the faded carpet. I raised my hand to knock.

"Lucy? Everything okay in there?"

No response, but the sobs didn't stop, either.

I made up my mind and pushed the door open, my heart pounding in my ears.

Lucy sat in the middle of the floor, her back against a half-empty trunk. Tears stained her cheeks, but it was the anguish in her eyes that stopped me dead.

She clutched a ragged stuffed bear to her chest, and a faded photograph lay discarded on the floor beside her.

"I'm sorry," she hiccuped, frantically swiping at her face with the back of her wrist. "I didn't mean for you to see me like this."

My chest constricted. I forced myself to move, edging cautiously into the room like I'd stumbled into a wild animal'sden. "Hey, it's alright," I said, soft as I could manage. "Want to talk about it?"

She sniffled, her gaze dropping to the bear cradled in her lap. "I just . . . found some old things." Her voice caught on a sob. "It brought back memories."

I nodded, feeling like an ass. Of course cleaning the room would dredge up the past. I would've had to be made of stone not to recognize the pain in her eyes.

"Sometimes memories can be . . . overwhelming," I ventured, stopping myself just shy of the cliche 'a time machine'. "I'm . . . I'm here if you need a shoulder to cry on."

Her green eyes met mine. "Thank you," she whispered. "It . . . it means a lot."

I cleared my throat, suddenly uncomfortable with the vulnerability she'd just shared. "Your dad was a good man," I said, hoping to steer the conversation towards safer ground. “We weren’t close, but I also respected how hard he worked to be there for you.”

She nodded, her lower lip trembling. "He was," she sniffled. "We had our ups and downs, especially after Mom died, but he always . . . he always tried his best."

I nodded, remembering their arguments, the slammed doors and tear-stained cheeks. "Loss is hard. It's okay to feel overwhelmed."

She took a shuddering breath, and seemed to gather herself. "I guess I just . . . I didn't realize how much I'd buried," she said, her voice still hoarse. "I mean, I thought I was ready for this . . . but being back here . . ."

I hesitated, unsure if I should intrude further , but the words spilled out before I could stop them. "It's normal to not be normal after something like this. Take your time. There's no deadline on grief."

I reached out and touched her shoulder gently. "You don't have to go through this alone," I said softly. "I'm here if you need me."

Lucy looked up, her green eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Thank you," she whispered. "That means a lot."

An idea struck me. "Would it help to share some stories? Sometimes talking about the good times can ease the pain."

A flicker of warmth entered her eyes at that. "I'd like that."

So we sat there amidst the memories, trading tales from our pasts. Lucy spoke of lazy summer days spent skipping stones with her dad down at the Blueway River. Of how he used to read her favorite horror stories in funny voices, even though they terrified him. And the elaborate tea parties they'd host in the garden, with Mr. Whiskers always getting a place of honor.

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