Page 53 of Small Town Daddy

I lay there, the world outside forgotten. Just me, my broken heart, and the darkness that felt endless.

Chapter 15

Marcus

Stepping out of mytruck, I felt the weight of the city slap me in the face. The air was thick with exhaust and noise—horns blaring, engines revving, voices shouting over it all. It was nothing like Small Falls. There, the river hummed softly; here, everything screamed. My boots hit the pavement hard as I shut the door behind me, the sound swallowed up by the chaos around me.

I looked up at the old brick building, its windows streaked with grime, fire escapes clinging to its sides like rusting skeletons. This was it—the address Emily had given me. This was where she lived now. I hadn’t seen her since the divorce. I knew she’d moved back to the city, but that was about it. Still, when she’d called me last night, desperate, I couldn’t just turn my back on her.

Emily had a history of making bad decisions. I just wanted to make sue she was safe, then get the hell back to my new life with Lucy in Small Falls.

"Alright," I muttered under my breath. “Just get it done.” I pulled the strap of my duffel bag higher on my shoulder and started for the entrance. The concrete steps were cracked, uneven. My boots scuffed against them, echoing faintly in the narrow stairwell when I pushed through the heavy door. Each step was narrow and steep, the kind you had to pay attention to or risk a nasty fall. Third floor. Apartment 3B.

Halfway up, her voice came back to me. Slurred. Shaky. "Marcus, I... I don't know who else to call." She hadn't sounded like herself—not the sharp-edged woman I used to know. She’d rambled, saying she felt lost, scared, like she couldn’t see her way out of whatever hole she’d fallen into. Then she’d stopped talking altogether, leaving a silence that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. That pause—God, it said more than her words ever could.

"Emily," I’d said, gripping my phone so tight it hurt. "Where are you? Are you safe?"

"Just . . . don’t hate me for calling," she'd whispered before hanging up.

I didn’t hate her of course. Not then, not now. It wasn’t about that.

Lucy’s face flashed in my mind as I hit the second-floor landing. Her green eyes, bright and full of questions. I’d left her a note on the kitchen counter before I drove off at dawn.

I hoped she’d trust me. Hoped she wouldn’t read too much into it. Lucy deserved better than half-truths, but I couldn’t give her that right now. I didn’t have it in me.

Reaching the third floor, I stopped outside the door to catch my breath. My hand hovered over the peeling paint of the door frame.

I knocked hard, three times. The sound echoed down the hall. For a moment, all I could hear was my own breathing, steady buttense. No answer. My jaw tightened. I rapped again, harder this time. Finally, the lock clicked.

The door creaked open just enough to reveal Emily. She clung to the edge of the frame like it might hold her upright. Her hair was knotted, sticking up in places where she’d probably run her hands through it too many times. Pale skin, blotchy cheeks, red eyes—she looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days. Or weeks. And the smell hit me before I could say anything: booze, sweat, and stale air thick enough to choke on.

"Marcus," she said, barely a whisper. “You came.” Her voice cracked, hoarse like she’d been crying or screaming, maybe both.

"Hey, Emily." I kept my tone low, steady. "May I come in?"

She hesitated. Her eyes darted past me down the hallway, then back to the floor. Finally, she stepped aside without a word. I walked in, boots scuffing against peeling linoleum.

The living room was a graveyard of empty bottles, crumpled clothes, and God knows what else. A pizza box sat open on the coffee table, crusts hardened into something that looked like petrified wood. The curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the world. The air inside felt heavy, like the place was holding its breath.

"Emily . . ." I didn’t finish the sentence. What could I say?

"Sit, if you want," she mumbled, motioning toward the couch.

The thing looked like it might swallow me whole, sagging in the middle with cushions stained dark in spots I didn’t want to think about. But I sat anyway, letting her take the armchair. She perched on the edge, knees pulled tight together, arms wrapped around herself like armor. For a second, neither of us spoke.

"How long’s it been like this?" I finally asked, nodding toward the mess.

"Does it matter?" She flinched at her own words, shaking her head. "Sorry. That was . . . I didn’t mean . . ."

"Emily, I’m not here to judge. I just—" I stopped. There wasn’t a neat way to package what I wanted to say. "Whydid you call me?" was sitting on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it back. Instead, I leaned forward, forearms resting on my thighs. "I’ll listen. Whatever it is, just tell me."

That cracked something open in her. She exhaled like she’d been holding it in for years and started talking. Fast. No pauses. Words spilling over each other in a rush.

"Lost my job last month," she said, voice trembling. "It wasn’t a big deal, right? Just . . . some bar gig. But it paid rent, and now—" She waved vaguely at the piles of unopened mail on the table. "And it’s not like anyone’s answering my calls. Everyone’s busy. Or they’ve moved on. Or they’re just . . . done with me."

Her hands twisted in her lap as she kept going. "I tried. I swear. I sent out resumes, even went to interviews, but every time they ask why I left my last job—" She broke off, laughing bitterly. "Like I can just say it. 'Oh yeah, I got fired because I showed up drunk.' That goes over real well."

"Emily, that message you sent? About being a Little?”

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